Jason (Ryan family Book 1)

  Jason

  by

  Ana Balen

  Self – Published by: Ana Balen

  Edited by: Sean Hurdle

  Cover design by: Veronique Poirier

  Formatted by: Sean Hurdle

  Zagreb, 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are strictly the product of the author or used fictitiously. Any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, events, setting or locations are entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Chapter One

  Jason

  Chapter Two

  Rory

  Chapter Three

  Rory

  Chapter Four

  Jason

  Chapter Five

  Rory

  Chapter Six

  Jason

  Chapter Seven

  Rory

  Chapter Eight

  Rory

  Chapter Nine

  Jason

  Chapter Ten

  Rory

  Chapter Eleven

  Rory

  Chapter Twelve

  Jason

  Epilogue

  Rory

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Also, by Ana Balen

  Chapter One

  Jason

  “Fuck,” I hissed through clenched teeth, barely able to squash down the urge to roar in agony.

  Even before my body hit the soft grass of the field, an excuciating pain radiated up my leg right to my stomach, threatening to bring back the salmon and veggies I had for lunch.

  It was bad.

  Really bad.

  Possibly career-ending bad.

  “Do. Not. Move,” I looked up at the coach hovering over me, everything was hazy.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  I didn’t say the words. I knew if I let them slip out, the club would slap me with a fine that would have even the toughest of men weeping like a schoolgirl after some punk kid pulled on her pigtails. What was worse, I would end up benched for the rest of the season. And that simply was not acceptable.

  One thing that was absolutely forbidden as a Denver Thunders player was to mouth off to our coach. The coach wasn't the only man who had his hand firmly squeezed around all our balls. We had to do every single thing he said, and he was considered our God. He was that good. And he deserved respect. Not only because he had our careers in his hands, but he also had the power to take it all away just by putting you on the bench. He also knew what he was doing. The man was the proud owner of eight fucking Super Bowl rings, and was supposed to help me get my first one.

  First of many.

  I was determined to give my all to bring glory to my team and maybe retire as the record-holding Quarterback in the history of Super Bowl rings. So yeah, fuck yeah, I squashed the words down my throat and bit my tongue for good measure.

  “Get him off the field. We need to find out how big this fuck-up is.”

  I knew it was big. How big, was still yet to be determined. I couldn’t grasp the fact of how the hell my foot stayed in place as my entire body turned to the right. Dylan pushed my shoulder down, preventing me from rolling over onto my side and trying to curl up into a protective ball. My leg was twisted in a way I couldn’t comprehend. I was always careful running drills during practice, always on alert not to get into this kind of situation.

  “The rest of you, start over, and I want to see real players and not little fucking girls jumping rope. This is not preschool, ladies,” the coach roared, and unfortunately for me, blew his whistle just as he bent back down to hover over me...and that meant, right into my fucking ear.

  Fucking perfect.

  *~*~*

  “What’s the verdict, Doc?” I sighed the moment the door opened and a grim-faced man entered the room.

  I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer since the doctor’s face stayed grim. I was ready to get out of this hospital room and head home.

  After the assistant coach sprayed my ankle with something that made my joint and calf almost freeze over, the coach called an ambulance. Not even fifteen minutes later, I was transported to the hospital that took care of all the Denver Thunders players. When the doors of the ambulance opened, I could see the doctors running toward it, obviously, they stood there waiting for us at the entrance bay. They put me on this bed after an MRI, and the doctors right along with my coach went to pour over my scans, leaving me here alone for almost two hours. Alone, wondering what will happen, and not knowing if I would ever get the chance to go back to what I was meant to do.

  Play football.

  The only thing that made it better was the fact that the pain has subsided, but the swelling started to make my skin feel like it was going to split open at any second.

  “You were lucky, Mr. Harris. The damage could be a lot worse; it’s practically a miracle that all your ligaments and tendons weren’t torn, I suspect it’s only thanks to your excessive training and following our recommendations of eating right, taking all your vitamins, and not indulging in, let’s say…unprofessional behavior, that this didn’t become much worse,” the doc started off by lecturing me.

  I didn’t need a lecture. I knew I was one slip from a fuck-up, so when doctors and trainers talked, I listened. I needed to know how extensive the damage was. And when I could go back to playing.

  “Just say it,” I demanded. I wanted to get out of there. There were reporters waiting for me to come out of the locker room, and I knew they were following the ambulance. I didn't have the patience to deal with them.

  “Five weeks wearing the boot and at least six weeks of physical therapy,” the doctor rattled off like it was nothing.

  Fuck.

  It was August.

  With almost three months of recovery, it would mean I was out for almost the entire season. That is if the Denver Thunders made it to playoffs.

  “Is there any way to get my man here back on the field sooner?” Curt, my manager asked.

  Not even half an hour after I called him, he came barreling into the room, shouting at the nurses to get out of his way. I didn’t want to, but he was the only person besides my teammates who could give me a ride home. I would be touched by his display of concern if the man wasn’t all about the money I provided him. As he approached the bed, barely sparing me a glance, his beady eyes swept my body on their downward trajectory, and then fixated on my leg. There they stayed for the last fifteen minutes before the doctor came in.

  “Ah, we could try with some cortisone shots, but I don’t recommend that. Especially while playing.”

  “And why’s that?” I asked, feeling my heart start beating faster, almost as if seeing the light at the end of the tunnel after all.

  “Because you’ll feel like you have full mobility and probably ignore our recommendations, which could end in a severe injury,” the doctor simply shrugged his shoulders, familiar with the players’ reactions and their lack of following doctors’ recommendations.

  “What if I promise to listen and follow your rules? I asked, since I couldn’t let the opportunity for an earlier comeback slip through my fingers.

  “Then I would have you come in every three days starting next week to have your shots, and we’ll continue doing them through your physical therapy and slowly wind them down, both in frequency and the dosage,” the doctor looked at me, not even
blinking throughout his speech, daring me, assessing my reaction. “If you follow our every word, you should be back in the game two weeks earlier.”

  “Only two weeks?” the asshole standing next to my bed exploded. “He needs to be back in three weeks, ready to start the season.”

  “Done,” I said, not looking away from the doctor.

  I wanted, needed him to know I was dead serious. I also didn’t want to give my manager the chance to do anything stupid, like suggesting to go find a different doctor, who would no doubt make things worse.

  Not wanting to be shoved in a corner like a disobedient child, Curt growled, “We’re going to need the best physical therapist there is.”

  The doctor looked to Curt, smiled a little, and after shaking his head, muttered, “Of course.”

  *~*~*

  “I should come to Denver. You need someone to take care of you,” my mother said into my ear, not really hiding the fact that she was crying.

  “Mom, you don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine,” I murmured in a soft tone, trying to get her to stop overreacting and keep her from doing something foolish.

  Please God, stop her from getting some wild idea like jumping on a plane in the middle of the night to come here to fuss over me. Once she has it in her head, there's no way for anyone to stop her...not even Dad.

  I loved my parents, especially my mom. God knows I did. But with the constant calls from her just to check how I was doing, or to hear my voice, or to tell me the latest thing my dad did, was driving me out of my mind. The last thing I needed was for her to come here and turn my place upside down, as it wouldn’t meet her standards of what my home should look like. Every time she came to Denver for a visit, the moment she stepped over the threshold of my home, she would start to decorate it. I lost count of how many frou-frou bowls and toss pillows or the like I stuffed in the cubby that was my basement. She always complained it looked too manly and that it needed a woman’s touch. It was only the fact that she did it all out of love for me and that I secretly enjoyed it, granted, not to that extent, that prevented me from being a total dick and demanding for her to stop. Also, I loved my mom and was confident enough in my manhood to admit I was indeed a mama’s boy. To my mother’s utter despair, I had no plans of finding the right girl and settling down.

  Not right now.

  Not when I finally had all I worked hard for most of my life for, minus the current situation. Though, I was confident it was just another bump in the road.

  I’d make damn sure it was, and I wasn’t going to fuck it all up by finding some god-awful woman whose entire life dream was to find an athlete and live her life spending his money and cutting his balls off, like most of my teammates did. Because many of my teammates ended up with such women, during away games, they ventured around the town to seek out an easy lay, just to feel something other than the frustration their wives constant nagging brought on. I did find a woman every now and then, but I was upfront. A no strings attached fuck that wouldn't lead to the altar.

  “Are you sure?” my mom asked through another sniff, no doubt trying to get me to cave.

  “Yes,” I said firmly, so there wouldn’t be any doubt.

  “Jason…” she tried to say, probably get me to see her side on a long-suffering sigh, but I couldn’t hear her words.

  The sight that greeted me as I exited my bedroom made me stop listening and get a quick hold on the rage that started to boil. I kept my eyes fixed on the carpet until I calmed down just a little. Otherwise, I would strangle Curt, who was casually leaning against the kitchen counter.

  Every available surface in the room was covered in beer bottles, pizza boxes, and condom wrappers.

  “Listen, Mom, I have to go,” I cut her off from whatever she was saying.

  “Oh, that’s right! You’re meeting with your physical therapist today.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, turned and sent a death glare to the man who completely ignored my warning signs, but was inspecting my fruit that was on the counter near him with mild interest.

  “Call me after and tell me what his recovery plans are for you,” she demanded in her mom voice, the one you don’t ignore.

  “I will, Mom,” I lied. There was no way in hell I was going through another conversation like this today.

  After saying goodbye, I tossed the phone to my right onto the TV stand and limped my way over to the coffee table to start the cleaning process. I hated this plastic thing I had to constantly wear, the showers were a bitch. Granted, it didn’t itch like it would if I had a cast and it did serve its purpose, not to mention, reduced the need to depend on crutches. Thankfully, after four weeks of wearing the damned thing, it was finally time to take it off. I couldn’t fucking wait.

  “Had a good time last night?” I asked the ass who just stood there and didn’t move a muscle to help me.

  I didn’t look up from picking up the garbage that was all over the place. I was scared I would lose my fucking mind if I saw the smirk on Curts face one more time. How the fuck had they managed to make such a mess?

  When Dylan, Matthew, Logan, and Jimmy showed up at my door, each holding a six-pack, I knew I was in for a long haul last night. When Curt came with girls trailing into my living room, I’d had enough. I told them it was time to wrap things up and go find some other place to continue with the party. I was tired, and in pain. As I closed the door of my bedroom, I was aware they’d ignored me, but I wasn’t willing to do anything about it. I just had one thing on my mind, to lie down, because the shot of cortisone was wearing off, and my ankle was throbbing. They all frequently made fun of me for living in a house and not in some mansion, but they sure liked to spend time here and bring their latest hook-ups. It was a tactic that worked well for them since none of the girls found out where they lived, and they had no way of finding out. It was the reason I had a lock on my bedroom door. It was also the reason I, at least twice a week, had to call the cops to escort women away who were camping outside, waiting for the moment my teammates would show up.

  This shit had to stop.

  I was getting tired of the boys hanging at my house almost every night. After living in Denver for almost a year, I knew it was high time to go out and meet some new people. The only problem with that, all I did was play football or go to practice. And every now and then, the guys were fun to hang with. I loved my place, usually. It wasn’t too big and I could take care of it myself. I also knew what NFL stood for...Not For Long...so I had my money safely tucked away in a savings account for when the moment came I needed to retire, I would be able to do it comfortably and not freak out without a plan. I would have the luxury of taking my time of figuring out what I wanted to do with my life without the fear of not having an income hanging over my head, and the main reason why I still put up with Curt, the man was one of the best in his business. I was aware that he was the one who got me the deal with Thunders, not only my ability on the field.

  “Yep,” Curt said, popping the P. “You should have stayed with us and not gone to bed like a ten-year-old when the clock struck ten-thirty.”

  “You know my schedule. You also know there’s nothing more important to me than to get back in the game. You further know I don’t want any partying in my home,” I once again reminded Curt.

  My jaw was clenched so tight, my teeth hurt. It was alarming how frequently Curt asked me to go out to the clubs and find some easy girls for the night. One would think, being my manager and all, he would be first in line to get me to live a life of sacrifice required of a professional athlete.

  “Oh, relax, Jason.” He waved me off like it was no big deal. “We just had a few beers and a good time. It wasn’t as if we trashed the place.”

  It wasn’t like they trashed the place?

  I kept my mouth shut; I only looked around then back to my manager and cocked a brow at him. At least the man had the decency to swallow hard and turn around to help throw out the trash from the mess they made last night. I was just hauling the l
ast of the trash bags away when there was a knock at the door.

  I could hear Curt open the door, then chuckle as he said in a patronizing tone, “Sorry, sweetheart, whoever you’re looking for, he’s not here.”

  Before he could close the door on the poor girl looking to find her athlete and promptly start planning the wedding, a throaty voice said, “Ummm… I’m looking for Jason Harris. The hospital gave me this address. I’m Rory Ryan, his physical therapist.”

  Standing in the kitchen, I could see the stunned look on Curt’s face and a small hand reaching in, trying to shake the asshole’s hand. Limping as fast as I could, I hurried to get to the door. I fully planned on slapping Curt on the back of his head to get him to stop gawking at whoever was standing in front of him and let my therapist in. My plan came to a halt when the sight that had Curt transfixed met my eyes. There, in the bright Denver sun, stood a tiny woman with honey-blonde hair that barely reached her shoulders. A pouty mouth that had the most perfect Cupid’s bow I have ever seen, and big hazel eyes that kept shifting nervously between the two of us. Pulling back her arm, she shook her head and licked those perfect lips. I was dying to know if nectar would leak out if I bit them.