Wildcard: Volume Three

***

The fucking press are everywhere. I manage to avoid them outside my house by going out the back exit, but at the stadium it’s a different story. The practice court is packed full of spectators and paparazzi.

“This is how you prepare me for the biggest match of my life?” Cally screeches, stamping her foot. “You just can’t stay out of the spotlight, can you?”

I grit my teeth. Like every other person in London, she’s obviously read the article.

“Suck it up, princess,” I reply, tossing her a racket.

Her eyes widen in shock.

“You’re up against a seeded player tomorrow. If anything, you should be thanking me for this crowd,” I growl.

Her mouth open and closes, but no words come out. Shaking her head, she storms out onto the court and begins hitting her shots.

“Does all this have anything to do with the little favour you asked of me?”

I cringe. Jim. Turning around, I brace myself for the wrath I’m sure is coming. To top it all off, he would’ve just heard me go off at his daughter too.

“Jim—”

“We’ll talk about this later, okay?” he says. He walks past me, patting me on the back. “Focus on my daughter for no

w.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Scarlett

I’ve spent the entire morning hovering over the toilet bowl, heaving my guts up.

Morning sickness is the worst. The funny thing is, I never got it with Jake. It’s like the world is punishing me by hitting me double.

Or maybe Ryder just has super-powerful sperm.

I groan and close my eyes, leaning my head against my arm. How am I going to tell him? My plan was to pretend I was fine, but it’s going to be hard to do that when I can’t stray from the toilet for more than five fucking seconds.

My phone rings and I answer, expecting Ryder. Only it’s not.

“Ms. Calera?”

I swallow and lean over the toilet bowl again, ready to heave.

“Yes?”

“This is Detective Reynolds from the Boston police department. Do you know a Tony Larezzi?” he asks.

“Yes. He’s my son’s father.” I’m losing the plot. I can’t handle this now. Tears spring in my eyes as I desperately try and figure a way out of this.

“You were in contact with Tony in the days before his assault. Are you aware that he’s in an unresponsive coma?”

A coma? Oh my god. This is it. It’s over. I’ve killed him. He’s going to die and it’s all my fault.

“I had no idea,” I answer, my voice shaking. “Tony was in contact with me, but only to threaten me, as you probably gathered from the messages.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” he asks.

“Um, T-Tuesday, two weeks ago. He threatened me at my hotel.”