Your Biggest Fan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Three Years Prior

  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

  Also by Sydney Aaliyah Michelle

  About the Author

  Your Biggest Fan

  The Fan Series Book #1

  Sydney Aaliyah Michelle

  Contents

  Copyright

  Three Years Prior

  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

  Also by Sydney Aaliyah Michelle

  About the Author

  Copyright© Sydney Aaliyah Michelle 2015

  All rights reserved

  Published by SAM & Associates, LLC

  Editing by Jenny Sims

  Editing 4 Indies

  Proofreading by Sara Miller

  Pretty Little Book Promotion

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to person, living or dead or places, actual events or locales are purely coincidental.

  The characters and names are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Three Years Prior

  Lifewith89.com

  February 14th -

  Happy Valentine's Day!!!

  I know. I promised myself I would never turn into one of those ‘I love Valentine's Day’ type of people. I mean who wants to admit they love the commercialization of the bond between two people? Why wait for one day to tell your significant other how much you care about them? It's wrong on so many levels ... unless you happen to fall in love on Valentine's Day.

  I sat on the front stoop of my brownstone in Brooklyn. It was unseasonably warm for February. Watching the couples in blissful euphoria produced an ugly scowl across my face. I shook my head at all the shiny, happy people in my midst. I loved Brooklyn because of its edgy, moody, darkness, but even the hipsters with their scruffy beards and stringy hair weren't immune to Valentine's Day.

  I was about to give up and haul myself back into my cave when he rounded the corner.

  He wore a black hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans. He ran his left hand through his shaggy brown hair before shoving it in his pocket. His other hand clutched a white card. He stared at it and scratched his head.

  His forehead wrinkled as he deciphered the message. He read as he shuffled down the street, walking on the balls of his feet. A breeze swept through the street and tousled his hair. It carried his cologne straight to my noise. I inhaled deep, closed my eyes and savored the manly smell. I opened my eyes and gasped. He had stopped in front of where I sat.

  We locked eyes for five seconds.

  I counted.

  Recognition seeped into my brain; I knew him.

  He dragged his eyes from mine and looked back down the street, but he didn't move.

  I watched the pulse in his neck as his heart raced. Mine fought to catch up …thump, thump, thump. My gaze panned down as I took in his tight muscular arms outlined under the sweatshirt that gathered at his waist and gave me an unobstructed view of his backside; his profile made me blush. I continued taking in his form.

  "Excuse me." The deep timbre of his voice caused an involuntary moan.

  I caught it before it became audible.

  "I'm sorry." I didn't recognize my own voice.

  We locked eyes again.

  I didn't dare look away.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "Is this Park Slope?" He answered.

  I narrowed my eyes and wondered why he asked. I stood up, dusted the seat of my pants, and walked toward him.

  He squared his shoulders and proceeded to stare down at me as I approached.

  I’d underestimated his height as I glimpsed up and bit my lip.

  "For a famous wide receiver, I figured you would have a better sense of direction." I blinked and titled my head up at him.

  "You know me?" The breeze returned. He captured a strand of my unruly red hair and let it slip through his fingers.

  "Noah Patrick … I know you."

  A smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. His arms dropped to his side. He licked his lips and stepped closer to me.

  "Happy Valentine’s Day?" He asked it as a question.

  "Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Keywords: love, valentine’s day, noah patrick, NFL

  One

  Present Day

  Noah

  I squeezed my eyes shut as I rested my head on the headrest and settled into the backseat of the car. It was my first chance to exhale all day.

  I rubbed the spot between my eyes and willed the driver to hurry the fuck up. I was eager to leave the paparazzi flashbulbs behind.

  How did they know I was here?

  I swear those same guys who wished me a safe flight as they bum-rushed me at LAX were the same assholes who greeted me when I arrived at La Guardia.

  Any dick with a camera phone and a URL can claim they're a journalist and fuck up my life. As long as you call it a rumor or site some unnamed source, no one gave a shit that most of time what they reported wasn't true.

  Twenty-four hours ago, I had all eyes on me on national television as I dropped a touchdown pass that would have put my team in the playoffs.

  Today, I decided to leave society for a while.

  Yes, I know it's a pussy move.

  I basically ran away.

  Forty-five minutes later, the driver skidded to a stop, and I dared to open my eyes. I peered out the limo window and checked out my new neighborhood. Brooklyn, New York was a stark contrast to sunny San Diego.

  I half expected the same photographers to be waiting for me outside my new place. Thankfully, no one knew about my hideaway; no one except my business manager.

  "You know Noah Patrick. He will be okay. He always bounces back."

  And anyone within a five-mile radius.

  Randall's booming voice seemed to echo off the tree-lined streets. I shook my head and got out of the car.

  The driver scrambled around the front and sighed in frustration. I didn't need him to open my door. I didn't need a driver. I was a big boy. I could do things for myself.

  I pulled the hood up on my sweatshirt and shoved my hands in my pocket. The driver shuffled toward the trunk of the car.

  I f
ollowed him but stopped. I should let the guy do his job.

  All I wanted was to do my job. Now, I might not be allowed.

  For the last four years, my job consisted of catching a football. I was a wide receiver in the NFL. I talked trash and backed it up with big plays on the field. Off the field, I played hard, too. The media marked me a diva, which was rare for a white wide-receiver in the NFL. I was the number one receiver on my team. The position came with a lot of attention and a lot of pressure. I didn’t make up the rules.

  Playing football was all I knew. I worked hard. I didn't get off on the attention, but I didn't shy away from it either.

  I turned my attention back to Randall.

  "Yeah, man. Okay." Randall scratched the back of his head. "I can't say we aren't disappointed, but Noah understands."

  No, I didn't understand.

  I tapped Randall on the shoulder.

  He swung around and stared as he finished his call. "Yeah, I'll tell him. We'll talk soon."

  I scanned the street, and then settled on my agent's round face. It was fifty degrees outside, but he had sweat dropping down his cheek. I waited for the bad news.

  "Welcome to Brooklyn." He pulled me in for a hug, his tone too cheerful for my mood.

  "What do you have to tell me?" I asked.

  He stepped back and hung his head.

  "Under Armour."

  I shook my head. I had signed an endorsement deal with the clothing company three months ago.

  "They're pulling your commercial," Randall said.

  "Figures." I shrugged my shoulders. I hated this. They came to me. Now, faced with a little drama, they bail. Well, screw them.

  I watched the driver lug my bags out of the trunk of the car: one huge, black suitcase and a garment bag stuffed to capacity. He hauled them up to the stairs of the brownstone.

  I walked to the bottom of the stairs.

  "You can just leave them there." I gestured toward the door.

  He set the bags down, shrugged his shoulders, and shuffled back down the steps. I pulled a fifty out of my pocket and handed it to him. He glanced at it, looked back at me, smirked, and shook his head.

  Peyton Manning gives a guy a fifty-dollar tip, he's generous. I do it, and I'm a jerk who thinks he can buy people.

  So unfair.

  "Noah, man. Don't worry about it." Randall grabbed the banister and pulled himself up the stairs. "By the time training camp rolls around, this will be a distant memory. Another scandal will take its place."

  "Yeah, whatever." I shook his hand and gave him another quick hug. "Thanks for setting this up."

  "Sure, no problem. But why the hell do you want to stay in Brooklyn?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I like this place. It's quiet and the only place I've been in a while where no one cares who I am."

  "If you want to be anonymous, maybe you should switch professions."

  I laughed as he shook his head, realizing what he said. If I didn't work, he didn't get paid.

  "Anyway, what are you going to do here for three months?" He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed his face.

  "Nothing. Workout. Catch up on Game of Thrones." I headed up the stairs.

  "What about women?" he asked.

  I stopped and turned.

  "I mean just because you got caught up with one lying, conniving, gold-digging bad apple doesn't mean you should swear off the whole bunch."

  "I'm taking a break." My tone firm.

  "Bull." Randal scoffed. "Noah Patrick swearing off women. I don't believe it."

  Given my past, even I found it difficult to believe. I could attribute all the problems in my life to a woman I had dated or a woman who had wanted to date me. Every woman I had a relationship with seemed to only like me for my name and my fame. The whole thing turned me off, and it wasn't worth the hassle.

  Besides, I had better things to do with my time than waste it on the next hot chick with a pretty face.

  I caught a glimpse of her red hair as she opened the door. I hopped to the side to get out of her way. She focused on the book cradled in her arms.

  "Oh. I'm sorry," she said as she peeked up and smiled.

  I held her gaze for a few seconds and waited for it, the hint of recognition. I always spotted it when it happened. It was in the eyes. They would narrow, shutter back and forth, and blink rapidly. Then my fame would render the person speechless or they would say something strange like ‘You're Noah Patrick. I'm your biggest fan,’ and then they would treat me differently.

  In this woman, I saw nothing … except for the stark green sparkle of her eyes set against her pale white skin. Her eyes glowed.

  She was more than a pretty face.

  She cocked her head to the side, glanced back behind her, and continued down the steps. A shorthaired blonde Chihuahua followed close on her heels. He stopped and looked up at me.

  I thought I saw the recognition in his eyes.

  He sniffed my leg, yelped, and continued down the steps. His blue and gold striped sweater exposed only his hindquarters, and he stepped fast to catch up with his owner.

  I watched her stroll down the street. The blue and gold hat on her head matched the dog's sweater. They were the color of my team.

  Or should I say former team.

  They wouldn't be my team for much longer. Randall and the Chargers began negotiating a new contract a couple of months ago. After the events of last month, the team asked to wait until the off-season. I instructed Randall to look into other offers.

  I forgot about the girl as the mess of my life came crashing back down on me. Yeah, I didn't need to complicate it with a woman.

  I grabbed my suitcases and waited for Randall to open the door.

  "Swearing off women, right?" He laughed as he checked out the girl's ass as she strolled down the street.

  "Listen, Randall, if you can find me a woman who doesn't know who I am, who has never heard of me, and doesn't know a thing about football. I'll consider it."

  "Well hell, Noah. I shouldn't have got you a place in Brooklyn." He pulled the key out of his pocket and opened the door. "I should have set you up in a shack in Kenya. You'd have to go to the deepest jungles of Africa to find a woman who has never heard of the great Noah Patrick."

  Two

  Callie

  I stopped in my tracks so fast my poor little Nip ran into my heels and yelped.

  Noah Patrick.

  "No way." I looked back, but they had already disappeared into the brownstone—my brownstone. My father said his property manager had rented the other apartment. No way would he rent it to my biggest celebrity crush. Stuff like that didn't happen in real life.

  I reluctantly agreed to allow him to rent it. As if I had any control over it.

  I wanted the whole place to myself; it was my favorite of all my dad's properties. He had bought a series of brownstones back when no one wanted to live in Brooklyn. He sold them all recently as Brooklyn has become the hippest of the five boroughs. He promised to hold on to this one as long as I went back to school. If I played nice, I thought he might give it to me one day. If finishing my last three years of school brought me closer to that goal, it was a small price to pay.

  Yes, my father was not above using financial blackmail to nudge me in the right direction. After all, I couldn't make a living off blogging about the purely fictitious world I lived in.

  My fictitious world had seeped into my consciousness.

  I sat down on the nearest brownstone steps and gathered Nip in my arms. He shivered from the chilled air because he had no hair. He burrowed himself inside my coat. I waited for him to settle down before I allowed my mind to return to what I saw and what I heard.

  That couldn't have been Noah Patrick. I mean I caught myself daydreaming about the man of my dreams on occasion, sometimes reality sucked, but I wasn't daydreaming.

  I told myself to stop with my silly obsession, but Noah Patrick, famous football player, hot, sexy, gorgeous, and my ideal ma
n … hard to give up.

  What started as a stupid little crush turned into a hobby and hours of wasted time. I created a diary blog of Noah and me … together … as a couple, my version of fan fiction. I mean if E.L. James could get away with it, why couldn't I?

  I posted my stories of Noah and me online on a blog I called mylifewith89.com. My first post went up on Valentine’s Day where I described how we met, and three years later, I had over two thousand followers. I did this all anonymously, of course, even to the point of referring to myself as Carrie instead of Callie.

  If anyone found out I wrote it, I would be mortified. My family and friends knew about my infatuation with Noah. I scratched my wrist; my number eight-nine tattoo itched when I thought about him.

  I became aware of Noah my freshman year at Texas A&M. He played wide receiver for the University of Texas Longhorns. They came to Kyle Field and destroyed us. He scored four touchdowns that day, and I was hooked. His gorgeous body and undeniable talent were the tip of the iceberg. He carried himself with confidence, and his passion for the game turned me on. He made his team better. He was a natural-born leader with a sexy smile.

  When I declared my love for Noah Patrick that night in a drunken proclamation, my friends called me a traitor. I considered transferring to UT the next year, but Noah had declared for the draft and graduated. The San Diego Chargers took him with the eighth pick in the first round, and I dropped out of school.

  Not because of him. That would have been weird.

  I didn't go following him to San Diego or anything. I'd never have a chance with him anyway, so I made up a little fantasy world starring Noah Patrick and me.