Fool Me Once (Bad Boy Romance) Read online

  Fool Me Once

  Lexy Parker

  Contents

  Find Lexy Parker

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Insider Group

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Find Lexy Parker

  Find Me HERE!

  Description

  In a split second, all of my dreams were shattered.

  There’s no place on the mound for a pitcher with a bum shoulder.

  Going back home was not in the plan, but it’s the best place to heal.

  And to lay low. Media coverage on my injury is the last thing I need.

  The pretty massage therapist I’ve found is a welcome surprise.

  In the busyness of trying to live two lives—one a small-town boy and the other a big-time sports hero—I’m lost.

  This woman steps up and shows me some things I forgot all about.

  Passion in the midst of love.

  Family, friends, and healing in ways I couldn’t imagine.

  Seems like the old me isn’t at all who I am. And the joke is on me.

  This new guy wants to change everything for love.

  Chapter 1

  Dayton

  The sun was shining bright in the beautiful city of San Francisco, the place I was calling home. I loved the West Coast. I loved the sun, the mild weather—and I couldn’t ignore the lovely beaches. I was a stone’s throw from some of the most beautiful beaches in the world and where there were beautiful beaches, there were beautiful women. Lots and lots of women. I didn’t consider myself a Lothario, but I did love a good game of cat and mouse, a little flirting and a lot of fun.

  “Ball!” the umpire yelled—or grunted, more like.

  I shook my head, watching another hitter take a walk to first base. If I was out there, he would have had to work a lot harder to get that. I got up, off the bench and wrapped my fingers through the fence protecting me and my other teammates from violent baseballs being hit our way.

  I adjusted the cap on my head, looking up at the stands behind me, riddled with lovely young ladies, all shouting my name. I grinned, showing off the perfect white smile I had paid a small fortune to get. It was all part of the total package. I wasn’t in the Major Leagues just to play baseball. Everyone knew a professional sports career wasn’t a long career. I had to secure marketing deals, make myself a household name like the rest of the successful athletes.

  My multi-million-dollar baseball deal was only a part of my end game. I wanted it all. I wanted to do endorsements and become a celebrity in my own right. That meant playing up the good looks I had been blessed with and turning on the Tennessee farm-boy charm that I was already using as my thing. It was working. I already had a pretty strong following.

  I put my hands up, leaning against the fence, one knee bent forward in the classic player pose. We all did it. It played to the fans. I was taller than most of the players, standing at six-five. I liked to think it gave me an advantage—I had a better view of the whole field. My height set me apart from the average player as well, something else that was very helpful in getting me in the spotlight.

  “Dayton!” I heard my name being called.

  I looked up, smiled and winked at the two blondes that had pushed their way down the stands, close to the bullpen. “How you are doing, beautiful?” I shouted over the noise behind them.

  The blonde with what had to be a DD-cup grinned. “I’d be doing a lot better if you came over here and gave me a kiss.”

  I pretended to think about it. “I’m playing a game, sugar,” I said, going heavy on the Southern drawl I didn’t really have.

  She put out her bottom lip. “I see you standing there. I don’t see you playing with any balls.”

  I laughed at her very open flirtation. “You shouldn’t be lookin’.”

  “I can’t look at anything else. You know those baseball pants were meant to tease,” she giggled.

  Women could be quite aggressive when they wanted to be. I didn’t mind too badly as long as there was a fence between me and them. I could play the part, but there was a part of me who preferred things a little more low key. I wasn’t sure I wanted to date a woman that had no real scruples about openly ogling a man’s junk when he was working, and I was working. Baseball was my job.

  “What are you going to be doing in about an hour?” I asked, giving her a little something to mull over.

  “I think I might be having a drink with you,” she cooed.

  I laughed, turning my attention to her friend. I couldn’t leave her out. “What about you?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Me?”

  “Well, hell yeah. I’m a young man. I’m an athlete. Trust me, both of you will be in very good hands.”

  They burst into laughter. I was about to tease and flirt, ask them to hook up later, when I heard the coach shouting my name.

  “Black! Black! Goddammit. Get your ass over here and pay attention!” he shouted.

  “Duty calls, ladies,” I said and waved goodbye.

  I turned around, jogging to the end of the bullpen where he was standing. “What’s up? Am I going in?” I asked eagerly.

  “Warm up. Keep your dick in your pants and focus on the game. If you want to start, you need to keep your head in the game. You should be watching him out there. He’s not rated one of the top pitchers in the league for nothing,” the coach lectured.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, moving over to the warm-up line.

  I didn’t say it, but I was hoping to take his place. He was one of the best, but his time in the game was coming to an end. It was time to make room for the next generation. That generation was me. I was ready to step onto the mound and make my mark on baseball history.

  I rotated my throwing arm, doing a few wide windmill exercises. I felt a little pinch in my right arm. I’d been busting ass all week, preparing for my shot at taking over the starting position.

  “Ready?” I asked the catcher waiting to warm up with me.

  “Let’s see if you’re all that like you seem to think you are,” he joked.

  I chuckled. “You know I am. You better make sure your shoes are tied tight. I’d hate for my pitch to knock you right out of them.”

  He scoffed. “Bullshit. Go.”

  I began throwing, warming up my shoulder. The sound of the ball slamming into the mitt of my teammate was satisfying. I knew I was throwing hard and true. The coach had been promising a starting role for the last couple of weeks. This was going to be my chance to prove I was ready. I knew I was, but the coach wasn’t sure.

  I heard my name being shouted again and looked into the stands. My lady friends had found a few more f
riends. They were shouting and waving. I looked their way, but never took my focus off what I was doing. Women were a fringe benefit. I hadn’t reached my goals. I would not be distracted.

  “Good one,” my coach said, walking toward me. “You ready to do this?”

  I grinned, adjusting my cap. “Damn straight. Let me wrap this up. I’m ready to strike that asshole out.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” Coach muttered.

  “Oh, it’s too late for that,” I said with a cheeky grin.

  He rolled his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get you in there.”

  I followed him onto the field, heading for the pitcher’s mound. The crowd, or at least the female portion of the crowd, erupted into cheers as I walked. I turned, waving a hand before stopping on the mound, the catcher meeting us out there. After a quick pep talk that mostly consisted of me being told to kick ass, the mound cleared, leaving me alone in my zone.

  I sized up the hitter, watched the catcher for his sign and gave a slight nod of my head, indicating I got his message loud and clear. I rotated the ball in my hand before turning, surveying the field and firing off a fast ball that had to have gone over a hundred miles per hour. Unfortunately, the force I used to lob the ball did something.

  I felt a pop in my arm, followed by searing pain that left my entire arm screaming. I tried to bend my fingers, but that just made the pain radiating up and down my arm and through my shoulder even worse. I looked up at the pitcher, then found the eyes of my coach. The pain was ridiculous, but I told myself I could work through it. The ball came my way. I used my left hand to catch it, taking the ball with my right, working my fingers over it. I closed my eyes, blocking out the pain before looking at the pitcher again. I moved my arm, attempting to rotate my shoulder and realized I couldn’t do it.

  I held up my hand, calling the coach to the mound. “What’s going on?” he asked, not hiding his irritation.

  “I’m not sure what happened. I think I threw out my shoulder or tore the tendon,” I admitted.

  “Shit,” he cursed.

  He turned, waving to the trainer to make his way out. After a series of moves and him feeling my arm, I was told to leave the mound.

  “I can do it,” I told him.

  “No, you can’t. We can’t risk you taking a minor injury and turning it into something much worse,” he said.

  I groaned, disappointment making me almost sick. “I’ll do better next time. I must have overworked my arm. I’ve been practicing a lot this last week.”

  “I warned you about that,” the coach grumbled, sending me into the locker room with the trainer.

  I looked into the stands, seeing the looks on the faces of the fans. I felt like I’d let them all down. I’d been boasting about how great I was, and I’d only managed one pitch before I shredded my arm. It was a rookie mistake. I knew better. I should have iced my arm last night instead of hanging out at the bar.

  I sat down on the table, very carefully pulling off my jersey and sitting shirtless while I waited for the doctor to show up. I’d had shoulder injuries in the past. I hoped this was nothing more than a pulled muscle. It felt different. It felt deep.

  “Good evening, Mr. Black,” the team doctor said, coming into the room.

  “It’s just a strain. I need to ice it and I’ll be right as rain in no time,” I said with a smile.

  “Let’s see about that. Benji here thinks it might be a rotator cuff injury,” he said, nodding to the trainer.

  The words were a death knell in a professional athlete’s career. I shot Benji a glare before turning back to the doctor, hoping he would have a differing opinion.

  “Lift your arm, straight out,” the doctor ordered.

  I grimaced, already knowing it was going to hurt like hell. I did my best, lifting my arm but only getting it halfway before I had to stop. “I can’t,” I confessed, sweat breaking out across my brow.

  “We’ll need an x-ray for now,” the doctor said, mumbling as he walked away.

  I waited, feeling the throbbing in my arm and hating every damn pulse. Benji returned and handed me an icepack. I put it on my shoulder and waited. It was a quick thirty minutes before I was x-rayed, and my arm put in a sling.

  “What does it look like?” I asked the doctor.

  He shook his head. “I’ve sent the scan to a radiologist. We should know soon.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  The doctor wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “I think it’s going to be a few weeks before you throw a ball again.”

  I groaned. “A few weeks? Can’t I do physical therapy?”

  “You will definitely need some PT, but if it is a torn tendon or other significant injury, I’m sorry, it could be the end of the season for you.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’m not going to think like that.”

  He patted me on the leg. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  I nodded, looking around the training room and mulling over my future. I had worked too long and too hard to lose everything on a single pitch. There was no way I was going out like that. The MLB was going to have to work a lot harder than that to get rid of me. I was still looking for that first endorsement deal and I wasn’t going to get it sitting in a bullpen.

  Chapter 2

  Evie

  I washed my hands in the employee bathroom of the massage therapy clinic I worked at. I stared at myself in the mirror, using the tip of my finger to wipe away the smudged mascara below my eyes. I was so glad we were well into spring. The winter had left me looking a little pale and I couldn’t wait to get out and enjoy the summer heat. I pulled my long blonde hair back with a scrunchie in preparation for the massage I was about to give. I hated getting my hair in the lotion.

  I walked into the room and smiled at the client already sitting in the massage chair. I did my best not to cringe at the sight of the very hairy back presented to me. It was part of the job. Few beautiful bodies were in need of massage, it seemed like. When I had signed up to become a massage therapist, I had envisioned massaging young, toned bodies. What I failed to realize is the people who generally came to therapists were those that were out of shape or older and feeling the footsteps of time marching right over their neck and back muscles.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Call,” I said in a bright, cheery voice.

  “Hi, Evie,” he said, not turning to look at me.

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked, picking up my lotion.

  The fifty-two-year-old man that could pass for a bear if he were to roam naked, groaned. “I’m so stiff. I called and made an emergency appointment. It’s your magic hands that get me through the week.”

  I smirked. “My magic hands are yours for the next hour.”

  I took a deep breath and sucked it up, putting my fingers into the mat of hair covering the man’s back. I was so glad he was facing away from me. I wasn’t sure I could control my facial expression as I slowly massaged the tension in his upper back before sliding my hands down, being careful not to get tangled up in the mess.

  “I heard about your mother. I never connected the names until I heard someone in the waiting area talking about it,” he said in a voice filled with pity.

  “It was a rough time, but she’s doing much better. We had excellent support from the community, which took a huge burden off our shoulders,” I told him.

  “I tell you, it can happen to anyone. Getting old is no fun. I hope you enjoy every minute of your youth,” he said on a sigh.

  I laughed. “I’m certainly trying to.”

  “How old are you, Evie, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked anyway.

  “I’m twenty-five,” I answered.

  He laughed, his back rippling. “Oh shoot, you have your whole life in front of you.”

  I guffawed. “My mom was only forty-eight. I don’t think any of us knows the definition of our whole life. For some, it might be twenty years, others get ninety.”

  “That’s a dark thought,” he replied. />
  “Sorry, Mr. Call. Staring down death has a funny way of making you face reality. Life isn’t a guarantee, no matter how healthy you are.”

  “That’s for sure. My own dear mother walked every day, ate right and she dropped dead of a heart attack with no warning at all,” he said.

  I nodded my head. He made my point. I finished working out his knots and waited while he dressed.

  “I’ll see you next week,” I told him with a friendly smile.

  He grinned. “You know you will.”

  After he left, I cleaned and sanitized the chair, tidying up my office as I liked to think of it before leaving for the day. One of the perks of my job was that my schedule tended to be very flexible. If I didn’t have a full day of clients, I was free to leave. Overall, I did like my job. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid well, and I didn’t have a pile of student loans sucking me dry.

  I left the building and headed to my mom’s house to check in on her. I knocked once before opening the door and heading inside. “Mom?”

  “In here,” she hollered from the kitchen.

  I sniffed. “Cookies?” I asked her, putting my hands on my hips and giving her a stern look.

  She smiled and nodded. “Yes, cookies. I want to take something over to the neighbors to thank them for all their help these past few weeks.”