Wildcard: Volume One

“You again?” She laughs. “You didn’t get the hint yesterday?” Is it just me, or does she sound pleased to hear from me?

“I’m not known for my ability to pick up on hints. You’d know that if you read the papers.” I chuckle. “Are you going to let me speak to Jake today?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll just have to speak to you, then.”

“What if I don’t want to speak to you?” she asks.

“You haven’t hung up yet. If you really didn’t want to speak to me, then you would’ve hung up as soon as you realized who it was. But you didn’t.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs. “We’ve been talking for two seconds. I’ve barely had time to process all of this.”

“Which means on some subconscious level you are glad that I called again.”

“Oh my God, you’re such an ass.” She laughs. “I’d think you were kidding, but I know what you’re like.”

“That’s right.” I chuckle. “I forgot. You’re a woman who believes everything she reads.”

“So you’re telling me it’s all wrong? Poor Ryder Stevens, always painted in a bad light. It’s never your fault, is it?” she teases.

I laugh and run my hand through my hair. It’s not lost on me that talking to a stranger is the happiest I’ve felt since my injury. “I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that the media like to misconstrue things to make a story bigger.”

“So you didn’t fall out of a hot tub full of naked women and break your tailbone?” I pause, and she laughs again. “Uh-huh. That right there was the only response I needed.”

“So I’m clumsy,” I protest. “Is that any reason to persecute me?”

“I’m not blaming you. You are who you are. You can’t help it that you have more money than sense, or that you don’t take your tennis very seriously. I mean, if you did, you wouldn’t have been partying the night before a grand slam final. Just like I can’t change the fact that I’m a single mother who works full-time, studies, and looks after a sick seven-year-old.”

“Wow,” I mutter. “Way to make me feel bad. So what’s wrong with him?” I ask. “He said in his letter he was sick, but he didn’t elaborate.”

“Cystic fibrosis,” she replies softly. “Do you know what that is?”

“I know it’s a lung condition.” I also knew it often required a transplant, and sometimes resulted in death, but I didn’t add that.

“It’s where his lungs produce too much mucous, making it difficult for him to breathe. That’s why he wrote you that letter. He would love to be able to play tennis, or play football with his friends, but he can’t. He gets angry when he sees people wasting their lives.”

And just like that, I feel about two inches tall.

“Wow, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“Don’t be,” she replies. “I mean, it’s not your problem, right?”

“I’m sorry if I came across as rude,” I say. And I mean it. “I’ve spent the last week lying here doing absolutely nothing but thinking about the letter your son wrote me. I really did only want to speak to him. I wanted him to know I wasn’t the shallow, egotistical womanizer that I’m made out to be—well, not completely.”

She laughs and lets out a groan.

I can just imagine her sitting there, shaking her head.

“Ryder, when was the last time you did something for someone else?”

“What?” I ask, confused. What did that have to do with anything? I lived alone, and spent most of my time on the road. In my world, eve

rything was about me.

“Answer.” She encourages me. “I bet you can’t even remember. Am I right?”

“When was the last time you did something truly selfish? As in, completely for yourself?” I fire back. “I bet you can’t even remember.” I mimic her tone.