The Lie : a bad boy sports romance Read online

  © 2021—Karla Sorensen

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Designer-Najla Qamber Design www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Cover Photography: Regina Wamba

  Interior Design—Champagne Book Design

  Editor—Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  Proofreading—Julia Griffis, The Romance Bibliophile

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

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  PREVIEW OF THE BOMBSHELL EFFECT

  OTHER BOOKS BY KARLA SORENSEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dominic

  It took two things to ruin my first day with the Washington Wolves—an asshole journalist determined to pick a fight and a bottle of tequila I should’ve said no to.

  The first managed to take a perfectly good press conference and turn it to shit. The second didn’t come until later.

  And more than anything, when I woke up happy on a day I normally hated, when I signed my contract with genuine optimism at the change in my career, I should have known something would blow it the hell up.

  His name was Kevin Carter, from a two-bit sports network, and he overcompensated for a pencil dick by being a bully in press conferences. Most of the time, I avoided his questions, but he yelled over everyone else that day.

  The moment he stood and gave me an oily smile, I knew he was going to piss me the hell off. (Never, ever a good thing for me.)

  “Dominic, what do you say to the many critics who think your aggressive style of play and tendency for drawing flags won’t fit in here at Washington?”

  If you thought the first day at a new school was bad, try transferring football teams when no one thinks you can hack it with the “good guys.”

  I leaned back in my seat and gave Kevin Carter a tight smile. “Are people saying that?” I asked casually.

  His answer was sly. “You know they are. You weren’t exactly known for your ability to keep your cool in Vegas. Didn’t you set the record for most unnecessary roughness flags in a single season?”

  Around him, the journalists filling the rows of my first press conference in Washington shuffled uncomfortably. In every fricken one of these things, one asshole made it his job to piss off the football player, and it was almost always Kevin. If I snapped, tossed a mic at his face, and stormed off because he was wrecking my mood, he’d probably get a bonus.

  So with a grit of my teeth and a deep breath, I managed a smile, even as a cold ball of dread filled my stomach. “That was my first year in the league, Kevin. I’ve matured over the past three years.”

  The dipshit snorted loudly with disbelief.

  “Watch out, Washington,” he read from the screen of his phone, “Walker the Wild is your problem now.” He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s my headline for tomorrow, if you were interested.”

  The woman sitting next to him, with the ESPN badge around her neck, rolled her eyes.

  What I wanted to do was call him a prick and walk away from all the eyes waiting impatiently for me to react. I wanted to tell him that Walker the Wild was a byproduct of an aggressive team with an aggressive coach who knew exactly how to amp up his players.

  “Nice alliteration,” I told him. “I bet it took you all day to think of it.”

  His smile flattened at my dig and the small ripple of laughter that moved through the room.

  “I read an article claiming knowledge from inside sources at Washington that they’re not all that excited about your type of energy in the locker room,” he continued. “Any comment?”

  I shook my head. A calm reaction. One I was really fucking proud of, considering I wanted to throw a chair at his head.

  The reporter next to him—I think her name was Julie—raised her hand, and I nodded. But before she could ask her question, a slickly dressed PR guy interrupted. “That’s all for Mr. Walker today. We’ve got another player who’d love to answer some questions.” He spoke quietly into my ear. “Just go. We’ll handle Kevin’s headline. Don’t say a word to anyone,” he warned.

  His voice didn’t even have a sharp edge, but that warning was still there.

  They all expected me to explode, even the guy who was paid to make me look good. Not like I could really even blame him for that. My reputation of Walker the Wild had preceded me. From my days playing in college at Texas, where I was still chippy as hell and didn’t know exactly how to prove my worth as a walk-on player without going overboard. My days being built into that player on a professional scale in Vegas, as an undrafted player who’d heard the critics say over and over that I wasn’t good enough.

  My hand curled into a fist under the table, but I nodded at the PR guy. He didn’t see the fist. No one did. It was the only outward hint that something dangerous was building under the surface of my skin.

  Don’t be so cranky, Dominic, I heard my sister’s voice in my head. My fist uncurled, and I stood from the table before I did something awful, like burst into tears or some shit.

  A few cameras followed my exit from the Washington press room, and I kept my gaze straight ahead when a few journalists made a move to follow me.

  No one waited for me outside of the room because the circus portion of the transfer was over. I glanced down a long corridor, and without thinking too hard about where I was going, my legs took me in the direction of the field.

  The Wolves facility was impressive. It had been as long as I could remember. Even though I grew up with the shape of the stadium on the skyline, we’d never been able to afford tickets. Even before Ivy was born, on the eve of my tenth birthday, and even before she got sick, we’d never had the kind of money to see a professional game. Back then, even if I kept saying it would happen, no one actually thought I’d end up doing what I was doing. Maybe my parents would’ve pinched pennies even further to take me.

  My senior year of college, Texas played a bowl game at Wolves stadium, and it was when I knew eventually I’d play the game I loved wearing the black
and red jerseys. I knew I’d make my way back to that stadium. With that team.

  I remembered going back to the hotel room and wishing I could call my sister—call Ivy—and tell her about it. Then I drank half a bottle of Jack and passed out because it was the only way—back then—to keep myself from doing something really stupid.

  With a careful glance over my shoulder, I walked down the tunnel toward the dark field. The roof was open, and again, I heard my sister’s voice in my head.

  Wouldn’t it be fun to sleep in the middle of a field someday?

  Sounds uncomfortable, Ivy Lee, I’d told her.

  Just once. If you can do it someday, you better do it for me.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I took a deep breath. I could still hear my sister’s voice so clearly even though five years had passed since I’d heard it. Five years to the day, in fact.

  Instead of hopping the last of the barriers to go out on the dark field, I leaned up against the wall of the tunnel and stared at the logo until my eyes started to burn.

  The day hadn’t gone the way I thought it would. Instead of the excitement I’d felt that morning, the tremor of anticipation I’d felt while scrawling my name across the white paper that was bringing me back home, now I simply heard that fucking reporter’s voice in my head too.

  They’re not all that excited about your type of energy in the locker room.

  I took a deep breath and tried to shove it out of my head.

  “Walker?” a voice called behind me.

  I turned and saw the rookie who’d taken my place with the press. He looked a little dumbstruck at the sight of me, and I could hardly remember a time when seeing veteran players gave me the same feeling. Probably because it didn’t take long in Vegas to realize no one gave a shit if you were excited to meet them. The entire locker room was a study in guys with anger management issues.

  “Rookie,” I said. I knew his name, but I was just feeling a little chippy after the press conference.

  He stood shoulder to shoulder with me, staring out at the field. “Fucking awesome,” he breathed. “I wanted to see it empty.”

  Something about him tugged at me. I didn’t know much about him, but like me, he hadn’t been some flashy draft pick. He was undrafted, someone with raw talent and a love for the game. My hands curled into fists again because unlike me, he still had stars in his eyes, a visible excitement he didn’t worry about hiding.

  It wasn’t that easy for everyone.

  “You played for Florida, right?”

  “Go Gators,” he said with a grin.

  I stared back at the field. Something about his enthusiasm grated, but not because he annoyed me. Because I was annoying myself. My mood had changed so abruptly, and since leaving that room, it only got worse.

  The rookie slipped a backpack off his shoulders and gave me a sly look that probably should’ve made me bolt back down the tunnel. Then he produced a bottle of really fucking expensive tequila.

  “Bad idea, rookie,” I said.

  He waved the bottle at the sprawling field. “No one’s out here. Besides, I promised my little brother I’d take a shot on the fifty-yard line if they signed me.”

  I eyed him. “That’s a weird fucking thing to promise your brother.”

  Rookie shrugged. “He’s eighteen, so it sounds like his idea of a good time.”

  His words had me imagining Ivy if she’d lived to turn eighteen. Before she got sick, she’d shown the kind of youthful hints of a girl who’d grow to be naturally beautiful. But instead of knowing what she’d look like, I’d only ever remember her as she was. Not even ten when she died.

  Something dangerous shook inside me, and I held out my hand for the bottle.

  He handed it to me with a grin. “We doing this?”

  For one second, I wondered exactly how stupid this was. If I should stop and message Turbo to ask her if this was a really fucking dumb way to honor the fifth year without my sister. But my online friend had no idea what I did for a living or that I was back in Washington. And trying to explain any of it sounded like too much noise to add into my already loud head.

  “Why the hell not?” I mumbled. Without checking to see if he was following, I gripped the tequila in one hand and strode to the middle of the field.

  Hours later, I realized that stopping to message her might have been a smart idea. But then again … I wasn’t exactly known for my restraint.

  “We won’t get kicked off the team for this, will we?”

  I stared up at the sky, felt the slight spinning warmth of the alcohol in my veins as my fingers ran over the cropped grass of the field underneath me. “Nah.”

  I felt like shit. Not because I’d gotten drunk, but like I’d anticipated, falling asleep on the turf was really, really uncomfortable. Another thing I couldn’t tell Ivy.

  But would it get us kicked out? No. To get kicked off a team usually meant you’d committed a crime, and the last time I checked, getting drunk wasn’t against the law. Especially since neither of us had driven under the influence. But still … the Wolves organization might not appreciate our attempt at a first experience on the roster.

  The rookie glanced over at me. “You sounded a lot more excited about this idea before.”

  “Didn’t know you were so fucking chatty when I said yes.”

  In his drunken state, he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  After his laughter faded, he held up the bottle of tequila and took another swig. “Taking shots with Dominic Walker,” he mused. “Epic.”

  Normally, I would’ve smiled or made a joke. But I kept my eyes on the stars and felt an uncomfortable pinch in my chest when I realized that with the slowly rising sun, the stars were no longer visible.

  “Want another one?” he asked. Thankfully, his drunk-ass was oblivious to my lack of reaction.

  I shook my head. “I’m good.”

  He stared at the half-empty bottle. “Didn’t you only have like … two shots?”

  “Three, I think.”

  “Shit,” he groaned. “No wonder I feel like this.”

  He flopped onto his back with a groan, the bottle forgotten between us. My eyes remained open as I stared up at the sky unblinking. When I blinked, it felt like there was a layer of sand coating them.

  For a moment, I let my eyelids fall closed, but it was a mistake because as soon as I did, I saw her face when she talked about sleeping on the field.

  She couldn’t have been more than eight at the time, already sick and hooked up for her treatments at the hospital, where we used to discuss all the different things we could do after she was done and feeling better.

  I rubbed at my chest, hoping it would send the aching feeling away, but it didn’t.

  And instead of sadness, I just felt a slow crescendo of anger, like a snowball rolling down the side of a mountain. This always happened to me—it eclipsed everything. Whatever I kept buried inside me, it didn’t explode like people expected. It wasn’t an immediate reaction, like a bomb going off or a grenade exploding.

  It was slower than that. Eventually, it came out in a way that other people could see. It was what got me in trouble. But to me, it was never a surprise. If you’d ever watched someone heat glass, it was a lot like that.

  For a while, you couldn’t see anything changing, but if you watched long enough, the color turned bright molten orange, and the shape of it became something fragile. One wrong move, one twist in the wrong direction, and the entire thing broke in a way that couldn’t be repaired.

  If you were still tracking my little analogy, my temper was the broken glass. More than one “unnecessary roughness” flag came from that part of my personality.

  As I lay on the grass with the sky turning light, thinking about Ivy after the press conference as the doubts clawed past my excitement of being in Washington, I felt the heat rise and the color of my mood change.

  Tequila wouldn’t help it. Very few things did. My parents never wanted to talk ab
out it. My only friend who would was someone I’d never even met face-to-face, but she was still the only person I could vent all this bullshit to. I picked up my phone, swiped until I found the right messaging app, and for the first time all damn day, I didn’t question what I was about to say, or if I was phrasing it the right way.

  NicktheBrickLayer: I don’t want to do anything this year, Turbo. No gestures, no commemoration, no stupid little purchases that don’t mean anything. Because no matter what I do, she’s still gone, and it pisses me off, and nothing I ever do feels like enough anyway.

  NicktheBrickLayer: And that’s fine, I don’t feel bad for feeling that way. Ivy doesn’t need me to do those things, she never has. But I’m me, so it’s never that simple.

  NicktheBrickLayer: Instead, I did something stupid on my first day at a new job, and I’ll probably never live it down.

  NicktheBrickLayer: When will I fucking learn? I’m too old for this. Yet here I am.

  Just as I hit send, someone flipped some master switch and all the floodlights in the stadium came on in a painful, bright burst. I held my hand up to block it, and the rookie groaned miserably. For some reason, those lights triggered the worst possible reaction for a guy who’d just drunk half a bottle of tequila. He rolled to the side and threw up.

  “Oh, this was a stupid idea,” he moaned. “Who do you think it is?”

  “Wipe your mouth off,” I hissed.

  As I stood, I thought about helping him up, but I wasn’t sure he could actually stand.

  “I hate tequila.”

  “A little late to realize that now, asshole,” I whispered. Finally, they came into view. The looming silhouette of a security guard ambled in our direction with someone shorter and petite next to him.

  Rookie sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, we’re fucked.”

  If I thought my doubts were loud before, they were screaming in my face now. This was exactly what I should have thought about before grabbing that stupid bottle of tequila and walking out on the field. Walker the Wild would never live this down if the press got wind of it.

  The security guard stopped, hands on his hips, and spoke to the person next to him, who was still hard to see because of where they stood with the lights behind them. “What do you want to do with them, boss?”