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  Hard Fall

  Sara Ney

  Hard Fall

  Copyright © 2020 by Sara Ney

  Editing by Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie)

  Proofreading by Julia Griffis

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Casey Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or shared with other people. If you would like to share with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved.

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

  Contents

  1. Hollis

  2. Hollis

  3. Trace

  4. Hollis

  5. Trace

  6. Hollis

  7. Trace

  8. Hollis

  9. Trace

  10. Hollis

  11. Trace

  12. Hollis

  13. Trace

  14. Hollis

  15. Hollis

  16. Trace

  17. Hollis

  18. Trace

  19. Hollis

  20. Trace

  21. Hollis

  22. Trace

  23. Hollis

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at Hard Love releasing October 8! *Unedited and subject to change*

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Ney

  1

  Hollis

  “Thanks for lunch, Dad.” I lean over and give my father a kiss on the cheek. It’s tan from time out on the golf course.

  “I’m just glad I got to see you. You’re too busy for your old man these days.”

  Old man? Hardly. My father is the epitome of youth and vitality, thanks to a few plastic surgeries, fillers, and some strategically placed Botox. He and my mother—whom he divorced ten years ago—can barely move their faces, but who am I to judge?

  Dad smiles (or tries to).

  “Kiddo, want to walk me to my office?”

  I glance at the entrance to the baseball stadium, peering up at it through the window of my car—a college graduation gift—and inwardly groan. No, I actually don’t want to walk him inside; that will take another hour at least. I’ll have to say hello to every janitor, administrative assistant, lackey, coach, player, and staffer we walk past on the way to his office, located at the far ends of the earth, down the hall, and to the right.

  Ugh! “Yeah, sure—of course I have time.”

  No time, actually, but I cannot say no to my father.

  No, I do not want to risk the chance that I’ll bump into Marlon Daymon, first baseman and ex-boyfriend. Boyfriend? Eh, it’s a stretch to call him that, considering “dating” him was emotionally exhausting, played into all my insecurities, and made me feel like shit in the end. Conveniently always forgot his wallet. Took hours to reply to messages. Was always late. The last straw? When he “borrowed” my car and was photographed soliciting a prostitute, though who even noticed? Oh, just the tabloids and their millions and millions of readers, that’s who! Luckily, no one knew it was my car, so my name wasn’t dragged through the mud—but it could have been.

  Fortunately, Marlon is no longer my problem, no longer my boyfriend, and I have no desire to risk seeing him inside this building yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Dad unbuckles and slides out of my white SUV, motioning for security to come over and play valet while I gather up my purse, phone, and water bottle.

  Holding the skirt of my dress down as I slide out, too, trailing behind Dad. A few people are gathered outside the gates—as usual—hoping to glimpse or meet whichever players happen to come outside. Several of them have posters, one or two of them t-shirts. All of them are wearing huge grins when they see Dad coming toward them, his expensive gray suit gleaming in the sun.

  He shakes a few hands. Poses for a few photographs.

  Puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me through security when we’re finally inside and I set my purse, water, and phone on the conveyor belt for scanning. Grabbing it at the other end, I follow Dad across the main floor.

  We’re at the back of the building, the exact opposite side of the concessions, making our way toward the executive offices. The concrete beneath our feet has the sound of my heels clicking, echoing because the halls are virtually empty.

  It’s a Friday and the Chicago Steam has a bye week. They might have been in the building to practice, but they certainly won’t be here for a game, so anyone who happens to be here should be clerical, office staff only. Maybe.

  Here’s hoping.

  I cross my fingers behind my back, and we arrive at the glass corridor that houses Dad’s office. Glass, glass, and more glass. He pulls the door open and holds it for me.

  “Thanks, Daddy.” I call him that every so often, just to give the old man a thrill, like I’m a kid again and he’s actually taking care of me, though I’m an adult now, with a real grown-up job, paying my own grown-up bills—who just happens to enjoy a free lunch every now and again.

  Do you blame me!

  We’re greeted by anyone and everyone, mostly ass-kissers trying to remain on Dad’s good side, but little do they know, he doesn’t really have one. When his business blew up and the money followed, he became a real pompous windbag. When he worked his way through the ranks, and had pleased my grandfather enough, he was able to assume the position of general manager for the Chicago Steam, his ego inflated to epic proportions.

  Lucky for me, I don’t live off my father; therefore, I don’t have to kiss his ass like everyone else. Like my sister, Fiona, or my brother, Lucian—both trapped under Dad’s thumb, both at the mercy of his pocketbook.

  Not me.

  I’m not rich or wealthy by any means—not even close—but I get by just fine; I have my own little apartment, pay my own bills, work for anyone other than my parents.

  I step over the threshold and go to a plush seat opposite his desk. Plop down and glance around, then lean forward, fiddling with a metal paperweight on his desktop. Pull back one of the balls and watch it tick tick tick, back and forth like a pendulum.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “Hollis, would you please stop that.”

  There’s the Dad I know—now that we’re behind closed doors, his impatience is showing.

  “If you don’t want anyone touching it, why do you have it on your desk?” I can’t stop needling him; it is too easy.

  “That art piece was very expensive.”

  I tilt my head and twist my mouth. “Really? Because I swear they sell this same thing at Sharper Image for like, thirty bucks.”

  Dad’s face gets red. “Hollis Maxine.”

  I sigh, releasing the silver ball one more time then bringing the pendulum to a full stop as I roll my eyes. Dad is so uptight.

 
; He sits, already shuffling paperwork. Puts on a pair of reading glasses before glancing up at me. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  Ah. He invited me in and already wants to get rid of me. I served my purpose—handfuls of people saw him acting like a doting father—and he has no need for me now. Excuse me for sounding bitter, but my dad is an asshole.

  I hold back another eye roll and smooth down the fabric of my skirt. “Well, considering I had to take some paid time off to have lunch with you, I’ll probably head back to work.”

  Dad glances up. “That wouldn’t be an issue if you worked for the organization like your brother and sister.”

  Hard pass. “I’m good—but thanks.” I prefer to live my own life, not have everything lorded over me and used as emotional blackmail.

  He grunts. “What is it you do there, exactly?”

  I feel my nostrils flare and my spine stiffen. “I’m a junior editor for a publishing house.”

  We have been over this no less than a million times, and I’m not prone to exaggeration. What the heck does he think I do all day? I know he knows he isn’t paying my rent or buying the gas in my car. Yes, yes, it’s the car he bought me, but what was I supposed to do, refuse it? Only a fool wouldn’t take a free automobile—more money in the bank for moi.

  “What does junior mean?”

  “It means…” I pause to collect my thoughts. “I still don’t have a ton of my own clients and someone has to oversee what I’m doing, the books I’m selecting, but otherwise I get a lot of freedom to choose.” My answer is vague, but I know he isn’t listening—why bother with an actual explanation?

  He grunts again.

  It might not be as glamorous a job as he desired for me, but it’s respectable enough that he isn’t embarrassed to brag about me to his friends and colleagues, even though he has tried marrying me off to a few hideous offspring of said colleagues and friends.

  My mother, on the other hand? Couldn’t care less what I choose to do as a job or career, as long as I’m happy—which is one of the reasons she and Dad are divorced. They have glaringly different philosophies on childrearing, commitment to family, and marriage.

  She shouldn’t have married him to begin with. He’s the same person he was thirty years ago, and he’ll be the same until the day he dies.

  What does make me happy? Reading. Discovering new talent among writers. The editing part sucks sometimes. Often authors don’t want to listen to feedback—some of them get butthurt about suggestions or plot changes, or when things aren’t making sense—but overall? I love it.

  I watch him work for a few minutes, his head down. I gaze at his receding hairline, the thinning at the top, the wrinkles at his forehead. Stress and a bad attitude do that to a person, I muse, pressing my fingers to my own skin, kneading at my temples.

  No worries, no wrinkles.

  I smile and stand. “Well, Daddy-O, time for me to fly.” Crossing to his side of the desk, I plant a quick kiss to his cheek then ruffle his hair, to his irritation. “Will you be there for dinner this weekend?”

  After all, it is Father’s Day, but that’s no guarantee that the father in this family will be there, not if he has plans to work instead. No rest for the weary, he always used to say. Although, how weary can the man be when people wait on him hand and foot and he sits in an office making phone calls all day?

  Dad nods. “I should be.”

  Yeah, you should be, but you probably won’t.

  I zip my lips shut. Give him a little wave, whistling as I breeze out the doorway, exhaling when I hit the hallway.

  Hang a left. Find the elevator. Punch at a button and stare up at the wall, watching the numbers get smaller and smaller. Nine.

  Five.

  Two.

  Seconds later, I hear the ding, the telltale sign I’ve reached my destination, and step out onto a concrete floor without looking.

  Glance around.

  “Shit.” Wrong floor. Must have punched the incorrect button when I hopped in. No big deal.

  I give the up arrow a poke then stand back, staring at the metal doors to an elevator car that’s probably on its way back to the top floor, and I wait with a sigh.

  Tap my foot.

  Pull out my phone and—

  “You lost, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart?

  Gag.

  I pivot on my heel and spin around.

  It’s a player, of that I’m certain. Tall, broad shoulders. Cocky, arrogant. A smug tilt to his perfect mouth.

  Something Wilson? Walters? They call him…

  Let’s put it this way: I know this guy, kind of.

  I know of him—vaguely. I know every player on the team to some degree, by default. See, as the general manager, my father is essentially everyone’s boss. But before he took over, the GM was my grandfather, Thomas Westbrooke, Sr., who now owns the team.

  Ah, nothing like good old-fashioned nepotism.

  “Did you just call me sweetheart?” Man, I sure do wish I could remember this douchebag’s name so I could chew his ass out for that sexist, antiquated endearment.

  I’m definitely not sweet and I’m definitely not his sweetheart.

  * * *

  TRACE

  Her dress is prim. Proper.

  But when I saw her standing by the elevator, she was tugging uncomfortably at the straps and wiggling around in her shoes, so I bet a cool hundo she’s good and ready to get out of them.

  I could help her with both those problems.

  “Did you just call me sweetheart?” she asks again.

  “You look sweet to me, darlin’.”

  “Oh my god—gross.” She jabs at the up button, desperate to get away from me. Well too bad—I’m going up, too.

  “Calling someone sweetheart isn’t a crime.”

  “No, but you don’t know me, and I find it offensive and condescending.”

  “Let me take you out and make it up to you.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Lame.” I cough into my hand, stifling the word, but not well enough because she whips around and glares at me.

  “What did you just say to me?”

  “Nothing.” I snicker. Jesus, how easy is it to trigger this chick? Does she not like hearing nice things?

  The young woman rolls her blue eyes. “Honestly, when I was in grade school, the boys used to do that. They’d cough to cover up whatever idiotic thing they were saying, to pretend they hadn’t just said it. But that was back in sixth grade—although…” She gives me a once-over, starting at my feet and working her way up. “I’m not surprised to hear it coming from you.”

  “Ouch, I think.” Was that an insult? It’s hard to tell. She’s no longer looking at me—she’s staring at the elevator door, likely willing it to open and swallow her whole.

  The elevator arrives, doors open, and we both step in. “Looks like we’re both headed the same direction.” I move to the opposite side of the car, wanting to give her space; this woman definitely looks as if she wants to tap me in the nutsac and send me to the ground.

  “Hooray.” Her pink-tipped fingernail whirls through the air near her head, sarcastically.

  Wow. Okay, maybe not so sweet after all.

  “Hey…sorry I called you sweetheart. I didn’t realize you’re actually super salty.”

  This comment causes her brows to shoot up. “Just stop talking.”

  But I can’t. She’s too cute and I’m an attention whore; she’s ignoring me now which makes my verbal diarrhea worse.

  “I was kidding about the date.”

  “Well I wasn’t going on a date with you, so…” She shrugs, still not looking at me.

  “You’re not my type,” I blurt out.

  Her low chuckle says she doesn’t believe me.

  But she is my type—just because I don’t date women who look wholesome, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate women who are. Just so happens I can never get decent, respectable women to go out with me for long. />
  Party girls, yes. Club goers, yes. Gold diggers, yes.

  Classy working girls? Yeah, not so much.

  Tripp says it’s because I have a shitty reputation, and none of those women want to end up splashed across the tabloids, potentially having their careers ruined after being photographed with me. Which sucks, because at some point, I’d like to make my parents proud by producing Buzz Wallace, Jr., heir to the baseball legacy, fruit of my loins.

  My mother would fucking kill me if I brought home a career bottle girl from the club. One time, I dated a girl whose job it was to sell shots, and she spent her evenings with her tits out and glow sticks hanging around her neck—which is all fine and good, but not the type my mother wants popping out her grandbabies.

  This petite sadist screams good girl and respectability, although I’d bet the farm she has one helluva potty mouth.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I try again, laying on the charm.

  Another eye roll. “I didn’t throw it.”

  Cheeky.

  I like it.

  “What’s your name?” There. Try evading that.

  “I’m not telling you.”

  The elevator rises to its destination a short few moments later, dinging as the doors slide open, and we both step out on the parking level.

  She glares at me as I trail along. “Stop following me.”

  Pfft. “I’m not. I have to grab something from my car.” The lie would be more plausible if I had a set of keys in my hand or pocket, which I do not.

  “Whatever.” The wind kicks up, lifting the hem of her pretty, floral dress, tan legs exposed. Smooth. Lean. Great legs. “Stop checking me out, creep.”

  Creep? What the…