Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (65 page)

A
fter thirty hours in a bikini
, slipping on some cut-off shorts and a tank top - not to mention
underwear
- feels amazing.

I twirl once more in front of the changing room's trifold mirror and try and bite back my grin. I've never been a
“clothes”
type of girl. I’m not the type that worries too much about which brand of jeans I'm wearing or if the shirt I'm wearing matches, well,
anything
else I'm wearing. Clothes are clothes; no big deal. Except today, there's a reason I'm trying to make sure I look OK, and it’s not even a reason I'm altogether comfortable thinking even to myself. It's a tainted reason; a criminal reason that’s wrong in all the worst ways.

I’m not
happy
about having to use the wad of what I’m sure is stolen cash Javier’s been carrying around in his pocket. But, desperate times and all that, and I busy myself with paying for the clothes with the money before I head back out to the market square.

I'm half expecting him to have left, if truth be told. I feel guilty for thinking it, but part of me almost wonders if he'll be there when I look for him. But then my eyes land on him, wearing a new shirt, new shorts, and a dark scowl on his face.

“Hey there, stranger,” I say, trying to keep my thoughts from the dressing room safely tucked away in the back of my mind. Javier looks up at me, and I frown as I see how pale and strained the look on his face is as he looks into my eyes.

“You OK?”

“I'm fine.” He snaps, standing quickly and darting his eyes around the market square.

Why yes, these are new clothes; thanks so much for noticing
.

But the thought is so alien and so bizarre to me, not to mention ridiculous that I shake my head and look away as I shove it back. What am I, some sort of crush-struck high-school girl?

I look up, trying to will the heat away from my face, only to find him staring at me. His look is softer than it just was a moment ago; “Sorry.”

I shrug like it’s nothing; like I haven't just been totally analyzing it in my head like a psycho; “No problem. Let's go.”

“Hang on,” He grabs my arm, and I turn to look at him. His eyes dart around again; “We need to change our look.”

I frown; “Right, hence the new clothes.”

“No I mean more than new clothes.”

He looks away, his whole body weirdly on alert as his eyes dart around the market. I’m about to open my mouth when he turns back and that grin of his finally makes an appearance; “So how attached are you to blonde?”

* * *

I
wrinkle
my nose at the box in Javier's hands; “
Chestnut
?”

The answer to his last question was
“very”
; I
love
my blonde hair. It’s always set me apart from my redheaded sisters, and while I do love my mother’s color on them, I like being the unique one. The idea of changing that in for something like
brown
is just depressing.

Javier rolls his eyes and bats his hand in this flamboyantly mimed way; “Oh,
Chestnut
is
so
in right now, honey”

I can feel myself grin in spite of myself.

“Feels good, doesn't it.”

I arch a brow at him in the bathroom mirror as he starts to squeeze the goop from the dye kit into my poor hair; “What does?”

“Smiling; not being so uptight all the time.”

My fist tightens around the towel clutched around my neck; “I am
not
uptight.”

“You should smile more often, princess.” He grins at me as he starts to work the dye into my hair, streaking it through my locks as he piles my hair up on top of my head. He works in silence, concentrating and actually doing a pretty good job of making sure he's getting my hair and not my forehead or ears. I'm quiet as his fingers slide through my hair, making sure he gets every inch of it before he finally stands back and nods towards the shower stall; “Alright, hop in.”

I stare at him through the mirror, waiting.

“What?” He frowns.

“Um, can you
leave
so I can take that shower?”

“Do I have to?”

He’s smirking, and I know he’s just trying to push my buttons, but I also know that it’s
working
.

…It’s working in ways it
really
shouldn’t be.

He winks at me once more before he steps out the door, closing it behind him.

I shower quickly, washing the dye goop out of my hair and trying not to think too hard about the fact that I’m this naked and exposed with a man like Javier standing right outside the door. I bite my lip as the hot water cascades over my skin, suddenly wondering why I didn’t lock the bathroom door before I stepped in here.

What if he comes in?

What if I WANT him to come in?

I shake the thought from my head as I shut the water off.
Lordy, get a grip on yourself, girl.

I slip my panties on and wrap myself in a towel as streaks of dye along with my shameful, inappropriate thoughts of the tattooed criminal not four feet away in the other room swirl down the drain.

“I think I may have a new profession.” Javier grins at me from the bed when I open the bathroom door, nodding slowly as his eyes slide up and down my towel-clad body. I snort a laugh and turn to look at the new, dark-haired version of me in the bathroom mirror; it's honestly not terrible.

“Ok, your turn.” I say with a grin, curling my finger at Javier and and patting the chair we've dragged into the bathroom.

Javier frowns; “I don’t think chestnut’s my color.”

I smile slowly at him before I pick up a pair of scissors and nod at his long hair, pulled back; “Get in the chair, Javier.”

He glares at me, not moving

“Oh, attached to the ponytail are we? What are you, a samurai?”

He makes a face; “I like my hair long.”

“So do the guys looking for us; come here.”

“I’ll wear a hat.”

I start to grin, realizing how hilariously vain this is sounding coming from the bad-boy hard-body criminal; “Are you Steven Seagal?”

He grumbles something in Spanish and tightens his jaw, but he shuffles into the bathroom anyways and peels his t-shirt off as he plops into the chair. The fact that he really
is
apparently so attached to the look makes me laugh as I move behind him and start to pull the band out of his dark brown hair.

“Look, relax. I've got two sisters; I've done this before, ok?”

“What, cut ponytails?”

“You have no idea.”

His thin mouth curls into a grin; “Fine.”

I'm as gentle as I can be, my fingers sliding through his hair and feeling for length before I take the scissors to it. I laugh as big tough bad-boy Javier flinches with the first snip, but after that, I'm too concentrated on making sure I'm even to pay attention to his little fit about getting his haircut.

Lock after lock tumbles off his bare shoulders to the floor and slowly, the man with the wild look and the long hair transforms into someone, well,
normal
looking.

And somehow someone even
more
attractive, actually.

When I'm done, I slowly place the scissors onto the counter and stand back to admire my work; “Well? Not bad, right?”

He swears and I roll my eyes; “Oh,
come on
, it's not-”

“No, I like it.”

I grin at him, pleased with myself; “Really?”

“It's not bad.”

I shrug; “You look less-”

“Samurai-ish?”

I laugh; “I was going to say like less of a villain.”

Javier grins at me in the mirror; “I like being a villain.”

“Well, now you look like a nice guy.”

“How nice.”

I can feel the flush coming into my cheeks as he looks into my eyes through the mirror in front of us, and I hastily look away, as if suddenly interested in cleaning up the mess from our makeovers.

“I'd prefer to be bad, you know.”

I whirl back to find him standing, his eyes narrowed as he stares at me.

Hungrily.

My breath catches in my throat, suddenly aware of the tension rapidly coming to a boil in the small confines of the motel bathroom.

Please don’t come closer
, I think to myself.

Because as much as I want to deny it; I like him bad, too.

And however forbidden the thought is, however wrong it is to even think to myself, I want him to be bad with
me
.

He's moving closer, and I find myself gasping as I step back into the wall behind me. He takes another step towards me, his eyes blazing as he looks at me like a wolf sizing up his prey. He licks his perfect lips, and I bite my own. I'm a torn mess inside; willing this to happen with everything I am and at the same time praying to God that he walks away.

Because I'm fairly sure that right now,
I
can’t.

He steps even closer, and I can feel my blood pumping like hot metal through my veins. The masculine scent of him and the heat from his look invades the space around me, and a deliciously forbidden and taboo heat aches between my thighs. I can feel my breath coming ragged, my pulse racing as he steps closer still.

“Don't let the hair fool you, princess,” he growls, and moves closer still, so close that we're practically touching; “I'm still a villain.”

He closes the distance between us with a ferocity that has me moaning into his kiss as he mashes his lips against mine. It’s hungry and raw, full of pure need and desire, and I gasp into his mouth as I feel him press against my body.

And as wrong as it is - as much as I want to pull away or push him back or shake myself out of this - I can’t.

And I don’t.

Because I know I want this. In that moment, I want him more than I've ever wanted anything.

My hands move by themselves as I open my mouth to his insistent tongue, tracing over the hardened, inked muscles of his chest and sides. He growls into my mouth as his hands snake up my back, caressing my body with his fingertips until he finds the edge of my towel. He's pulling it off of me, letting it drop to the floor beneath us, and I moan as my aching nipples rub deliciously across his chest, the heat of our skin melting together.

It's so forbidden, and so wrong, and so bad that I- that-

Oh
God
; what in the
world
am I doing?

The sudden realization that this isn't just “bad”, it’s
very fucking
bad, hits me like a splash of cold water to the face. I gasp as I suddenly push him away, my chest rising and falling with my panted breath; “Stop!”

He growls and moves to kiss me again, but I push him away harder this time, grabbing another towel and holding it over my topless breasts as I shake my head. I wince, furrowing my brow; “No, oh my God,
stop
. We can't do this!”

Javier's eyes narrow and he takes a half step back from me; “
Yes
, we
can
.”

“
No
, we
can't
!” I say sharply; “
I
can't!” I step to the side, away from him, and hold the towel tighter to my breasts. A million scattered thoughts swirl through my head, and I shut my eyes tight, trying to stop myself from drowning in the vortex of regrets suddenly twisting through my thoughts.

“Chelsea-”

“I'm the
C.I.A.
, Javier! And you’re a fucking
target
! You’re wanted by-”

“You?” He says it with a smirk, and I know he's trying to lighten this mood, but there's nothing that would take back the horrible mistake I just made in kissing him.

“No.” I shake my head; “This isn't happening, Javier. Not with someone like
you
.”

The words sound far harsher the second they leave my lips, and I wince as my eyes dart to find his; “I'm- shit, I didn't mean-”

“Well what makes you think I wanted anything to do with an uptight bitch like you?” His words are cold, and he pushes past me into the motel room, grabbing his shirt as he heads to the door.

“Wait, where the hell do you think you're going?”

“
Out
, princess.”

I sputter, storming after him as I try and wrap a towel around my naked chest; “Hang on! You can't just
leave!
”

He whirls on me, his face tight and his eyes blazing fire; “Where the fuck am I going to go, princess? It’s a damn island, and I can’t seem to get away from you anyways.”

I open my mouth, but the words don't come as he strides out the door.

Javier shakes his head before he storms out the door, slamming it behind him.

F
uck this
.

My head is still swirling with thoughts as I storm back downtown to the little shopping area where we were earlier. I march right back to the same fucking bar I was in before with Benson and his assholes. It may seem like tempting fate, but this time I can actually see people in there; people in Hawaiian shirts and touristy fanny-packs and startled looks on their faces when I slam the door open and stomp up to the bar.

“Tequila,” I growl, slumping over my elbows on the wooden bar-top. I chance one dart of my eyes around the room, looking for any sign of the Blackriver douchebags. But of course they're gone now, and I know I'm just being an idiot.

The bartender slides me a glass, which I instantly tilt back before sliding his way and nodding for another.

I sip the second a bit more slowly than the first shot, brooding about what just went down in the motel room with Chelsea. I rake the fingers of one hand through my hair, grimacing as they slip through the unfamiliar shorter length. I can't believe I let her cut my hair like that.

I snort and take another sip. Right, like I “let” her do anything. I know the altering of our appearances, however small a measure, is necessary, but it still makes me mad that I let
her
do it now, after that whole bullshit back there. It's more than just the general situation, too. I'm not a little pussy bitch that cries about the world not going his own way. I mean,
believe me
, I’ve had the world not go my way plenty of fucking times. Actually, I’m not sure it’s
ever
gone the way I wanted it to.

But I’m pissed because I can't think straight. No matter what happens in life, even when shit goes sideways, my head is always clear. I know where I want to go, it’s just a matter of picking the right path to get there, sometimes no matter what the toll is.

Except right now, for the first time ever, I’m lost. And I’m lost because now there’s something else in my damn head blocking my view of where I need to go and what I need to do; something young, blonde, and way more innocent than I should be fucking around with.

How the hell did I let that fucking C.I.A. chick under my skin? And now here I am griping and moaning about it like a pussy. I've lost my power and my edge somehow just fucking
being
around her. I smile thinly as I sip the rest of the glass in my hand, thinking about some story I vaguely remember from church when my grandmother could drag me there. I spent more time most Sundays trying to steal alter wine to sell to the older kids, but I do remember Sampson and Delilah.

And here I let that bitch cut my hair and break my throne.

Another memory takes over then as the tequila starts to mellow me out. Only this one isn't me as a kid, holding abuela's hand and going to church. No, in this one, I'm holding a gun. I'm in a concrete room in some shitty little smuggler stop-off outside Tallahassee, and I've got Logan Dempsey and Chelsea's sister Quinn tied to chairs.

And I hate it.

I hate that it's come to this and I hate how being what I needed to be has brought me to this place where I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. I don't know how I got to be the Goddamn bad guy, but when you’re up against a wall and out of options, it’s the only route sometimes.

I'm hitting Logan, not even knowing why I am. I'm threatening them both, trying to bend him to do what I
need him
to do, only because it’s the only option I've got. I'm in too deep with the wrong fucking people, and Logan's a way out of that. So here we are.

I remember turning towards Quinn and just seeing the
hate
in her eyes; just pure fucking loathing and hatred, and for one brief second, I almost stop. There's a moment there, staring at Chelsea's oldest sister where I see the monster I've become reflected in her eyes. For one brief second, I see every mistake I ever made; every wrong turn and every poor decision that brought me right here to this very moment. I want to apologize; I want to say I'm sorry and find a way to change my ways.

And then she stabs me.

I can still remember that blade slicing into my skin and entering my damn throat; I can fucking
taste it
.  I’m drowning then. I'm drowning in my own fucking blood, which is maybe the worst feeling in the world by the way.

And then, I die.

I'm dead, and I know it. When I’m drowning on the coppery taste of my own life-force, I know I’m dead.
End of the road, Toro.

Except, she saves me.; that doctor, Chelsea's sister. She stabs me, and they could just walk away from all that, but she doesn’t. For some fucked up reason that I still don't understand, she saves my sorry ass. I will never understand that moment and what possessed her to do that, but fuck, here I am.

I snort a laugh to myself; thinking of one of the brief conversations I ever had with Chelsea's father; “
Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

And I'm roasting out here.

The bartender slides a bottle of something nice-looking in front of me, breaking my thoughts; “What’s this?” I eye the golden añejo sitting in front of me, squinting at the label and realizing just
how nice
it really is.

“Your friends bought it for you.”

“Excuse me?”
Friends? Clearly, we don't know each other, bud.

“Yeah, your friends.” He shrugs, like he doesn't really give much of a shit; “I think they headed out back for a smoke or something, but they wanted to buy you one.”

“What, a drink?”

“A bottle.” The bartender shrugs and passes me a fresh glass; “You want me to hang on to it back here?”

“Leave it.”

He nods and pours me a shot before he sets the tequila on the bar top and walks away. I bring the glass to my lips and inhale the sweet burn of it before I knock it back and let the amber fire slowly leak down my throat. I allow the burn to settle in for a second before I stand and grab the bottle.

This is a fucking
real bad
idea, but fuck it. I head through the bar towards the back door, knowing perfectly well now who my “friends” are. It's a shit move, walking out this door, but I knew they were going to check in on me sooner or later, and it might as well be here and now without Chelsea around. The way I figure, the more heat I can draw away from her, the quicker we can figure out what the hell we're going to do.

Hands grab and slam me up against the wall the second I step out the door. I wince and my head rings as it knocks off the bricks of the alley wall, and there's the now-familiar feel of a gun against my back as a
very
familiar voice rasps in my ear:
“Where are we at, Toro.”

I grit my teeth and strain against the two guys holding me down, and I turn to sneer into Benson's stupid piggy little face; “Fuck you,
cabron
.”

“I'm not sure you're understanding me, you dumb fuck,” Benson narrows his eyes at me, the veins in his neck sticking out and throbbing; “Get Chelsea Archer for us, and I
won't
dump your ass back in La Muerta,
comprende
? It's a fair trade.”

“How 'bout I trade you for another shot at your mom’s ass?” I spit out, forcing a grin to my face.

Benson's fist crashes into my mouth and white stars flash in front of my face. Yeah, I'm not sure what other response I expected from him; grunts like him aren't exactly the witty banter type.

“I'm gonna try and impress this upon you one more time, shithead,” Benson leans closer, his face red and his eyes looking crazy as he pulls out his gun, cocks it and presses the barrel into my cheek; “Chelsea Archer, by tomorrow morning, or you're a dead ma-”

“Drop it.”

That wasn't Blackriver
-

All four of us jerk our heads up to the front of the alleyway, and I can’t stop the grin that starts to spread across my face.

“I said, fucking drop it!” The gun in the newly brunette Chelsea Archer's hands is leveled right at Benson as she stands there with her feet shoulder length apart and staggered. Benson and his goons freeze, and I almost want to laugh;
is this chick saving my ass?

There's a coldness in her eyes, and I’m suddenly realizing as I hear the three idiots around me chuckle that they don’t take her seriously.

From the perspective of a guy who’s
had
her pull a gun on him, twice, they
really
should; even if they don’t know the gun is unloaded.

Benson chuckles and smiles at Chelsea; “Listen sweetheart, why don't we put down the gun before you hurt some-”

“I said let him go. Special Agent Archer, United States Central Intelligence Agency, and for the last
motherfucking
time;
drop the-
”

One of the guys holding me suddenly shoves me away and reaches for a gun on his belt holster. It's a blur of motion, but he barely gets his hand on it before the gun in her hand
roars
.

Holy fucking shit!

I don’t even have time to wonder where the hell she got ammo from before the man grunts as his shoulder rocks backwards with her shot, knocking him to the ground.

There's a quarter second of everyone freezing and not quite believing it - myself included - before I use that to jump into action. I elbow the other guy holding me sharply in the nuts, knocking him over. Benson shouts and fires barely a foot from my head right over me towards Chelsea, and I lunge at him as I plant a haymaker of a fist into his fat face.

I'm running for Chelsea, ducking wildly as she fires right over my head, before I tackle her back behind a dumpster.

“Nice timing, spy-girl.”

“I
told you
not to run off without me!” She looks furious, but I only grin at how insane this all is.

Suddenly, there are flashing blue and red lights and the sounds of sirens at the other end of the alley; great, the fuzz is here.

“Police! Everyone freeze!”

Fuck, just what we need. I whirl to Chelsea, still crouched behind the dumpster with me, holding her gun with an iron grip; “We need to run.”

She whirls to me; “
What?!
It's the
police
, Javier; we're going to-”

“Remind me which one of us has actually worked for Blackriver again?!” I shake her by the shoulders, trying to impress upon her the seriousness of this; “Trust me, if the police are here, they’re with them. We need to run.”

Chelsea rolls her eyes and puts the safety on her gun; “Jesus, you really are insane, you know that?” She starts to roll her eyes again as she begins to stand with her hands in the air. She screams as I tackle her back down as bullets from the guns of both both groups rake the side of the dumpster and the brick next to us.

Jesus, I hate being right all the time.

“Will you fucking
listen to me
for once!?” I yell; “Can we run now, princess?”

Her mouth presses into a line and her eyes search my face wildly.

“We need to run; now, Chelsea”

She nods quickly, her eyes blazing and her mouth tight as I grab her and we run.

* * *

H
er hand is firmly
in mine as I lead us charging down alleyways, between buildings, and down towards the dark of the beach. Running feels good. Running is freedom, and the fact that I'm holding her hand sure is fucking helping. It's bizarre, but as insane as this moment is with Blackriver and the cops chasing after us and the fact that I just had a gun to my head, I'm almost laughing as we dash through the darkness. I feel more alive and more in control than I have in ages, and having this girl's hand in mine as we pound the sand has me feeling like a golden god.

Her face looks tight but she’s not yelling, and she’s not panicking.

And she came back for you
.

Quite honestly, I'm not sure anyone's ever “come back for me.” I'm the guy you leave; the one that takes the hit because I was disposable anyways, and the fact that Chelsea of all fucking people in the world is the one that came back has me grinning like an asshole.

And we have a “thing” now; a common enemy in Blackriver. Whatever comes next, we’re a united front.

And really, this princess ain’t so bad as she seems.