Baller's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (4 page)

Chapter Five

Kiptyn

Somehow,
the league still managed to find out about the fight, even though we weren't
arrested. It was total bullshit, but they let it slide. I think if it hadn’t
been the first week of playoffs then they may have been stricter, but they,
like everyone else, knew that with me starting, we would have a win. No, I’m
not conceited. I'm confident. Yes, there is a big difference. I know I possess
the raw talent needed to win the game, but I’m not stupid enough to think it’s
enough. It takes hard work and dedication.

I have
an overabundance of all three.

Someone
from the club has videos and pictures of the entire spectacle, and they aren't
shy about sharing them all over social media. I would be mad if it wasn't for
the fact that they caught my chocolate goddess on camera as well, reminding me
that she is, in fact, real.

I
replayed the videos over and over on YouTube just to catch a glimpse of her. I
tried to hunt her down. I searched Facebook for her, but she was nowhere to be
found. It's probably better that way. At least, that is what I keep telling
myself. I don’t have time to get involved with a woman. Not right now. My life
is too messy right now, and my head isn’t in the right place. I’ll just keep using
them for what I need, give them what they want, and then we both move on.

Sure,
there have been some over the last few years that have wanted more. I admit that
I’ve had to change my number more than once. And there was that one time my
agent had to get involved when one chick took to stalking me everywhere I went,
but when she started showing up at my brother’s place, we got a protective
order. Enough was enough. Something told me that if I found Skila, she wouldn’t
be a short-term fling.

I used
every available second to train and practice over the last two weeks, preparing
for the playoffs. Tonight is the first game. We are first-seed picks, meaning
we play first, and if we win tonight, then we move on to the next round. I have
no doubts we will win. The team is good.

Hell, we
are great, and with me at point, a win is guaranteed. That is, if I can just
get my head in the game and off silky, cocoa skin and chocolate eyes. I wish I
could figure out what the hell had me so hooked on her. I had banged my fair
share of black girls before, so I knew it wasn't that. There was just something
about her that called to me. That and, of course, the fact that she fucking
straight up walked away from me. I’d never had that happen before, and I needed
to fix this situation as soon as possible. I didn’t get denied. If anything, I
did the denying.

The
announcer overhead calls the team’s name, and we rush out onto the court, ready
to play. The bleachers are full of people, all excited and screaming to be
heard over the person next to them. I throw my hand up in the air, waving back
at them, and the crowd goes nuts.

They
love me.

Who
wouldn’t? I'm fucking awesome.

I join
the rest of the team by the benches, and coach Thompson calls out the names of
the five players first on the court. The rest sit or stand by the sideline,
waiting for their chance to jump in and relieve us. Adrenaline courses through
me, putting me on edge. This is it. My time to shine.

The
whistle sounds, and the ball is tossed. Jordan snaps it out of the air and
passes it off to Chris. It bounces once, twice, and then he catches my eye, and
the ball meets my hands. I turn half a foot, aim up for the basket, and shoot.

All net.

The
crowd screams. Two points up. Easy, like taking candy from a baby. Time flies
by when I’m playing. It’s like the moment I step on the court, I’m in another
world, another time. Nothing exists but me and the ball. We are one.

 
“Me, you and a room full of ladies after the
game. You in, bro?” Chris asks during halftime.

“Maybe,
if you win this thing.” I laugh at my own joke. If anyone wins the game, it
will be me. I run this team like a well-oiled machine. He laughs along with me.

“We win
by 40, and you buy the alcohol,” he says. It’s almost a guarantee that we will
win the game tonight. Leading by 27 at the end of the first half? Yeah, we're
fucking beast.

“It’s a
deal,” I say, rushing back out onto the court. A night out is just what I need
after the last two weeks. Every second that I didn’t spend working out or
practicing was spent fantasizing about a woman I met in a club. I need to get
my head out of my ass and get my cock back in the game.

Chapter Six

Skila

I barely
make it to the toilet before projectile vomit shoots out of my mouth, coating
the bowl of the toilet. Slumping against the seat, I wait for my racing heart
to slow and the watering of my mouth to dry up. I hate getting sick,
abso-fucking-lutely hate it. My whole body shakes uncontrollably, making it
hard for me to stand, but I manage.

I turn
the faucet and fill my hands with cold water. Bringing it to my mouth, I swish
it around and then spit it back into the sink. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and
repeat. By the time I’m finished, my heartrate has slowed and the shaking has
subsided. Leaving the water running, I let the noise distract me. I open the
medicine cabinet and search for a thermometer. What I thought was nerves from
the move has swiftly morphed into something more. Always the hypochondriac, I
fear the worst. Lisa knocks lightly on the bathroom door.

“Skila,
Are you okay?”

It was
taking more time than I thought to adjust to living with someone else, like
having someone there during all your embarrassing moments—including but not
limited to jumping up from the breakfast table and making a mad dash to the
bathroom to puke your guts up.

“Yeah,
I’m fine.” I open the door so she can see for herself. “I think I have the flu.
Do you have a thermometer?”

She
reaches in and places her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Look
behind the Q-tips.”

I move
away from her and grab the thermometer, popping it into my mouth. It beeps a
minute later—99.1. Lisa’s still waiting by the door, so I turn it to her and
let her read it.

“Not
bad. I can make you an appointment with my doctor if you want. He can usually
get you in pretty quick,” she says.

“Thanks.
Will you text me and let me know what time? I gotta hurry and get ready.”

I’ve got
exactly one hour and three minutes to get dressed and resemble some sort of
human being before I'm due to arrive at
Los
Angeles Daily Home
. My boss in Atlanta had come through for me and managed
to get me transferred. I'm now the presiding sports reporter of the biggest
newspaper in the Los Angeles district. It was going to be a big change for me, transitioning
from reporting political issues to sports.

Luckily,
I have two older brothers, so I know my way around them . . . sorta. Either
way, I need to be on my A-game. Beginning the morning with puking my guts up
isn’t the way to do it.

Twenty
minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, sliding my feet into a pair of comfy
black flats, and running out the door. Twenty-five minutes after that, I'm
walking through the front doors of my new job.

This
place is magnificent. I take the elevator up to the third floor and tell the
waiting receptionist—a busty blonde wearing way too much lipstick—that I'm
there to see Mr. Ames. She rakes her eyes over my body, clearly finding me
lacking in something, before meeting my eyes.

“Name?”
she asks. Her voice is rough and raspy. I’d bet my new Coach purse that she
smoked at least a pack a day.

“Skila
Parker,” I say, getting straight to the point. Nothing about this woman makes
you think that she would be up for small talk. She doesn’t reply. I stand for a
moment at her desk, wondering what to do now. She’s typing something on her
keyboard, ignoring my presence. I take the opportunity to glance around. Across
from her desk is a wall of clear glass. I can see straight through it to the
numerous offices throughout the third floor.

It’s a
busy office. I can tell that immediately. People are rushing around in a state
of calm chaos. I notice a man walking toward the exit door and assume he’s
coming for me. My assumption is granted a moment later.

“Miss Parker?
I’m Brent Ames. Follow me, please.” He greets me warmly, offering his hand. I
take it and follow him without a single glance back at the snobby receptionist.

Mr. Ames—Brent—makes
quick work of showing me the ropes. He introduces me to the editor, a short,
balding man in his early forties, and then gives me my first assignment. Hiding
the surprise on my face took effort—more than I had at the moment.

“I know,
I know. If this were a perfect world, then I’d spend a week training you before
throwing you to the wolves, but it’s not, and my senior sports reporter left me
high and dry last week. So it’s all on you. Your boss claimed you were one of
the best he had ever seen—a natural, and I’m gonna have to put that to the
test. No choice, ya know.” He shrugs his shoulders, and I almost feel bad for
him and the position he’s been left in.

“I’ll do
my best.”

He
leaves me to get settled in. My office is one of the larger ones on the floor, situated
in the back corner, and I can feel the stare of others in the room, no doubt
wondering how the hell I managed to land this job. Squaring my shoulders, I log
into the computer in front of me with the passcode Brent gave me and go through
some prior articles of the old sports reporter to try and get a handle on what the
paper is looking for. After two hours of endless searching, my head is pounding
and I’m ready to scream. All I see are numbers. Is that all this is? I feel
like it should be more . . . personal.

Lisa
texts me around ten to let me know I’ve got an appointment at two this
afternoon.
Perfect.
I leave my new
office around one and hail a cab to the doctor. When I finish there, I head
home to get ready for tonight and my first assignment.

Tonight,
the Bolts play at home against the Tycoons in the first playoff game of the
season. I spent the better part of the wait in the doctor’s office reading up
on the game and rules so I would have a better understanding when the time to
interview came. I pray I get the chance. I need to prove myself to my new boss,
and this is my one chance to do it.

Stepping
from the tub, I dry off gently and coat my skin with sweet smelling cherry
almond lotion. I close my eyes and imagine my stranger’s hands rubbing the
lotion into my skin, massaging it with his large, masculine hands that he
trails up and down my body, touching and caressing every part of me.

Snapping
my eyes back open, I shake my head clear before stepping into my tight
high-waist, black pencil skirt. I tuck the tail of my bright red blouse into it
and zip the side up. Pulling the pins from my hair, I let it cascade down my
back and then choose a few small strands around my face to twist and pull back
away from my face. I finish the look with a pair of black, closed-toe heels and
a yellow cardigan just in case I get chilled.

I’m
still adjusting to the temps in LA. Late April in Atlanta is usually warm,
mid-sixties at least, but it could get a little cold at night. LA seemed to be
the perfect temperature year-round, but I knew the one time I didn’t bring
something warm would be the one time it got cold. Better safe than sorry.

“I’ll be
back later,” I call out on my way to the front door.

“Be
careful, and have fun,” Lisa’s reply comes from the kitchen.

It’s now
or never. I take a deep breath and close the door behind me. I’ve got this.
Please, God, let me have this.

Chapter
Seven

Kiptyn

We
fucking dominated the court. The team was on point all night long, bringing in
a 112-79 win. I'm on cloud nine, floating with the gods just where I belong. I
imagine if Zeus were here, he’d be slapping me on the back right about now. I'm
looking forward to the next four games. I make it my own personal goal to beat
them by even more next time.

“Guess
beer’s on me tonight,” Chris says, stepping from the shower.

“Seven
shy of me buying. Too bad ya missed that shot.” I duck away from him as his
hand shoots out, barely missing my shoulder.

“Fuck
you, Kip. I wasn’t lined up right,” he says, scowling at me.

“Yeah,
is that what happened? I thought the basket might have jumped over two feet or
something.”

Chris is
even more of a sore loser than he is a poor shot. He’s one hell of a center,
though, and he makes sure I don’t get trampled on while making the winning
baskets.

Wrapping
a towel around my hips, I head to my locker, laughing. “Come on. Let's deal
with the hornets’ nest of reporters, and then we’ll head out,” I say, dreading
the crowd that I know is waiting outside.

“You
deal with them fuckers. They’re only worried about you anyway, oh magnificent
Lord Kiptyn Price,” he mocks, his voice sharp. I glance back over at him,
trying to decipher his tone, when the doors open and the cameras start
flashing. Would it be so damn hard for them to let me finish getting dressed
before they bombarded me with questions? Apparently so.

It
worries me that Chris thinks he’s not good enough to get the attention of
reporters. It’s not that they don’t want to talk to him. I’m just a prize none
of them have had the chance to uncover yet.

Up until
now, I've denied all interviews, choosing to leave that to my agent or the
members of the team. How was I supposed to know that would just make them want
to speak to me even more? I catch his eye before he darts out the back exit. He
brings his hand to his brow and salutes me with a wink, letting me know he was
just joking around.

With
that weight lifted off my chest, I put on my best Kiptyn Price smile and spin
around to greet the swarm.

“Kiptyn.”

“Mr.
Price, how do you do it?”

“Kiptyn,
can you tell us your plans for the playoffs?”

The
questions barrel at me at me an astounding rate. I hold my hand up, warding
them off and silently requesting a moment to soak them in before another ten
are tossed out. I catch a glimpse of my agent from the corner of my eye and
turn toward him. He looks worried that I might bolt at any minute. The thought
crosses my mind, but I gave him my word, and if there’s one thing Kiptyn Price does,
it’s keep his word.

The
reporters have still not stopped tossing questions and flashing their cameras. Stars
are dancing before my vision from all the flash. Now I remember why I don't
deal with this shit. Tim claims it’ll be good for my career and that the fans
would love to hear from me directly, so I told him I’d try. I should have known
better. He slaps me on the shoulder, congratulating me on the win before
turning to the crowd. They silence immediately.

“Mr.
Price will take questions in a moment, but let’s all try to act like rational
human beings here and not bombard him.”

The
hands shoot up, all waiting for their chance. Tim glances around the room,
making them wait before picking someone. Good for him. If it were up to me, I’d
make them wait forever after the shitty way they greeted me, but I’m not the
one in charge here. He opens his mouth to call on someone, but I stop him with
a hand on his shoulder. He glances over at me, and I shake my head without
looking at him. My gaze is locked on someone in the crowd, and I refuse to look
away. He understands what my shake says.
‘I
changed my mind. I don’t want to answer any question from them.’

Not now.

Not when
standing two feet across from me in a mouthwatering tight skirt is her—my
Midnight Sky.

What the
hell is she doing here? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? I’m dehydrated. That has
to be it. My eyes meet hers, and I see the moment she recognizes me. Her eyes
widen. She takes a step back and plants a hand on her chest, just above her
heart.

She’s
real. I know from her reaction, and now she’s finally within reach.

“I'll do
one interview, an exclusive.” The crowded room goes nuts. Every person in here
knows what it would do for their careers to interview the elusive Kiptyn Price.

 
“With you,” I say, and I point straight at
her.

She
knows I'm speaking to her. I can tell by the tightness in her shoulders and the
tiny shake of her head. It figures. The one person in the room I say can
interview me doesn’t want to. That, or I just make her nervous. Yeah, I’ll bet
that’s it.

Every
head in the room turns toward her. I can almost hear the thoughts ricocheting
in their tiny peanut brains,
‘What, why
her?’

Because
I want her, that’s why.

I can’t
say that out loud. I wish I could, but that’s a statement I don’t need in the
papers. I’ve had enough of the Gossip Central reporting on my
many affairs.
Ha, little do they know
that their articles are practically supplying the pussy for me. It’s like the
golden rule with women—what one woman has, every other woman wants—and since
none of them have made me want to give up the playboy title, bachelorhood, and
to settle down, they all take it as their own cross to bear. I don’t mind. Not
one bit. I’ll happily fuck them all, starting with the bombshell standing in
front of me.

Her hand
flies to her mouth moments before she turns and runs.

She
fucking ran away from me again. This chick is seriously damaging my ego. I
can’t let her get away this time. I fly through the crowd, chasing after her.

Me,
Kiptyn fucking Price, chasing a fucking woman. The interview is long forgotten.
My agent is no doubt spewing some dribble to accommodate the crowd right this
second, but they aren’t listening. I know from the cameras flashing behind me.
I can only imagine the stories I’ll read tomorrow, not that I care. No, the
only thing I care about is the sexy as sin woman hiding in the bathroom right
now and the many, many ways I plan to make her mine.

I wait
outside the bathroom door for her. I don’t know how much time passes.

Five
minutes? Three? Ten?

I think
about rushing in there and demanding she speak to me and then stop when I imagine
her reaction. As much as I want to be buried deep inside of her over and over
again, I’ll never demand it. I refuse to be that guy, the one who makes a woman
feel like she has to do something. Or rather, I wasn’t that guy until a few
minutes ago when I decided to give her an exclusive interview. I had no doubt
that she would agree to do it.

Any one
of a hundred different reporters across the country would jump at the chance.
She would be no different. What is she doing in there? Does she plan to hide in
there all night? I’ve never in my life had a woman run away from me. Hide from
me? Ha! That is downright laughable.

I reach
out and knock on the door—once, twice, three times—and then I tighten my towel
back around my waist. “Miss, are you okay in there?” I ask through the door. I
wait a few seconds.

No
response. I knock again,

“Skila?”

Leaning
my ear against the door, I hear a rustling of fabric and imagine her drying her
hands on paper towels. The door swings open so fast I stumble forward. Luckily,
I catch myself on the door frame before I crash to her feet. Her eyes are
bright and angry, surprising me with the fire I see in them.

“WHAT.
DO. YOU. WANT?” She hammers out the words slowly and with steady calm. I can
feel the anger pulsing off her in waves. For the first time in all my life, I
second-guess myself.