A Pact With A Player

Chapter 1 - Meet Ryder

Ryder's POV

It’s Christmas morning, and the five-year old is so excited staring at all of the presents under the tree that Santa had bought him. He must have been a very good boy. His mom and dad were sitting on the couch together holding hands smiling down at him as he tore off the wrapping paper off gift after gift until he reached the last one, the wrapping paper tearing away to reveal an orange ball, his eyes going wide as he stroked the leather, it was exactly what he had asked Santa for when he had seen him earlier this year. He looked up at his mother with the biggest smile on her face. She had been spending a lot of time in bed lately. Daddy said she needed to rest, but she promised that she wouldn’t miss Christmas with him. She spent the whole day outside with him watching him practice bouncing the ball on their back porch.

Fast forward a few months later, and he is clutching that same ball, sitting in the lounge room at his home in a silly outfit with a tie that made him feel uncomfortable, watching everyone around him sniff into tissues and wipe their eyes. Many of them continuously hugging him and his father, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that his mommy had to go away. She was sleeping in the clouds now. His daddy told him he wouldn’t get to see her for a long time. He missed his mommy. The looks everyone kept giving him made him uncomfortable, so he walked outside and started bouncing his ball on the patio like he did every day. His mom said that to be good at something, you had to practice all the time. Maybe if he got good enough, she would come back.

After that day, the boy promised himself that he would practice every day, as much as possible, and he did. By the time he entered his schooling years, it was his happy place. He went to the courts every time he wanted to escape, like when he was having a bad day or when his dad married that horrible woman that he had been seeing when he was ten, and he was good. He begged and begged his dad to let him play on a team, and his dad finally relented. He loved playing with a real team.

As he grew in age and height, so did his skill, and he was the only freshman that made the varsity basketball team. By the time he was a junior, he was the captain and was attracting all the college scouts, and in his senior year, he accepted a full-ride from UCLA. Nothing could stop him as he dominated game after game through his four years, and by the time he graduated, his dreams of going pro were a reality, and he was drafted. Basketball was the one constant in his life. The one thing that never let him down.

Present Day

The was nothing better than spending the entire night in a penthouse suite at one of the most expensive hotels in the city, playing poker until the wee hours of the morning. There were ten of us to begin, all with more money than sense, but as the night wore on, people started leaving or passing out from exhaustion on any surface that they could find, including my date of the night. I was glad I was winning, or it would make the thought of knowing I wasn't getting laid tonight that much more depressing. Now that she was snoring like a trucker and drooling on the cushion on the couch, it made her much less appealing to me than when I picked her up last night.

I sipped my bourbon, swirling the ice around in the glass while our dealer that had been hired for the night dealt the cards for the next round. Glancing around the table, I had four more opponents to knock out of the game. One was my teammates Michael Hayes. Then there was an older gentleman, an investment banker who was one game away from losing his shirt, an actor from a TV show that I had never watched in my life and a sports agent from the agency that represented me. Not sure how the investment banker made it into the mix, but he was almost making it too easy to take his money, so he was more than welcome.

After the first round of betting, the dealer turned over the flop cards. I already had three of a kind between those cards and the two cards in my hand. Tonight was definitely my lucky night. So in the next round of betting I raised, there were several ways to win the game, so I was happy to up the ante. Next came the turn, and whilst that card didn't help me, it knocked two of the four other plays out of the game, and when it was my turn to bet, I was happy to raise again.

Finally, the river card was turned, and I had gotten what I need, and now held four of a kind. That round knocked everyone out except the investment banker and me. He seemed confident, but he had seemed that way the entire night. It was like he couldn't fold, no matter how bad a hand he had.

I stated at him, rolling a poker chip between my fingers, "You sure you don't want to quit while you're behind? There is no shame in walking away."

"Just bet already." He growled, "Unless you have nothing in your hand?"

I smirked, knowing that I could still screw him over and pushed all of my chips into the center of the table, "All in."

His face turned white as a sheet as he looked down at his chips as he realised something I already knew. I could actually win two ways now. He didn't have enough chips to match my bet, which automatically meant I won, or he could counter my bet, and the cards could go in my favor, meaning I would still win.

I stared him down as he looked at me, then to his cards and then back at me. I knew this was killing him. He didn't hide his tells too well, unlike me, which is why I was so far in front tonight. "So, what's it going to be?"

I watched as he pulled out a pen and jotted something on a napkin, and tossed it over to me, "That will more than cover the bet."

I glanced down, and he had written down an address in Venice Beach confirming that the property was mine if I won. Properties in Venice were expensive. Even if the house itself wasn't that crash hot, the value was in the land itself. It if was someones first time at one of these games, they may have asked more questions, requested proof that the property was his, but the one thing I knew about these games in all the time I had attended was that you never welched on a bet. If you did, not only would you never see the inside of another one of these games again, you would probably spend a significant time in hospital once the game runners got through with you.

I threw the napkin on the pile of chips, "Alright, show me what you got."

He smiled, turning over his two cards, and when I examined the cards on the table, he had a fair hand, a flush.

Sighing, I peeked at my cards, sitting back in my chair and signing, "That’s a good hand, man.”

The guy chuckled, proceeding to start pulling the chips towards him like all his Christmas’ had come at once, “Maybe you’ll get me next time.”

Laughing, I placed my hand over his to halt his premature celebrations and turned over my cards showing him that my hand beat his, “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”

He stood up so fast that his chair tipped over, his hands grabbing and pulling at his hair, “no….no…. no… oh god, what have I done?”

I pulled the chips and napkin towards me as I grinned from ear to ear, “Better luck next time, Mr Marshall.”

The man lunged forward, putting his hand on top of mine to stop me, his eyes wild, “One more hand, double or nothing?”

“Learn to quit when you’re behind,” I advised while pushing his hand away. “You’ve got nothing left to go double or nothing.”

“No, no, no.” He muttered to himself, pacing the room. “Please, I beg you, I will find another way to get you the money. My mother is the other owner and lives there. I can’t let you sell her house.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Sorry, but all bets are final. You know the rules. There are no IOUs, and you shouldn’t have bet the house if you couldn’t afford to lose it. Don’t worry, I’ll only take what I am owed. She will get the rest.”

His face twisted in rage, and I know how insensitive I sounded, but those were the rules every person who signed up for one of these games agreed to. The people who ran the game would not let me leave without the money I was owed, and if I tried to work out some side deal with him, I would be banned from these games for life, and I liked them too much to risk that. I didn’t come often, but when I did, the adrenaline rush I got from the possibility of losing was sometimes just as good as the thrill I got from winning.

The man lost his s**t to the point where he had to be escorted out while I got my winnings and settled my bill with the host. They got a portion of the winnings that everyone walked away with, and tonight they were raking it in from me. By the time I was done cashing out, the sun was starting to peak out over the horizon, and I was still wide awake.

I woke up my date, who had now had a refreshing nap and, much to my surprise, was now ready to continue the party at her house. Who was I to say no? She was gorgeous, tall, legs for days and a body to die for, no personality, but this was just a bit of fun so I could live with that.

I had lived in Los Angeles my entire life, with amazing weather, gorgeous beaches and minimal traffic on the freeways at this time of the morning, which was the perfect time to test out my new convertibles engine, and boy was it fast. I tried to keep my attention on the roads while weaving through what little traffic there was, painfully aware that my date's hand was creeping dangerously high up my leg. If she wasn’t distracting me, maybe, just maybe, I would have seen the cop car in time to slow down in time so that I wouldn’t have been pulled over and maybe whilst giving me a ticket, the cop wouldn’t have been inspecting the car and wouldn’t have been the little baggies of white powder on the floor of the vehicle that must have fallen out of my date’s bag. I’m not making excuses. I didn’t do drugs, my job regularly did drug screenings, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise my job. I loved it too much.

Unfortunately for me, my date wouldn’t cope to owning the drugs, so I was pulled out of my car and arrested along with her until they could sort things out. The problem was that I was the car owner, so if they couldn’t get her to admit that the drugs were hers, then I was going to be s**t listed.

I sat for cell for at least five hours before I was released, five hours of breathing in the smell of puke, urine and crap before I was told I could leave, ticket in hand for exceeding the speed limit and nothing else. The cop releasing me told me that my date had finally admitted that the drugs were hers before letting me know he was a huge fan. I heard that a lot in my line of work.

I picked up my personal belongings and walked out the front doors of the precinct, immediately blinded by the sun, which is why I didn’t see the person waiting for me, leaning casually against their vehicle.

“Well, well, well.” The voice stated smugly, “you look like crap.”

I stopped quickly, my eyes finally adjusting to the light to see my best friend and agent, Marcus Wright, standing there, the look on his face just as smug as his voice sounded. My shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, covered in god knows what and the smell from the cells seemed to have seeped into my pores. I was in desperate need of a shower, and I would need to burn my clothes to get rid of the smell, which pissed me off as it was my favorite suit, not to mention my most expensive.

“You try looking good when you’ve just spent five hours in a cell with a bunch of druggies and drunks.” I growled, “Took you long enough to get me out of there.”

He rolled his eyes at me, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door, “I’m your agent now, not a lawyer. Do I have to keep reminding you of that?”

Marcus and I had met at college, he was an experienced senior, and I was the new freshman trying to make my mark on the campus and the basketball team. He had been in his final year of pre-law, and we hit it off so much so that we stayed friends. Marcus graduated law school the year after I was drafted to the Los Angeles Lakers, and after a year into the real world, he realised just how soul-sucking the job was. He was good at it through. He reviewed my original contract just for a laugh and found that my agent was ripping me off. I fired him the next day, and after that, the agency he worked for gave him the boot too. It turns out I wasn’t the only client my agent was ripping off, and the firm he worked for was so grateful to Marcus for finding the error in the contract they hired him on the spot and got him certified to represent me. I guess me telling them that I wouldn’t be represented by anyone else kind of helped the situation along, but it was like he was meant for this job. Five years later, I was one of his many clients, and he was bringing in an income higher than he ever would as a lawyer in this stage of his career.

I shrugged at him getting into his car, “You’ve got the degree. You might as well use it for something, considering how much it cost. Now, where is my car?”

He slammed the door and walked over to the driver’s shooting me a dirty look at me, “Your car is at the impound lot. You’re damn lucky I could keep it out of the papers as you are on thin ice with the team as is. If you keep going like this, you can forget me to negotiate a new contract. You won't be able to pay them enough to keep you on.”

“It wasn’t my drugs,” I said for the hundredth time, defending myself.

“Yes, but it was you driving double the speed limit on the freeway, wasn’t it? You did get arrested in a bar fight a few months ago, didn’t you? And let’s not forget the drunken naked debacle the year before and the numerous other driving offenses and times you’ve been in the tabloids in compromising positions with different girls. Do you want me to continue? The team is starting to consider you more of a liability than an asset, dude. You have twelve months to change their mind before your contract expires.” He countered.

I had been the point guard for the Lakers for six years now, the only team I had played for since I graduated from college and went pro. In that time, we had bought home the Championship trophy three of those years, and my stats each year just got better. I know they had been dragging their feet with approaching me with a new contract, but the preseason hadn’t even started yet. There was plenty of time. Marcus was worried about nothing. They weren’t going to let a few indiscretions get in the way of more championships.

Marcus sighed as we pulled up out the front of the impound lot, “I mean it, Ry, I love you, you are a brother to me, but you need to show the General manager that you are stable. Stop with the random chicks, the fights, the speeding. For once in your life, make my job easier, at least until you have signed a new deal.”

I chuckled, getting out of the car, leaning in, pulling the napkin out of my pocket that the loser signed and holding it out for him, “Don’t worry, Marc, I’ve got your back. Can you look into the property on here for me and figure out how I go about claiming and selling it?”

He snatched it off me, “I’m not your lawyer Ryder.”

“As I said, what good is the degree if I don’t make you use it now and then?” I asked him, earning another glare, “And you’re the only lawyer I trust.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He said, starting his car, “you don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

As I watched him drive away, I thought about what he said and the doubt set in a little. There was no way they wouldn’t sign me again, was there? The game was my life, and whilst I was sure other teams in the country would kill to take me, I couldn’t leave LA. I wouldn’t leave LA.