Dirty Game: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  Dirty Game

  Violet Paige

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Blake

  2. Sierra

  3. Sierra

  4. Blake

  5. Sierra

  6. Blake

  7. Sierra

  8. Blake

  9. Sierra

  10. Blake

  11. Sierra

  12. Blake

  13. Sierra

  14. Blake

  15. Sierra

  16. Blake

  17. Sierra

  18. Blake

  19. Sierra

  20. Blake

  21. Sierra

  22. Blake

  23. Sierra

  24. Sierra

  25. Blake

  26. Sierra

  27. Blake

  28. Sierra

  29. Blake

  30. Sierra

  31. Blake

  32. Sierra

  33. Blake

  34. Sierra

  35. Blake

  36. Sierra

  37. Sierra

  38. Blake

  39. Sierra

  Epilogue

  Naughty Notes

  Copyright © 2016 by Violet Paige

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  This was the last place I should be. The absolute last place. I’d woken up this morning in hot and dusty Dallas, and now here I was standing outside of the Dock House while boats rocked in their slips.

  My heel made a hollow sound as it hit the parking lot pavement. I slammed the car door behind me and inhaled, taking in this place and all the memories we had made.

  The wind whipped through my hair. I hesitated. This was all wrong. I shouldn’t be here, but I had to know. I had to see him again.

  I pushed open the door, my heart in my throat, my palms dewy with perspiration, my breath fevered.

  Was any of it real, or had it all just been a flash of summer heat?

  1

  Blake

  I had been called a brooder, and at times much worse. I liked beer, an occasional dip, and I loved to fuck. At twenty-six, I valued my time and space more than the warmth of someone sharing my pillow. I didn’t have time for relationships.

  And what quarterback did? I didn’t need a girl to get in my head or under my skin. One climbing into my bed was an entirely different story.

  I closed the locker under where Wiley was engraved into the wood.

  “You headed out?”

  I turned to see one of the conditioning trainers behind me.

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “You’re the only guy on the team who isn’t going to Cabo or Rio. You know that, right?”

  “Fuck.” I laughed. “I don’t need that shit. I get enough of it during the season. The last thing I want is the fucking press following me around.”

  “Going to your fishing hole?”

  That’s what the guys around here called it anyway. They didn’t know shit about where I was from. I was ok with that. I kept my personal life personal. I never took them. Never even invited them.

  “Something like that.” I pressed my lips together.

  Jones strolled through the locker room. “Dude, you’re not going to Cabo with us?”

  “Not this time.”

  I got enough of these fuckers during the season. I only had one break a year. And I wasn’t going to waste it in the spotlight.

  “Too bad. The girls are hot as fuck down there.”

  “So I hear,” I answered.

  “We’ll miss you.” Jones slapped me on the back.

  The trainer bumped my fist. “Keep up the stretching and don’t tweak that knee.”

  It had been giving me problems since spring training. One twist the wrong way and I had been on the ground gripping my leg. The last thing I wanted was for any of the guys to see me down. There was no room for weakness on the field.

  I had put off having surgery, but I was working through a vicious therapy regimen.

  “Got it.” I lifted my bag to my shoulder. “See you guys way too soon.”

  I walked out of the locker room ready for my time off to start.

  It was only a month until practice resumed. It wasn’t like I had months to travel the world and party my ass off like these other mother fuckers.

  My job required meetings. Strategy. Planning. While they were drinking their asses onto the floor I was watching tape. I was writing plays and studying the competition. I dealt with the Sports Now speculation. I had to meet with rookies. QBs never slept.

  So I took my month off. And I made sure nothing interfered with it. Nothing.

  I carried my 6’5” frame with confident strides across the sandy parking lot, and threw a six-pack of beer into a cooler. Beads of perspiration started a slow trickle down my forehead. If I didn’t get on the water soon, the fish would be running from the sun just like I was. Damn it. This Fourth of July was hotter than hell.

  I didn’t practice in fucking heat like this. That’s why we had an air conditioned facility. But I wasn’t in Orlando. I was back home for most of the summer. If there was one place that didn’t give a fuck that I was an A-rated American Football Association QB, it was this island. This tiny piece of land where I grew up.

  I guided my truck under the water oaks, keeping the shoreline in sight. The road seemed to follow the curvature of the small coastline where years of ebbing and tiding had crept up on the pavement. I couldn’t tell you a spot on the island where you couldn’t see the water. As far as I was concerned, if it did exist, it wasn’t worth mentioning.

  This was my place. The only town on this planet that didn’t bother me for pictures or autographs. I could do exactly what I was doing today—go fucking fishing with my cousin without worrying about a mob of fans.

  I slowed the truck to turn onto the grassy path leading to my boat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. I’d recognize those legs anywhere. I wasn’t sure if it was the lips, the blond hair, or that attitude of hers I wanted to break. I’d always wanted to break. Fuck.

  She was the kind of girl who thought she was too good for the island. The kind that only cruised with champagne in her hand, and nothing was ever good enough. But she might just be the sexiest woman I’d ever known.

  When had Sierra Emory got back in town? And why was she here this summer? And why the fuck was she leaning over the bridge?

  In the meantime, Cole was probably revving the boat impatiently and already a few beers ahead. We had a full day of fishing ahead of us.

  My cousin sat on the bow with a goofy grin and a beer in hand. “Let’s go, man. Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been sitting out here thinkin’ you weren’t going to show.”

  “You know I’m not going to bail on you.” I smiled and popped the top of my first beer. “I had a lot of shit to get done today. I’m ready now.”

  I loaded the cooler, a box of tackle, and a bag of sandwiches I had picked up from the Seaside Café into the toolbox at the stern of the boat.

  She still didn’t have a name. I knew it was bad luck not to name my boat, but I wasn’t superstitious. For now, she was nameless, but I trusted her. I had handpicked every limb of her frame and driven every nail into her seams. My father had tried to help, but I’d refused the free pair of hands when I had them.

  I felt the back of my throat clutch at the thought.

  “Can you believ
e it’s already the Fourth? Man, this summer is flying by.” I positioned myself behind the steering wheel. “I have to report to fucking camp soon.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I loved this place, as much as I loved football. And right now, I didn’t know which one I needed more.

  “Hey, did you know Sierra Emory was on the island?” I asked.

  Cole shook his head. “No. Hadn’t heard that.”

  I didn’t want to make a fucking big deal about it. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yeah, we better steer clear of the cape today. It’ll be full of those damn ski boats, scaring off the fish,” Cole agreed.

  Cole loosened the sailor’s knots and tossed the ropes up on the dock. With one hard shove, we started drifting in the creek, and I cranked the engine. The creek was alive with jumping mullets. I steered us under the bridge and headed east.

  2

  Sierra

  From the small peak at the top of the bridge, the island didn’t look like much. In fact, it really wasn’t much at all. It never had been. No coffee shops. No yoga classes. There wasn’t even a gym. I didn’t know how I was going to manage the rest of the summer here.

  It always felt like time travel when I came home. Home. It was a weird word to associate with this place.

  I might as well have jumped in a time machine. I gripped the bridge’s railing. Damn, this island was hot. I shielded my eyes from the reflection and tried to focus on the two fading figures laughing and sipping from koozies.

  The island wasn’t more than two miles wide and five miles long. When I was a kid I’d known every square inch of it. That seemed like a million years ago now. Exploring this place was the last thing I wanted to do anymore. That girl no longer existed.

  I shouldn’t be here. Leave it to Aunt Lindy to pass her estate to me in the heat of the summer.

  The boat was on the horizon now. I probably had known those guys in my past life. There’d been a time when I’d known all the island guys. They wore T-shirts, deck shoes and most of them walked around with a cigarette.

  Sweat trickled down my neck, and I piled my hair on my head, hoping a breeze would find me. I had wandered a little farther than I’d planned. My mission had been to jog to the store and pick up some ice for the cooler, but once I’d reached the market, I’d kept running. Maybe I was trying to outrun the heat or just outrun this feeling that I was going crazy.

  I didn’t know if I could handle opening one more drawer only to find it was stuffed to the top with moth balls.

  I turned from the bridge and wondered why I had ventured this far without a car. I still had to stop by the store and walk home with a bag of ice. The ice maker was broken and nowhere among the piles of Tupperware and casserole dishes had I found any ice trays.

  A gust of cold air hit me as I pushed open the door to the market. Immediately, the smell of turpentine, fishing tackle, and candy bars hit my nose. It was such an odd combination to my senses. The hardwood floors had been worn from years of fishermen and islanders waiting in line at the counter for their handwritten receipts. As far as I knew, this was the last place in the world that didn’t electronically print receipts.

  I smiled at the old timers huddled in the corner near the magazine rack. They tipped their hats and refocused their attention on the smooth pieces of wood they were whittling. Their rocking chairs gently rolled on curly-cued pieces of new wood shavings.

  I hauled the ice to the counter and paid. The clerk handed me the ice receipt, but before I could make my way out of the door, I bumped into a woman rushing through it. Bright nail polish flashed on her toes, on display in her fluorescent flip-flops. Her earrings, obviously shells, matched a print on her T-shirt. Her arm jangled with bracelets reaching almost up to her elbow. The woman let out a shrill cry that could be heard from the other side of the street.

  “Sierra Emory! Little Sierra Emory.”

  I nodded meekly and smiled. Who in the hell was this woman?

  “Well, shoot! I’ve been meaning to come down and say hi. I was so sorry to hear about your aunt. But tickled you’re going to be moving in.”

  “Oh I-I’m not…”

  She cut me off.

  “That house is gorgeous. Prettiest one on the island. I’ve always said that. Always.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded, but wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to. I had already decided that as soon as I sorted through Aunt Lindy’s things, I was selling the house. I couldn’t hold on to it and live in another state.

  “Why don’t you join my husband and me tonight for some island-style cookin’?”

  “Oh no, no. I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

  I wasn’t sure which was the more embarrassing route—to admit I didn’t know who she was, or the fact that it was the Fourth of July and I had absolutely zero plans.

  “You need to go ahead and learn this right now. I do not accept a no. Your aunt knew that. So just plan on being at our house at seven o’clock. It is the Fourth, and we know how to do it up right. Henry got some clams today and we’ve got a plan for them. You’ll love it.”

  I knew how to pick my battles, and it looked like I had already lost this one.

  “Sure, ok. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Oh, I’m so excited. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Oh, wait. I don’t know where you live,” I blurted out. Maybe she would get the hint I had no idea who she was.

  “Honey, just drive toward Shell Point, and when you hear the music, you’ll know you’re close to Shirley Lane. Henry named the street after me.” She flashed a big smile, and turned to avoid bumping into a fisherman loaded down with a bag of bait and a fishing pole.

  I watched as the woman climbed into a car and drove away. I gripped the bag of ice I had just purchased and faced the heat.

  At least I had her name. And something to do tonight that didn’t involve going through old magazines and packing up clothes for Good Will.

  3

  Sierra

  I sifted through my suitcase in search of two articles of clothing that would complement each other, and make the best impression on the island locals. I tossed a turquoise T-shirt on the floor.

  I hadn’t thought about red, white, and blue. I had no idea what to wear to a clam dinner. Probably just some shorts and a top. But nothing looked right. Why was the closest mall two hours away?

  I was surprised I cared so much. Surprised that it mattered to me what these people thought. People I had ignored and pretended didn’t exist for years.

  But here I was faced with looking them in the eye tonight. They knew I had missed my aunt’s funeral. They knew I was locked up in this big house cleaning out closets and tearing through drawers.

  They knew I was from here. That I used to be a little girl with long pigtails that ran barefoot across the shores of the sound. But I wasn’t that little girl any longer.

  I had driven over that bridge when I was eighteen, never wanting to look back. I didn’t want the island to define me.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror one last time and turned off the light, realizing that no matter how hard I’d tried, the island had left an imprint on me I could never escape.

  A few minutes later I turned my car onto Shirley Lane.

  I wasn’t completely sure it was the right place. The front porch light wasn’t on.

  I scanned the front yard that Shirley described earlier at the store. I huffed. No one around here liked to give addresses or phone numbers. I was going to have to ring the bell and find out where Shirley lived.

  Before I had even stepped one toe in the driveway, I heard a raucous sing-along drowning out the lyrics of the music. I followed the sounds, walking around the side of the house to discover a yard lit by tiki torches. It was crowded with barefoot people. There was a huge open flame pit dominated by a three-foot tall steaming pot.

  Oh God. Half the island was here. I debated whether to join the crowd or retreat to the car. This isn’t what I thought Shir
ley meant by dinner. I wasn’t ready for this.

  Shirley emerged from behind the singing masses.

  “Oh, Sierra. Finally. We’ve been waiting for you.” The hostess trapped me in a bear hug. “I want to re-introduce you properly to the island. Come on. Come on.”

  “I-uh.” She tugged on me and I had no choice but to follow.

  “Henry! Come over here. Leave that fire to the boys. I want you to meet the Sierra Emory I was telling you about. Lindy’s niece.”

  A tall, white-haired man with weathered skin and kind eyes handed off a long stick he was using to stoke the fire and walked toward us.

  “Shirls, who do we have here?”

  “Hi.” I extended my hand. “Thanks for having me tonight.”

  I handed Shirley a gallon of ice cream. It was the only thing I could think of to bring at the last minute.

  Shirley’s armful of bracelets shook as she took the treat. “Aww, you shouldn’t have. That is so sweet. Henry, isn’t this sweet?” She handed the ice cream to her husband. “I couldn’t believe it when I ran into you today. You want something to drink?”

  “Sounds good.” I nodded. Alcohol might be the only way to survived this.

  “The tide’s coming in and we don’t have much beach here, so we had to move the coolers to the boats to make room for the fire pit. We’ll just walk down there and get you something.” Shirley extended an arm and waved in the direction of the steaming pot.

  After leading me across a grassy lawn and making introductions to the corn hole players, Shirley guided me down a path to the narrow sandy beach.

  Shirley squealed and stopped the tour in front of a solid-built woman, who looked to be about forty. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, and she had a beer in one hand.

  “Jojo, you remember Sierra Emory don’t you?”

  “Nice to see you again. How’s it going at Lindy’s?” Jojo asked.