Page 30 of Rushing Into Love

“Thanks. Next time, feel free to give me a heads up,” I said with chagrin.

“Ryder looks hot, though. Maybe he’ll want to come to LA, for the interview,” she said, sounding hopeful.

“Somehow, I doubt it. Let me go and try to head this off before it turns into something bigger than it should. I’m losing credibility by the second.”

“Ok. Keep me posted.”

I hung up, a sick feeling of dread in my stomach. Ryder had just warned me he didn’t play games and was a private person—for a very solid reason—and then, like, twenty seconds later, we were all over the LA papers.

Something told me this was not going to be good.

8

Ryder

Sundays in the McCauliffe household were for church, family, and of course, football.

Quinn and I had been raised attending Peachtree Grove Presbyterian Church every single week, rain or shine. After church, we’d have a big family dinner, then football. Playing it, watching it, talking about it.

When I’d been in the League, my family had modified their routine, foregoing the traditional church service and family dinner, to come see me play in stadiums all across the country. My parents attended every single game and Quinn came when he could.

Now that I was retired, we were back to the standard custom of church, dinner, and football, mainly in the backyard. Occasionally we’d go into the city to catch a Falcons game, but for the most part, we just watched on TV, like the rest of America.

I can’t say I didn’t miss it, though. Suiting up for the game, adrenaline pumping through my system, amping me up. Putting that helmet on, walking onto the field, the cheers of the crowd. All the fans, signing autographs after the game, the absolute euphoria clutching me after a win. There was truly nothing like it.

My life was a lot simpler now. Not bad, just less exciting. Sometimes less exciting wasn’t the worst thing, though. Shayna had been exciting, and look howthathad turned out. I’d come around to the mindset that exciting was overrated.

Which is why the phone call from my agent at eight AM really pissed me off.

“Ryder, buddy, how are you?” Matt Stergent, my long-time agent and friend, greeted me.

I didn’t have any outstanding deals right now and it had been a while since he’d called. I was immediately suspicious. “I’m good, man, fine. What’s up?”

“Has anyone from the press contacted you for a statement?”

“A statement? About what?” I asked, definitely confused now. “What’s going on?”

“Check the email I just sent you.”

“Okay.”

Walking over to the extra bedroom that functioned as both office and guest room, I fired up my laptop. I scrolled through my email, clicked on the message from Matt, and quickly skimmed a brief article from theLA Gazette:

Dating Expert Leveling Up: Cheating on Superstar Pax Jones with Former NFL Pro Ryder McCauliffe

“What the hell?” My jaw clenched in anger. “How did they get these pictures? And this information? I’ve flown under the radar for years!” I slammed my fist hard on the desk.

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “You’ve done a great job keeping a low-profile since the divorce.”

“Until now,” I said grimly, raking my fingers through my hair. “This is going to be a nightmare.” I’d already skipped ahead to the worst-case scenario: Shayna using this to try to get visitation rights, or worse, partial custody.

“Don’t panic, Ryder,” Matt said in a steady voice, trying to calm me. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re allowed to date, even if you have a kid.”

“Yeah, but this article doesn’t exactly make me look real good,” I said. “Plus, now the entire world knows I’m back in Peachtree Grove. I don’t need paparazzi hanging around, especially with Charlie.” I walked to the window and peered out the blinds, checking for anything suspicious. Nothing questionable out there, but I hadn’t noticed anything yesterday, either.

“I get it. But the damage is done. Someone somewhere got hold of the story, and now there will be repercussions. So you better fill me in on all the details right now so I’m prepared,” he said, all business.

Exhaling hard, I paced the room, clenching and unclenching my fists. I was so angry right now: at the paparazzi, at the press, at Bree. She’d told me she was single. If I’d known she had a boyfriend—even worse, a famous boyfriend—I never would have pursued the relationship. I’d spent the last few years trying to hide from fame, live a normal life, and now this was going to blow it all up.Damn it!

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