The Ground Beneath

  THE GROUND BENEATH

  Book One of the You and Me Series

  Stephanie Vercier

  The Ground Beneath

  Copyright © 2018 by Stephanie Vercier

  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.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Stephanie Vercier

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  HUNTER

  “So, what you’ve got here is a torn rotator cuff, Hunter,” Dr. Margoles says, tapping at the image on the computer screen.

  My stomach tightens. “That’s not good.” I’m understating just how not good it really is, but I’m not surprised the feeling of having my shoulder ripped away from my body during training isn’t something as simple as a muscle strain.

  “Agreed,” Dr. Margoles confirms, sliding his chair away from the computer. “I’d say we’re looking at surgery and six months of rehab to fix this.”

  “Six months,” I repeat, my stomach loosening only so that it can lurch. “You realize that basically ends my season, don’t you?” Of course he does. I’m hardly the first football player he’s treated or had to deliver bad news to. It’s all in a day’s work for him.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Hunter. It’s unfortunate, but if we want this thing to heal properly, it’s going to mean you sitting most of the season out.”

  “Well, that’s just fucking great,” I say, shaking my head at his confirmation and wishing I could punch a hole in the wall without looking like a complete ass.

  My eighth season quarterbacking for the Seattle Seahawks, and I’ll be spending it on the sidelines.

  Whatever Dr. Margoles says next, I basically zone out. I’d had high hopes for the team this year, thought we might go far, even Super Bowl far. Closing in on thirty and getting old for the game, I’m not sure how many seasons I have left in me, so losing out on playing with what could be a dream team sucks to epic proportions.

  But that’s not exactly what I’m thinking about as I leave Dr. Margoles’ office.

  No, what I’m thinking is, Who the hell am I if I don’t have football?

  Three weeks since Dr. Margoles’ diagnosis, and I’ve had surgery, put up with a sling for two weeks, had it taken off and then spent most of the last week feeling sorry for myself, holing up in my condo and trying to picture what my life will be like once my high-paying, high-profile football career is over. This life isn’t one I ever pictured for myself, but it’s the life I’ve managed to carve out, a life that makes me forget.

  “You’re late,” Sheila, my sports agent, tells me as I make my way into her office on some obscenely high floor in downtown Seattle. It’s one of my first ventures out of the condo in nearly a week.

  “Couldn’t be helped,” I say, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You should be glad I’m even here. Dr. Margoles says I should be resting.”

  She gives me a sideways look, but she can’t have expected me to be in a great mood.

  “Well, resting or not, I suppose you gracing me with your presence means you got around to shooing your latest conquest out of your condo?”

  “Because that’s all I do, right, play football and fuck women?”

  “If the shoe fits,” she says before quickly moving on. “Anyway, now that you’re here, I can tell you what we’re going to do to keep your image intact while you’re out of commission.”

  “Out of commission,” I repeat, the words making me sound like I’m ancient and ready for the scrap yard. “If this ends up being my last year, I sure as hell hope I’m going to get paid.”

  “Of course you’ll get paid. You’re under contract, Hunter. And there’s a possibility this thing will heal in time for you to play, but—”

  “But that’s not likely.”

  She pauses, tightens her lips, sits forward and clasps her hands together on her desk. “No, not likely. You’ll still be a part of the team, expected to be at all of the games and to give one-hundred-and-ten percent to your rehab—”

  “And?”

  With a raise of an eyebrow, she says, “Whenever you’re not doing something with the team, you’ll be volunteering in the community, an emissary. It’ll be a good public image for you.”

  “Fine,” I say, not especially fond of the idea, but at least it’ll give me something to do, a purpose. And as long as I have that, my mind is less likely to wander back to shitty childhood memories best kept packed in the back of my head.

  “Fine?” Her grin goes crooked. “I thought I’d be facing a little more pushback from you.”

  “Why?” I do my best to offer an amused chuckle. “You think I’m not capable of doing something good for my community?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, Hunter. It’s just that volunteering isn’t quite as sexy as quarterbacking. That could be a real detriment to the number of notches on your belt this season.”

  “You keeping track of my notches, Sheila?”

  She shakes her head. “Uh, that would be a no. I’m more concerned with your image, but I guess we can at least be thankful most of your hookups don’t do a lot of kissing and telling.”

  “That’s because I do my best to keep my private life… private.” Sometimes I think Sheila gets off on reminding me I’m some kind of male whore, because it’s not like I go around advertising the fact.

  “Sure, whatever. Anyway, the reason I called you in here is so that we can do a little video.”

  “A video?” It’s then I notice the camera equipment already set up in the corner of the room and a giant Seahawks flag meticulously hung across the wall that I’m assuming is for backdrop.

  She gets up and goes to the camera. “I’ve already got a nice speech loaded on the teleprompter. It’s going to be a message to your fans, letting them know that while you aren’t on the field, you’ll still be a part of this franchise, a part of Seattle.”

  “If I would have known that, I’d have made more of an effort with wardrobe.” As it is, I’m in jeans and a polo shirt, not what I’d call dressing up.

  “That’s exactly what I didn’t want you to do,” she says. “I want this to be authentic, like you were out walking through Pike Place or Discovery Park and just happen to run into a fan and explain—in your own words—what’s going on this season.”

  Begrudgingly, I laugh. I can’t help it. “In my own words?”

  She casts a glare my way. “I’m better at knowing the right things to say, and I’ve known
you long enough to have an inkling about what’s in your head.”

  Just for a second, there’s a sharp stab at my gut, a fear that she does know what’s really going on in my head. But she can’t. Even though Sheila Andrews is from a town five miles from the one I grew up in and has been my sports agent for eight years, the only version of Hunter Lawrence she knows is the one I’ve chosen to show her.

  But then I recover. I always do. “Okay, okay. Sure, whatever,” I say, standing up. “Where do you want me?”

  She keeps me on my feet, against the wall with the flag behind me while she moves the camera around to get the lighting and angles right. Then she sets up the teleprompter. This is hardly my first rodeo. I’ve done plenty of commercials and interviews and speeches, but I haven’t read this thing in advance, so I’m going to look stiff and fuck it up at least a few times.

  “You can go through once or twice for practice,” she says, reading my mind. “No rush.”

  I give her the assured smile I use for public appearances, then put my upturned hand out to her, as if to say, Let’s get this show on the road.

  We go through a couple of times, me messing up more than once, but by the third go round I’m starting to get it.

  “Let’s go again,” she says, pointing at me to start round four.

  “Hey guys,” I begin, staring into the camera. “Hunter Lawrence here. I just wanted to let you all in on—”

  A knock at the half open door makes me turn, then an, “Oh, sorry,” from the young woman who fills the space between the office and the hallway.

  And, well… damn.

  It takes a lot to knock me off my center, but my mouth falls half open as I stare at easily the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life. My assessment is no exaggeration because I’ve seen loads of beautiful girls—women—in my nearly thirty years. But this one—hell—I feel like I’ve just been tilted off my axis.

  “Is everything okay?” Sheila asks the young woman who’s in a tight dress that does nothing to hide smooth legs that go for miles, the fabric accentuating every curve of her beautiful body, heels that I’m surprised anyone could walk in and a face that could literally stop a man’s heart.

  “Yeah. I’m really sorry,” she says in a perfectly sweet feminine voice, the apologetic look in her brown eyes saying that’s true. “Just a couple questions, but I’ll ask you when you’re done here.”

  I’m not sure what Sheila says to her, if she says anything at all.

  It’s now that this stunner finally looks at me, her face turning the lightest shade of pink as she tilts her head in some kind of nonverbal apology.

  Don’t apologize—just stay.

  And then she’s gone.

  “Who was that?” I’m still staring at the now empty doorway when I ask, a miracle I can even make myself talk.

  Sheila walks in front of me, closes the door and raises both brows. “There will be none of that,” she says, her eyes practically drilling holes into me.

  “None of what?” I’m still dazed by the girl, her presence leaving some kind of after-image, a visible ghostly version of her.

  “You know damn well what. That brooding look of yours could get anyone to drop their panties, or boxers if you felt the urge to switch teams.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d been brooding. “So, I’m not even allowed to say I find a pretty girl attractive?”

  “Not when you’re the type of man who can’t even count the number of people they’ve slept with.”

  “Who says I don’t keep count?” If Sheila’s going to give me shit, then I’ll give it right back.

  “I’m not sure if that’s better of worse,” she says, behind the camera now. “I just don’t want you to make that girl your next mark.”

  My next mark. Jesus. That doesn’t even deserve a response.

  She presses a few buttons on the camera, then feels the need to say, “I’m just asking you to please keep this one out of your crosshairs. Can you do that?”

  “This one?” My curiosity piques. “You have some kind of special interest in her, Sheila?”

  She huffs out annoyance at me. “You can’t just stay away from her? You really need a reason?”

  If Sheila hadn’t made me out to be such a sexual deviant, I’d play nice, but she’s not going to get off that easily, not when I’m the one paying her salary. “It might help if the reason’s good enough, like, say, you calling dibs on her?”

  She steps away from the camera and gives me an I’ll murder you in your sleep look. “You know I’m happily married, you asshole, and I don’t cheat.”

  “Good for you. Exactly the reason I’m not married.”

  “Yeah, got it, Hunter. Now, can we just do the promo? I’d actually like to have lunch with my wife if you don’t mind.”

  I’m about to ask her why she’s being such a bitch today, but I put my hands up in mock surrender and say, “Just tell me all I need to know about this girl after we finish here, and you’ve got a deal.”

  She gives me another murderous look, but she knows she walked right into this. If she’d been a little easier on me and hadn’t made such a big fucking deal about needing to protect this girl, then maybe I wouldn’t be so insistent. But I’m glad when she says, “Okay… fine.”

  I manage to nail the promo after two more rounds. And even though the words on the teleprompter aren’t mine, I like them. They’re true enough. I do love this city and my fans. I’m thankful for the opportunities and the love and am genuinely disheartened I won’t be able to play for them on the field this season. I feel like I’m letting them, and my team, down, and while I’m not looking forward to this whole volunteering thing, it might make up for that.

  “I’d say I nailed it,” I tell Sheila.

  “I’m impressed. Even more so that you didn’t manage to slip in some ad lib sexual innuendo you seem to enjoy so much.”

  “Because I do that all the time,” I snap back at her continued ball busting. “Anyway, I came through with my part of the deal, so now it’s your turn.”

  She’s packing up her camera equipment and acting like she didn’t hear me.

  “Uh, Sheila, you remember who signs your paychecks, don’t you?”

  With a quick turn in my direction, she says, “And you remember that no other agent would be able to put up with you, right?”

  “That’s bullshit, Sheila, and you know it.” All an agent cares about is their cut, and I’m not anywhere near as difficult as she wants me to believe. But strangely enough, I like Sheila, even on days like this. Her coming from the same rural county I do should have actually been a hindrance to us working together, but somehow, she and I make a good team, and she’s a damn good agent.

  She stops what she’s doing, almost rolls her eyes, but of course she doesn’t. “Fine, Hunter, it’s bullshit. I’m just taking my aggression out on you today, okay? And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what I want to know.”

  “If I tell you, then I’m going to pray you stay the hell away from her.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and widen my eyes in response, nodding for her to continue.

  She shakes her head, then goes behind her desk, sits down and extends her hand like she wants me to do the same.

  “She’s my new assistant,” she says once I’m sitting across from her again. “Her name is Allison Briggs, and I’ll make it clear to you that she’s very young and very innocent, and the last thing she needs is to have someone like you exploit that.”

  “Someone like me. That almost hurts, Sheila.”

  “You know what I mean,” she says, waving the added insult away.

  “Exactly how young and innocent is this Allison Briggs?” I ask, deciding to make Sheila sweat for every one of the barbs she’s shot at me today.

  “Nineteen and… very. Any age with a teen still in it should be off limits to you.”

  She’s right. That is young. I don’t usually go after women any younger than twenty-fiv
e, generally sticking a hell of a lot closer to thirty.

  “She’s legal at least,” I say, deciding that if Sheila wants the shoe to fit me, then I might as well wear it for her.

  “She is off limits to you, Hunter,” she repeats. “I have a duty to her parents, and I’ve promised her that I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her.”

  There’s an emotion in Sheila I don’t often see. It’s usually all about business with her, and it gives me pause.

  “What’s her connection to you?” I’m genuinely curious.

  Her eyes widen, like she’s caught off guard, like she thought I’d drop it and she wouldn’t have to explain why she has a duty to Allison’s parents. “She’s a family friend, Hunter, and while it might not matter to you, she also happens to be married. She’s fragile, and you’d be hurting a lot of people if you went after her.” She lets out a sigh and eases back in her chair. “Is that enough reason for you?”

  “She’s married?” It’s strange, but the information feels like a punch to the gut, an irrational sense of loss for a girl—a woman—I don’t even know.

  “Yes,” she says quietly.

  “She’s kind of young for marriage, isn’t she?”

  “Not too young when the boy she was married to was just a couple years older.”

  “Was?”

  “What?” She stiffens again.

  “You said the boy she was married to, Sheila. Things didn’t work out?”

  She glares at me, not a word coming out of her mouth.