The Love Game (a Bad Boy Sports - Avery Wilde

THE LOVE GAME
A BAD BOY SPORTS ROMANCE
AVERY WILDE
Contents
1. Ginny
2. Damon
3. Ginny
4. Damon
5. Ginny
6. Damon
7. Ginny
8. Damon
9. Ginny
10. Damon
11. Ginny
12. Damon
13. Ginny
14. Damon
15. Ginny
16. Damon
17. Ginny
18. Damon
19. Ginny
20. Damon
21. Ginny
22. Damon
23. Ginny
24. Damon
25. Ginny
26. Damon
27. Ginny
28. Ginny
29. Damon
30. Epilogue - Damon
Author Notes
About Avery
Also by Avery Wilde
Copyright © 2017 by Avery Wilde
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.
This is a standalone story set in the same world as The Playbook and
The Curve Ball. It does not have to be read in order, but you may
find it more enjoyable if you do.
For Beatrice & Joseph
Love you always
“C
1
G I N N Y
ome on! You have got to be kidding me!
Where the hell did you learn to drive?”
A red car darted by only inches away. I slammed
on the brakes and slapped the leather steering
wheel with the heel of my hand in frustration. The
urge to ram the small car that cut me off for the
third time in the last five minutes was rising. I was
ready to pretend my rental was a fairground
bumper car and just have at it, show them who’s
the boss of this road. Though I knew in reality it
wasn’t me. I was out of my league here. I counted
to ten and urged myself to calm down. An accident
wouldn’t help me. Not today. Today was going to
be special.
There was only one explanation for the madness on
the roads and the quick rise of my blood pressure.
The drivers in France did not seem to possess any
kind of driving licenses or common sense, period.
That, or they willfully ignored the rules of the
road. Whichever, it explained why I was wearing
out the brakes on my rental car.
I must have been out of my mind when I believed it
would be a great idea to drive in a foreign country
when I’d finally booked my trip, thinking it was
going to be like driving back home. Same side of
the road after all. How hard would it be? I was
dead wrong. I should’ve known the moment I got
behind the wheel it wasn’t going to end well. As
soon as I pulled out of the rental lot at the airport I
had my first near miss. If I survived the day, never
mind the rest of the trip, driving around Paris, I
would demand to be awarded some kind of
medal… or maybe a new, more relaxing vacation!
The light changed up ahead, cars honked, and I
moved the rental forward cautiously. My nerves
were just about shot, but I was ready for the next
battle at the wheel.
I had landed the day before at Charles de Gaulle in
Paris and managed to find my way to the quaint
studio apartment in the third arrondissement a few
Metro stops away from the Louvre, still shell-
shocked that I was actually in France.
After years of planning and careful saving, I threw
caution to the wind and decided that life was too
short to wait any longer. After maintaining my
family’s bar, Friction, for eight long years without
a break, I was in need of a well-deserved
vacation. Some me time. Away from everything.
And though some had looked at me funny when I
had told them I was going to France and not down
to Miami or somewhere closer, I knew I’d made
the right choice. Being overseas, I was far
removed from my normal life. I wouldn’t have the
opportunity to just turn around, chicken out, and go
back.
It hadn’t been easy getting on that plane and
shirking my responsibilities even though I knew I
needed the break. The ten-hour flight was intense
—my first time flying, anywhere. My nerves had
certainly experienced highs and lows over the last
twenty-four hours. Trepidation. Elation. Guilt. But
now I was here and was going to make the most of
it… that was if I survived driving around in the
rental.
“Biegen Sie rechts ab!”
I nearly jumped out of my seat as the voice boomed
from the speakers all around me again. The GPS
screen on the console flashed angrily, like it was
putting on a light show. The harsh German accent
cried out again, and I tried to comprehend the
words, but they were completely beyond me.
“We’re in France! Speak French, or at least help
me out and speak English,” I muttered, not that the
GPS speaking French would’ve done me much
good. With some long-forgotten high-school French
I barely had the basics down, only able to get by.
Though I had no doubt I’d be able to ask for and
find the bibliothèque without much of an issue
should the fancy take me. That much from the
lessons had ingrained itself into my memory,
utterly useless, of course.
Squinting and at the same time trying to keep my
eyes on the road before me, I glanced quickly at the
console that was glitching out. I needed to catch
sight of the blue arrow in between the flashes that
would lead me to my destination… and hopefully
less crazed drivers. But I wasn’t holding my
breath. That was the one thing it seemed very
capable of—finding traffic and madness. I had no
idea why the thing was so confused. I’d done
exactly what the lady at the rental desk had said
and programmed it with the addresses I needed for
the trip. Why on earth the little gizmo was suddenly
so adamant to speak to me in German was beyond
me. Maybe the little Volkswagen decided it wanted
to go home, back to the motherland. And for a
second, with it shouting at me and the cacophony of
blaring horns surrounding the car, I knew exactly
how it felt. I was out of my element. In a strange
land. All by myself.
The blue arrow indicated that I should turn right,
and I snatched the wheel that way, nearly taking out
a few pedestrians in the middle of the road.
“Sorry!” I yelled and winced, then waved an
apologetic hand in the direction of the angry voices
I passed. Even though I couldn’t understand their
words, I heard their intent. They were totally
swearing at me, and I couldn’t blame them.
Perhaps the short few hours I’d spent on the French
roads were starting to rub off on me. When in
Rome, right? Or in this case, Paris.
Still, I should’ve left the car at the lot and let a cab
drive me around in this madness. Better yet, I
could have walked or used the Metro.
“Biegen Sie links ab!”
“Yes, yes, I heard you,” I muttered.
All I wanted to do was get to the French Open in
one piece. Roland Garros was waiting for me, and
yet I felt like I was just going around in circles. All
the buildings were starting to look the same. I had
no idea if I was even going in the right direction
anymore. The SatNav was busted; sooner or later I
would have to admit defeat. But I didn’t want to
give up on my dream. Not yet. Not now that I was
finally here.
I’d been infatuated with tennis all my adult life,
ever since I’d watched my first Wimbledon
tournament at fifteen. Unable to leave the apartment
at the time, I’d sat glued to the screen, watching
every match I could with fascination. While I
didn’t have the skills or the opportunity to play the
sport, I was nonetheless enthralled. I enjoyed the
players’ grit and their determination, and there was
something about that little yellow ball that got my
heart racing. So I was not about to miss seeing
some of the finest players in the sport play on a
national stage.
Roland Garros was of course no Wimbledon, but it
wasn’t less exciting. It was a different beast
altogether. And while going to London for
Wimbledon would’ve been my first choice, the
tickets for the tournament were way out of my
budget. Besides I would’ve had to wait till the
summer to go, and I really needed the break right
then, not months down the line.
If only I could get to the French Open in one piece,
I thought. Not even this hot mess driving could put
a damper on what was about to happen. It would
all be worth it once I was in my seat, staring down
at a fresh clay court, ready to watch the action.
The traffic light turned red, and I slowed to a stop,
looking around at my surroundings anxiously. I
swore I’d already passed that building once
already. The clock in the car told me I had only
thirty minutes before the first match of the day, and
I didn’t want to miss this once-in-a-lifetime
experience, not even a second of it.
I stared at the traffic light ahead and willed it to
change. Needed it to change.
Then disaster struck.
The jolt hit me out of nowhere. The entire car
lurched forward. I ceased to breathe as my body
was slammed hard into the seat. The thick seatbelt
went taught, tight across my chest, as the headrest
managed to cradle my head from the blow.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed, my
hands tight and slightly shaking upon the wheel.
This can’t be happening. There was no way I was
going to get there on time now.
I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the
monstrosity of a car that had hit me from behind.
Far too close, and I could only imagine the damage
it had done to the rental’s back end. Bye-bye rental
deposit.
I quickly ran through a mental check. My neck was
a tiny bit tender, as if I’d slept funny the night
before, but feeling no further the worse for wear, I
released the seatbelt and turned on the hazard
lights.
Reaching for my phone in my purse, I started to
dial 911 before laughing. Who was I going to get?
Someone back in Florida? I could hear myself
now, looking like a fool. The call probably
wouldn’t even go through. What was the
emergency number in France, anyway? Maybe my
newfound friend who couldn’t drive for shit could
help me out. I smirked as I climbed out of the car,
feeling the anger and frustration well up inside.
Whoever they were, they’d messed with the wrong
person.
The driver of the huge SUV—which looked
severely out of place and far too large for the
delicate and whimsical streets of Paris—opened
the driver’s side door and stumbled out onto the
sidewalk. The idiot was drunk! Just great.
“You asshole!” I started as the other driver leaned
up against the car, clearly unable to stand on his
own two feet without support.
The car was a far cry from my rental—metallic
black, polished to mirror shine and dazzling with a
bunch of chrome accents. It was enormous, and yet
it still possessed a sleekness that screamed wealth
and luxury. Apart from the front bumper being
slightly dented, it looked like it hadn’t been in an
accident at all. Mine, however, was a different
matter. I didn’t want to look too close, but I’d
already spotted shards of thick, translucent red and
orange glass littered on the ground. No doubt more
damage would be revealed once the two cars were
no longer kissed up together.
“Did you not see me? I was right there. Stopped at
the light!”
The man said nothing. It was as if he hadn’t even
realized I was there. I didn’t know if he could
understand me, but I couldn’t stop the anger from
flowing out.
I came to stand before him, making sure he would
see me. I swallowed the next line of abuse I was
about to hurl at him as I took him in. He was hot.
Damn fine. And even though he was hiding behind
his sunglasses, I could tell he was dreamy. Dreamy
and drunk, I tried to remind myself.
He was tanned and tall, at least six foot or more,
with broad shoulders and short, dirty blond hair
that was a little longer in the front. His head was
tilted down slightly; he stared intently at the
ground. But even from that angle the outline of his
jaw was strong, dusted with a day or two’s growth
of stubble. He kept shaking his head as if he
couldn’t believe it, a grin plastered on his face.
Maybe he was just as shocked as I was to have
been in an accident. It should’ve made me angrier,
but that smile and the hollow of a dimple on his
right cheek had little butterflies floating around in
the pit of my stomach.
That was until he laughed. He was laughing about
this.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, placing my
hands on my hips. “Why don’t we see how funny it
is when I call the cops on your drunk ass?”
His grin faded, and I felt a spark of self-
satisfaction as I pulled out my phone again, my
fingers hovering pointlessly over the keypad. Of
course I was bluffing. I had no idea what number to
call.
“Having problems?”
I looked up to see that the panty-melting grin had
returned. He pushed himself off his car and took a
few wobbly steps toward me. I was surprised to
hear an American accent, but glad that I wasn’t
going to have to fumble my way through an
awkward conversation about our cars in another
language. My high-school French definitely
wouldn’t have got me through that.
“What?”
He gestured toward my phone. “Having problems
calling the police?”
“No. I don’t need your help,” I grumbled, looking
around and hoping that a police car would just
happen to show up.
“I didn’t ask you if you needed help,” he laughed. I
could smell the alcohol emanating from him and
wrinkled my nose. He was going to be in a heck of
a lot of trouble as soon as I could get a cop there.
“I asked if you had a problem.”
I narrowed my eyes at him trying to peer through
the mirrored sunglasses he had on. “I’m not going
to be the one who has problems, buddy. I hope you
don’t have a plane to catch anytime soon. You’re in
deep shit.”
He stepped toward me, closing the small gap even
more, the cocky grin still on his face. “Come on,”
he said as I took in his crumpled shirt with one of
those symbols near his pec that told me it was
expensive. “No harm, no foul? I’m fine, and you’re
definitely fine. Let’s just call it a day and go our
separate ways, huh? No need to call the—hic—
cops. I’ll pay for the damages.”
“Oh, you are going to do more than that,” I fired
back, looking for a sign, anything, to tell me what I
should do to call the cops. Drunk drivers were a
hazard to everyone. Plus, I wasn’t going to get any
of my deposit back on this car without a police
report, and there was no way I was going to walk
away now. Not with his cocky attitude.
“You’re going down, buddy. You should’ve thought
about that before you got behind the wheel.”
He ripped off of his sunglasses, and I took one
look at his bloodshot blue eyes and took a step
back. Gasping. Those eyes. I knew those eyes.
“You’re, you’re…” I stammered, not believing it
could be him.
Damon Holden was standing right in front of me.
Damon Holden, the thirteenth-seeded male tennis
player in the entire world! Damon Holden, who
was an up-and-coming hot player, a frontrunner to
win some of the largest tournaments this year.
Damon fucking Holden. Overall bad boy and
heartthrob who had scores of fans who followed
him around the world cheering him on, and no
doubt scores of one-night stands, too.
And he was mere inches away from me.
I’d lusted over him a time or two on TV, not only
because he was hotter than a cold day in hell but
also because he had true talent. I blinked. He was
standing right in front of me.
And drunk. Oh crap.
“You know who I am?”
I looked at him, thinking that it was hilarious that
he was even asking me that. Who wouldn’t know
who he was? He was all over the news. He’d
come out of nowhere in the recent years like a
storm that couldn’t be tamed. Known for both his
off- and on-court antics. So much so that the
Holden Faithful—his fan club—had started
keeping counts like they did in baseball for strikes
on how many rackets he would destroy in one
tournament or how many fines he’d receive on the
circuit that year.
The media loved to follow him and his family
around, and despite his unconventional court
behaviors, he was being touted as one of the major
reasons the public at large was watching tennis
again.
“O-of course,” I forced out, realizing I was staring
at him, my mouth wide open. In such a small
amount of time, ever since he’d taken off his
sunglasses, everything had changed. Everything.
Now this entire debacle had profound
consequences.
If I went ahead and reported him, got the police
involved, I would be single-handedly taking down
one of the world’s favorite players. It would be
another scandal on his already filled score sheet.
And I, little ol’ me from Jupiter, Florida, would
become the world’s most hated woman. Damon
would miss a ton of tennis as a result. He would
miss the French Open. I would miss seeing him
play. I couldn’t let it happen. But why was he out
here in the first place, driving drunk before his
match?
Yet that thought was overridden by a more
disturbing one. He would probably go to jail… I
had no idea of the sentences or fines he could be
given if caught in his state, but I could almost see
the mug-shot now, on the front page of every
newspaper. The photo that would define the rest of
his life.
Cringing, I took a hard look at him. I hated drunk
drivers with every fiber of my being, but I couldn’t
call the cops now, could I, and ruin the rest of his
life and career?
M
2
D A M O N
y day had officially gone to shit. But at least
there was a silver lining standing before me, and I
wondered if she wanted to join my fan club. The
special fan club, the one that had a ton of
personal benefits, I thought with a sly smile.
I watched the woman in front of me get over the
initial shock that yes, in fact, she had just met the
great Damon Holden. Yours truly. A small thrill
went through me. I never got tired of shocking
beautiful women, loving the realization suddenly
dawning upon their faces that they were in the
presence of greatness.
And this one was no different. Through tired and
bleary eyes, I could still see that she was beautiful.
Hell, a blind man would know just by the sound of
her voice that she was sex on legs. She had
shoulder-length strawberry-colored hair that had a
slight wave to it, and green eyes with a ring of
caramel around the edges. She was dressed in a V-
neck shirt that revealed just a hint of cleavage and
medium-length shorts that showed off her tanned
legs. Breathtaking.
She was still glaring at me, though, and trying to
get over her shock. I was glad that she could speak
English, at least. My French was good enough, but
it was easier this way. I pegged her accent from
somewhere on the southeast coast maybe. Florida
or North Carolina.
I could see the cogs of her mind whirling behind
those big beautiful eyes. She was no doubt warring
with herself about what to do next. My bet would
be she’d ask for an autograph in a few seconds and
forget this whole thing ever happened. Or maybe
she’d get down on her knees and offer me a blow-
job. I could use the release, I thought. I maintained
my grin, the whisky churning in my gut, waiting for
her to come around.
After finally leaving the bar, I had to admit it
probably wasn’t the best move to get in the truck
that a local dealership had given me to use, but it
had been too much of a temptation. I couldn’t deal
with getting picked up by my driver or using public
transportation so that everyone knew where I was
or what kind of state I was in. They’d all just start
nagging at me again, and my dad would go ape-
shit.
The driver of the other car was still tongue-tied;
she hadn’t said another word. I looked at the
woman in front of me, seeing indecision on her
face. She wanted to call the cops. And in my state,
cops would most definitely mean a trip downtown
and probably one pissed-off agent. No, not
probably. Jim would be royally pissed off that I
had yet again caused some kind of media shit-
storm. Reporters would lap it up. He hated the fact
that the press found something wrong with every
step I made, and I had started to find them hiding
out, waiting for the perfect opportunity to see me
screw up. I was surprised they weren’t already
descending on this accident. But at that moment in
time, I really couldn’t give a shit anymore. About
any of it. Let them lock me up and throw away the
damn key! Maybe I could get away with one last
hurrah for the road with the sexy minx before me, I
thought as I concentrated on the shape of her lips—
not too big, or too small. They had a perfect
plumpness to them and a sweetheart shape, and I
wondered how she’d taste. Her lips started
moving.
“We’ve got to go,” she was saying, anxiously
looking around. “We’ve got to get out of here.”...