Off the Field: Bad Boy Sports Romance by Heidi Hunter, Bad Boy Team Page A

was one of the women Mack had been fucking around with before I decided to leave him. As I waited in line to check-in at the entrance to the visitor’s area of the jail, I thought about my ex-boyfriend. Part of me was glad he was dead.
    Once I got through the line of people waiting to visit their loved ones, I waited in a room with a glass wall and booths separating it. I sat down at the very end, close to tears. The whole situation was my fault. If I hadn’t gone to Cory for help, he’d still be in college instead of jail. Guilt caused a knot in my stomach. When he entered the room, it got worse.
    I picked up the black phone and waited for him to do the same. We each stared at each other through the glass. . His face looked haggard, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. Is he mad at me? Does he hate me? Our shower together was a distant memory as I tried my hardest not to cry or show any emotions.
    “I’m so sorry, Cory…”
    “Stop saying that,” he interrupted. “It’s not your fault. You did the right thing coming to me. I don’t know why that lady is lying about me, but I think my public defender is going to be able to get me off.”
    “That’s not what he told me.”
    He frowned. “The important thing is that you’re going to be okay. You can take care of things while I get out of here. They can’t keep an innocent man imprisoned.”
    I reached out my hand and placed it against the glass, knowing it was cliché.
    “I love you, Heidi. Don’t ever forget.”
    Cory turned to the guard, who motioned for him to come. He hung up the phone and got up. I watched as he walked away. Emotions overwhelmed me. With a zombie shuffle, I left the jail and got back to my car, hating myself every step of the way. Why did this happen? It is my fault. I don’t care what he says, I fucked up. Guilt poured over me like thick gravy as I drove to his apartment.
    When I arrived, I went inside and poured myself a glass of wine to settle my nerves. Each drink made me feel worse as I tried to imagine what he was going through in jail. He was strong, but he wasn’t the type of person who did well when locked up. Like me, he just wanted to be free. As I stood in the kitchen leaning against the counter and drinking, I saw a pad of paper on the table.
    I walked over and sat down. The notebook was one of his for school. I set my glass of wine down on the table and picked up a pen. A moment later, words filled the page as my feelings burst out of me. When I finished, I scrawled, “Break Free Dearest Stepbrother,” at the very top in all capital letters and underlined it twice. As I read what I’d written, I realized it was like a poem.
    After ripping that sheet out of the notebook, I rewrote my feelings as verse. Each line was terser, making the point more powerful. By the time I’d finished half the bottle of red wine, I’d made quite a few changes. I started again on a fresh piece of paper. When I finished writing and read the words, an idea flashed in my mind.
    One of the scams Mack had talked about pulling involved using a website called FundrStartr. Anyone could pitch an idea to the world. If people liked the idea, they could donate money or services to bring the idea to fruition for the person who originally posted it. I didn’t want to pull a scam, but I wondered if people would be interested in helping me record a song to raise money to free my stepbrother.
    At best, the idea was ludicrous. More likely, I was just drunk and grasping for straws. I got up, grabbed the last version of what had become a song, and headed to his laptop in the living room. Once online, I pulled up the FundrStartr website. A few clicks and a little typing later, I had a page setup to find someone to record my song or help pay for an attorney for him.
    If nothing else, I hoped I would be able to raise a little money. Anything would be better than the public defender assigned to him. I clicked refresh on the page to see if by some weird miracle anyone