Under the Bleachers: A Novel Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by K.K. Allen

  Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, © Okay Creations

  Editor: Shauna Ward

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For more information, please contact K.K. Allen at [email protected]

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  To my father. I love you and miss you. It’s never too late. <3

  Author’s Note: As a fiction writer, I always make a valiant attempt to maintain as much reality as possible within my stories. However, sometimes liabilities and credibility can be a concern, and tough decisions need to be made. In Up in the Treehouse, Zachary Ryan played for an unnamed Seattle NFL team. It was written this way on purpose, because in reality, we all know there’s only one NFL team in Seattle. Also, it didn’t matter who Zachary Ryan played for because it was never my intention to write a companion novel, let alone one with him as the leading man. While writing Under the Bleachers, I went back and forth about Zach’s team name, took a Facebook poll, and ultimately came to the decision to leave it up to the reader’s imagination. So, while you might find some similarities between the geography and the awesomeness of the Seahawks fan base, the team Zach plays for is simply named Seattle. I hope this is a win-win for all. Besides, even as wonderful as Zachary Ryan is, we all know no one will ever replace Russell Wilson. ;)

  My lungs put up a fight as the burn intensifies with each sip of air. Adrenaline overrides every ache, pumping through me as my feet pound unforgivingly against the pavement.

  Just another hundred yards.

  I’m not sure why I decided to come. It was a last-minute decision, one I had talked myself out of before. To love someone despite their inability to love us back may be selfless, but it also leaves us vulnerable. Defenseless.

  For two years I thought cutting ties would eventually numb the pain, but I’m starting to forget him … and that just might be worse.

  Rounding the corner, I see the bright lights of the high school stadium. They shine down like heaven to reveal one hundred twenty yards of lush greenery glistening from the dewy grass. Even from this distance, everything is in focus.

  Players huddle near the sidelines as their quarterback’s booming voice leads a chant that is echoed by his team. With a synchronized clap of their hands, it’s like a bomb has just dropped at their feet. They fly apart like shrapnel, heading to their respective positions on the field. Their coach, average height with dark and thick stubble barely disguising the nervous tick of his jaw, hangs back, pacing and rubbing his palms against his outer thighs in anticipation.

  And then comes the snap.

  A boy wearing red and black grips the pigskin as his feet dance inside the pocket. They call him the Rocket because when he lets go of the ball, you can practically see the smoke trailing behind its spiral. But his arm isn’t what makes him a star. It’s when he moves outside of the pocket that the real show begins.

  Speed carries him like he’s the chariot of the sky, an unstoppable force. No one knows what he’ll do next, but it doesn’t matter. The field is his. His movements are so quick that he barely touches the ground, dodging one sack after another until he’s lunging downfield in search of his next target.

  I’m not nearly as fast, but a burst of energy tears through me as I skip the main entrance of the stadium and circle the perimeter. The disguised opening in the fence was created six years ago. I know, because it was my father’s shears that cut into the steel.

  When I press into the barrier it lifts easily from its pole, and I slip through.

  Trespassing. Totally worth it to avoid a possible confrontation.

  Before the loose fence slaps back against the post with a thwack, I take off again, my body cloaked in the shadows of the stands. For tonight, I’ll let the bleachers be my mask.

  I weave around the support beams, slinging myself forward like they’re vertical monkey bars and this is my personal playground. Using the last beam to steady myself, I scan the slits between the stairs to find the best view of the game.

  I can see at once that the boy has found his target. He rears back, preparing for launch while offense works like a well-oiled machine around him. His grace, unbridled. His timing, flawless.

  And then, in the most perfect arc I’ve ever seen, the ball sails through the air and straight to the end zone, dropping easily into the arms of the receiver. Impeccable execution.

  The crowd’s roar is deafening as six points light up the jumbotron. A glorious rush surges through me as the spectators in the stands erupt into cheers and a thunderous beating of feet to wood surrounds me, making my nerves jump like Pop Rocks in my chest.

  I adjust my blue and gray cap to ensure protection from the random articles that inevitably fall during every game as dirt and mold swirl through the air. All around me, food droppings, loose change, and God knows what else hit the gravel.

  As much as I’d rather be in the stands with everyone else, stomping my feet and screaming until I’m hoarse, being part of the crowd is too risky.

  Curiosity won. I’m here to see him … but I’m not ready for him to see me.

  The wounds are fresh. We’re all still bleeding. But I’m not the victim in this story … and I sure as hell am not the enemy.

  Where’s a buttery nipple shot when a girl needs one? This girl needs one. All this effort put into my Superwoman outfit, but not one hero or villain has asked me to dance tonight. Am I losing my touch?

  It’s not like my options are plentiful, anyway. The limited number of hot guys at this event are either off-limits or paid to be here and otherwise occupied with photo ops for the majority of the night.

  BelleCurve, the creative agency I work for in Bellevue, Washington, has long been known for their work with nonprofits, but this event is far more impressive than any campaign I’ve seen. Heroes and Legends, the theme of the evening, is an awareness event that recognizes kids who have lived through bullying. The room we’ve secured at Melrose Market in Seattle is alive with laughter and chatter, and comic sketches decorate pop art backdrops on every wall to match the theme.

  But as great as tonight has been, with just an hour left of the event, I’m ready to hang my heels.

  Like the resourceful chick I am, I’ve managed to make do riding the buzz of flirtation to get me through this night. And I’ve done so void of the same fairytale expectations most girls have. My heart isn’t set on finding Prince Charming among these superheroes in tights. Tights are hot and all, but let’s face it: Prince Charming is as real as those pretty packages nestled snug between those muscular legs. Every time I see a costumed man with that ridiculous bulge I want to grab hold of the decorative swell, give my potential prince a seductive smile, and whisper—we all know it’s a sock.

  I laugh, shifting my focus to a plate of goodies being carried by a passing Wonder Woman. Taking in the sweet scent as it floats by, my mouth immediately waters. Now there’s a pick-me-up. There’s no better distraction than this beautiful arrangement of white and dark chocolate, melted and hardened upon the most perfect set of strawberries.r />
  I think I’m in love.

  I track Wonder Woman to the dessert table on the other side of the room where a chocolate fountain draws a small crowd. Why didn’t I see this earlier? Because there it is: the only thing sure to turn this night around for me. I snake my way through the crowd and toward my own personal heaven.

  Chocolate. The food of the gods, as my grandma used to call it. And I totally agree. It’s the answer to prayers. Emotional relief. A form of currency. An aphrodisiac. Raw and dark. White and saccharine. Milky sweet. Mouthwatering. It’s all good; I don’t discriminate.

  My mom, my sister, and I moved in with my grandmother a year after my parents’ divorce. I was thirteen and having the most awkward year of my life. Newly separated parents, new school, new home—and a sister who was in every way, shape, and form perfection. My grandmother, who had taken a turn for the worse after a broken hip, spent most of her days reading the newspaper, watching CNN, and mumbling to herself or to anyone who would listen. Usually, that anyone was me.

  She had spent most of her adult life working as a tour guide at the chocolate museum in Cologne, Germany. She reveled in the history of the Mayas and the Spaniards and the cacao trees that produce fruits the size and shape of a football. Every now and then she’d get extra sentimental, and we would watch Willy Wonka with a box of assorted chocolate she’d sneak into the house. My mom would have murdered us if she had known. It would have been worth it. I’ll never forget the sound of Grandma giggling when Augustus Gloop fell into the chocolate river.

  Sorting through the memories of that time in my life is never fun, as it’s mostly filled with confusion and false hope. But I can always rely on the moments of comfort with my grandmother and chocolate to bring a smile to my face. Like now, as I’m weaving through a thinning crowd to get to the dessert table.

  When the waitress I’ve been stalking steps away, I swoop in, snatching a strawberry from the collection and planting it between my lips. Closing my eyes, I sink my teeth into the sweet fruit and rich chocolate, swallowing with a deep moan.

  Holy mother of flying bananas, that’s good. I go for another bite, this time closer to the stem, the berry filling more of my mouth as I bite down.

  Someone clears their throat behind me in an obvious attempt to get my attention. I ignore it.

  Seriously? Worst timing ever. I’m a little busy here.

  “Glad I stuck around for this.”

  Panic shoots through me the instant I hear his voice. That subtle Texas drawl that takes me back to my life before moving to Washington. A drawl that he probably doesn’t even realize he still has after living in Seattle for three years. Over the two years I’ve known him, it’s certainly faded.

  Swiveling around, I lock eyes with the host of tonight’s event.

  Zachary Ryan.

  Otherwise known as the sexiest man to walk planet Earth. That’s my definition of him, anyway. He’s more commonly known as Zachary Ryan: NFL quarterback, Super Bowl champion, and Washington’s most eligible bachelor (according to Seattle Magazine). And now he’s watching me go to town on a chocolate covered strawberry like I’m in bed with it.

  Zach suppresses a smile beneath his unshaven stubble as I nearly gag on my dessert. Please tell me this is not happening right now.

  He’s a mesmerizing sight with ocean-filled eyes that stare back at me from under the curve of his brow. And his light brown hair, closely shaven at the sides, is long enough on top to style with his signature lift.

  Giving him an awkward, crinkly-eyed smile, I hold up my hand in a gesture for him to wait. I grab a Batman cup from the table, spit into it, and toss it into the nearest trashcan.

  What a waste of a perfectly good strawberry. Then again, if Zach is my consolation prize, I’ll take it.

  After using my tongue to swipe my teeth clean, I look up to find Zachary, who’s given up the fight to hold back his amusement. His laugh is deep and rumbly and all sexy man. It’s a sound I’ve quickly become familiar with since he seems to always be laughing at me.

  Who does he think he is?

  I tilt my head and glare at him. “Can’t a girl eat some dessert without getting interrupted? I could have choked to death.”

  His laugh settles into a teasing smile. “Good thing for you I know CPR.”

  Now that wouldn’t have been so bad.

  Zachary’s lips curl and he nods to the plate of desserts. “That, Monica Stevens, was the best entertainment I’ve had all night.”

  Now it’s me trying to hold back a grin. First, why does he feel the need to always address me so formally? Ugh. Politeness is a weakness of mine; I’ll admit it. And Zachary Ryan is the epitome of polite. And charming. And handsome. Unfortunately, the list of positives is far too long to go over in this moment. The man can’t be perfect, but I’ve yet to find a single flaw.

  Second, the fact that he even knows my full name … six points to him. But I won’t let him have the extra point.

  “Not saying much about yourself, since you’re the entertainment and all.”

  His eyes narrow, but he never loses his smug expression. “I’m just the host. I wasn’t entertaining anyone tonight.”

  “I think if you’re hosting an event, you’re considered part of the entertainment. Besides, your profession is broadcast to millions, which means you are an entertainer. No getting out of this one, Zachary Ryan.” I throw his full name at him like he did mine, but it doesn’t have the same effect. I don’t know why, but I feel like this puts me at a disadvantage. I don’t like that. In fact, I don’t like that Zachary might always have the advantage over me. His charm is like a stun gun to my wit.

  He chuckles, low and husky. My eyes track him as he steps forward, closing in until we’re almost touching. In a momentary state of paralysis, I just stand there, leaving little room for him to reach around my body to the dessert table. I might even breathe him in as he passes. But to my defense, who wouldn’t want to sniff the NFL’s hottest new quarterback if given the opportunity? It would be silly not to.

  My lungs expand, pulling in the crisp, woodsy scent that wafts off his body. If heaven had a scent, this would be it. Whatever it is contrasts with the strong citrus blend coming from his carefully styled hair, bleeding seduction. Heaven and seduction. A potent combination. A dangerous elixir to my already raging hormones.

  He rights himself to standing, still in front of me, this time grinning with a chocolate covered strawberry teasing his lips. I swallow and he winks, acknowledging my reaction.

  When he bites into the chocolate, I have to steady myself on the table at the sight of his strong jaw and beautiful lips in action. Zachary closes his eyes as he chews, a smile lifting his cheeks once again.

  By the time he tosses the stem into the trash, I’m hot everywhere and glaring at him. He’s an evil man. And now he’s doing that thing where he smiles playfully and rests his teeth on his tongue.

  “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

  I really do try to hold back the laughter climbing up my throat, but the way he’s waiting for my reaction—he’s too good.

  “I think you should stick to football.”

  With a wink, I start to move past him. His hand, calloused and strong, catches mine, halting my steps. Everything seems to fall still except the beating of my heart, which is now thundering in my chest.

  “Where do you think you’re going? You owe me a dance.”

  Letting out a breath of air, I scold my heart for quickening its rhythm without the support of the rest of the band. It just takes off at its own pace like it thinks it’s earned a solo.

  “I don’t recall owing you anything. In fact, I think you’re the one who owes me for interrupting my meal.”

  “Your meal?”

  “Dessert,” I deadpan.

  “I hate to break it to you, but dessert isn’t a meal. It’s a snack that comes after dinner.”

  My mouth hangs open. Did he just call dess
ert a snack? My grandma’s probably rolling over in her grave right now. If she were here, she would set him straight.

  “Okay,” I say with a forced smile. “It’s obvious we’re not going to agree on this one, so I’m going to be the bigger person and let you change the subject.”

  Zachary’s eyes twinkle as he tugs on the hand he’s already holding. I should probably take that away from him…

  “Deal,” he says. “Since I owe you, I’ll do you the honor of dancing with you.” This time a full smile lights up his face, and his white, straight teeth practically blind me. “Don’t break my heart. Dance with me, Monica Stevens.”

  “Tell you what.” I start with a challenge, as if I really have to bargain with the man to give him what he wants. What I want. “You can stop addressing me by my full name. Then I’ll dance with you.” He starts to agree; I see his head lift in a half-nod when I realize I’m making this too easy on him. “Just one dance.”

  With a pinch of his lips, he tells me he wants to argue, but he won’t. Still, satisfaction relaxes the lines on his forehead once we fall into step on our way to the dance floor. He’s respectfully silent as he guides me, as if worried a single word could blow his entire game plan.

  His grip on my hand is impressive. Engulfing even—and I like it. For a fleeting moment, I imagine this is what Belle must feel like when she dances with the Beast. Small, yet important. Strong, yet vulnerable. Afraid, yet too proud to show it. And protected—not that I need protection. Though it should be noted that Zachary Ryan is a far cry from anything beastly, unless you’re referring to his physique.

  I glance down at the fingers threaded through mine, considering their magnitude. My friend Chloe has a theory about hands, one that I can’t seem to stop thinking about now…

  “What are you gawking at?”

  I look up and shake my head, feigning complete innocence. “Nothing.”