by Sosie Frost
Today and tonight, she was mine.
Mine to kiss. Mine to fuck. Mine to hold.
Because I had no idea what tomorrow held, and, for the first time, I feared it.
Too many people needed too much from me.
How long did I have before I let them all down?
20
Lachlan
Training camp was a shit show.
A week of working, sweating, and weight-training meant nothing when the stress ate away at my confidence. I tried too goddamned hard to do everything that was instinctual, and even the coaches told me to back off. Relax. Keep it loose.
Hard to do that when I’d woken up alone for the first time in a week.
Elle wasn’t in the bed this morning, and she didn’t show up at training camp. For whatever reason, she had cleared a day off with Peter, but she didn’t tell me she wouldn’t be in. I ended up as the asshole waiting for her on the sidelines with a chai tea and baggie of grapes. That is, until the guys realized I’d misplaced my own wife.
I didn’t need any more ammunition for their hazing, especially when I was still picking popcorn kernels out of my seats like they were my molars.
Elle called me at noon, and I nearly tore my ACL leaping from my cafeteria seat to take the call. The guys laughed, but at least I was used to the humiliation.
I talked to her outside, forsaking my lunch. Wasn’t hungry anyway, and I didn’t need the guys overhearing this particular conversation.
“Hey, Charming.” Elle spoke quick, flirty, and too high pitched. Like she was forcing it. “We need to talk about your toothpaste.”
We had a lot more to talk about than my fucking toothpaste. “What?”
“Some people roll the paste from the bottom. I’m guilty of occasionally squeezing from the top.”
“Elle, what the hell—”
“But you!” I heard her smile. It wasn’t genuine. “Last night, you cut the toothpaste out of the middle of the tube. With a razor.”
Yeah, it hadn’t been a great day. “I was in a hurry. Hey, I got a question for you.”
“I mean, the sink was a mess.”
What the fuck was happening? “Red, where the hell are you, and, by proxy, my unborn child?”
She laughed. Fake. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I had a thing today.”
“A thing.”
“Yeah. I won’t be at practice. I thought I mentioned it?”
“No?”
“Well…” She cleared her throat. “I should be back late, like midnight. I’ll crash at my place so I don’t wake you.”
“Midnight? Elle, if you’ve been like…kidnapped or something—”
“I’m not kidnapped.” She paused. “And I know that’s what someone kidnapped would say, but it’s fine. I just had to do a uh…photo shoot.”
“Where are you?”
She sighed. “Atwood.”
“You’re in…you’re across the country?”
“Just for today.”
I paced the field. “We’re playing Atwood next week.”
“Yeah. There’s a…photography gig I’m doing. For the team.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“I know it sounds strange, but I’ll explain it all later.”
“I got some time. Why don’t you try explaining it now?”
“Lachlan, I promise. It’s nothing. It’s a little photography job I picked up. I’ll do it this afternoon, and then I’ll fly right home…”
I’d stopped listening.
The phone nearly tumbled out of my hand.
The brunette waved at me from the chain-link fence that separated the practice facility from where our fans watched the practices. But training camp was closed to the public until two in the afternoon.
I had no doubt Victoria sweet-talked security into letting her in.
“Elle.” I interrupted her. “I’ll call you back.”
I hung up before she answered.
This was not my day.
Victoria waited for me with a little curl of her fingers. She hadn’t changed.
She was just as soul-suckingly beautiful as she was in high school. I saw past the raven hair and moon-pale skin now. Her spell had broken when she’d called from the hospital to tell me about the baby she nearly miscarried.
Tried to miscarry.
But Victoria tested me again. The plunging neckline of her shirt pushed her tits up, revealing too much pale, creamy skin. She leaned against the fence, popping her bubble gum. Her sunglasses pushed into her thick, black hair.
“Hey there, sexy.” Victoria glanced me over with sinfully dark eyes. Fortunately, Sebastian had inherited my greens. “You look good in black and gold. I could eat you up.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you on TV.” She smiled. “You looked so damn handsome in all the pads and sweat and grass stains. Reminded me of the old days, you know?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“I had to come see you,” she said.
“No. You didn’t.”
“Are you still mad at me?” She pouted. I remembered that look. It had once been cute, until the day she puffed her bottom lip out and tried to steal my attention from my hungry son. “Can’t we just talk? It’s been so long.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Lachlan, we have a history together.”
“It’s over.”
“We have a son.”
She was lucky a fence separated us. “No, you don’t.”
I meant for the truth to hurt. She didn’t react.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t have my baby now…but I’d like to. Can I see him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She didn’t deserve a reason. “Because five years ago you terminated your rights. You don’t get to see him. Go home. Stop calling my mother. Stop calling me.”
“People change, Lachlan.”
“You abandoned him.”
“Yes, I did.” Victoria shrugged. “But I was young and scared. I lost him, and I lost you.”
“You’re not getting either back.”
She dropped the smiles and pouts and cute little scrunches of her nose. Her eyes narrowed, and every muscle in her face hardened. There was the Victoria I remembered—not Barbie plastic, only barbed wire.
“I will be a part of his life.” Her voice burned with contempt. “I think you should respect that.”
“He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know anything about what’s happened.”
“And don’t you think he deserves to know?”
“He’s only five years old!”
“He’s my son.”
Not even close. “Legally, he’s my mother’s son now.”
“Biologically—”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Then I’m getting a lawyer.”
I’d rip the damn fence apart. “That’s bullshit. You don’t want your son. You want custody. Child-support. You’re thinking in dollar signs, not his best interests.”
“I can’t believe you’d think something so low of me.”
“I can’t believe you’d think I’m that stupid.”
Victoria sighed. “You’ve changed, Lachlan.”
“Yeah. I hope I have. We’re done here.”
I didn’t let her speak. I stormed to the practice facility with an adrenaline rush that only twisted my head and ached in my muscles. It burned like acid and exhausted me as I ran my drills in the afternoon.
Not even a bottle of ice-cold water spilled over my head could clear that consuming, piercing, blinding rage.
Practice was shit. My play was shit. The coaches called me shit.
This wasn’t happening.
In three fucking months, I had gone from an absolute legend—a fucking gridiron god with every goddamned reporter, coach, and player eating out of my hand to…
I stalked into the locker room after the horrific practice. The TVs turned on, blasting Sports Nation.
My face greeted me.
And so did the headline.
Will The Rivets Cut Lachlan Reed?
Ainsley Ruport spear-headed the charge of course. The fucking asshole had no idea the shit that I was going through, the pressure on me, the expectations. He’d never even picked up a damn ball in his life. Yet he persuaded the entire country to believe that I was an overrated, bullshit hack of a player who deserved to get cut from my team.
I showered, but the water pricked me like rusted nails. I was frantic. Ragged. Emotionally blitzed. First Elle and her secrets, then Victoria and her threats? The only thing that made it worse was the echo of a whistle blowing in my ear, forcing me to redo drill-after-fucked-up-drill. The tension would split me in two.
Especially when I realized that the team had aluminum foiled my locker and probably all the contents inside.
Fantastic.
I sliced through the foil.
Mistake.
An avalanche of tiny packets cascaded from my locker.
Hundreds of condoms poured from the cubby, puddling around my feet.
The team howled.
I didn’t find the news of my unborn child quite so funny. Especially when I’d confided in the few members of the offense because I needed to explain why I was so fucking distracted.
At least Elle wasn’t in the locker room. She and the baby deserved better than this joke.
Caleb jumped onto the bench, calling to the team. “Condoms here! Get your condoms! Courtesy of Lachlan Reen who has no need for them anymore! We’ve got your fruit flavored! Your ribbed. Your long-lasting.” Caleb winked and tossed one to Jack. “Your Magnums.”
I backed away as white balloons floated out of my cubby. They’d scrawled a word in thick black sharpie over all six.
Oops!
This was fucked up, even for them. My child wasn’t a mistake.
Either of them.
Jack patted my shoulder. The fucker had ten seconds to remove his hand. I didn’t trust the blinding, white haze to my vision. It took a lot for me to lose my temper. But insulting Elle? Betraying my trust? Fucking around about the life we created?
That was enough to make me want blood.
“Always go with the Trojans,” Jack said. “Can’t trust some of these novelty ones. And this?” He held up a condom stapled to a print out of my headshot. “See, this one won’t work anymore.”
I kept my voice low. “It’s not funny, Jack.”
“It’s a joke, Daddy.”
“You’re a father. It’s not funny.”
“The guys are just ribbing ya.” He flicked a condom at my chest. “You move pretty damn quick. Marrying the girl. Having the family. But think of it this way—the public, media, and league love a family man.”
“You know that’s not how it went down.” I wouldn’t tell him twice. “Back the fuck off.”
“Okay.” He raised his hands. “Sorry. Kids are great. Don’t worry.”
“I know how to take care of a kid.”
“I’m sure you do.” He batted aside a mound of condoms to find the ball buried in the bottom of my locker. “Just a word of advice. When she hands you the baby…” He tucked the ball close to his ribs. “Hold it tight. Drop this one, and you’ll get more than a coach’s boot up your ass.”
Not sure why I did it.
Not sure what the fuck possessed me.
Not sure why I took it out on him.
I said nothing. Just tensed. Aimed.
And I punched Jack Carson right in the goddamned nose.
He fell backwards, stumbling into the lockers. The team shouted, but Jack didn’t take a second to check to see if he was bleeding.
He was.
He launched at me, firing back with a solid upper-cut that only just grazed me. I avoided the hit, but Jack was nothing if not scrappy. I had no idea how many bar fights he’d led, but I was lucky he didn’t have a beer bottle to break.
He threw me to the ground, but I tackled him around the waist and forced him to the floor. He struck me. My eye. The pain blinded me, but I threw a punch.
It missed his head, and I slammed the fucking carpet.
Good thing they had concrete beneath. What kind of asshole broke his fingers on a rug?
The team shouted, laughed, and cheered. Only one person managed to grab me before I punched a sure-fire concussion into our starting quarterback.
Cole hauled me off Jack. He flipped me like a damn towel and cast me off-balance. I didn’t recover in time. He pitched me into the showers and dumped me on the floor. The cold water was a shock.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Cole growled, low. “Control yourself, rookie. I’m supposed to be the goddamned animal!”
I breathed heavily, surging to my feet. Cole struck me in the chest, dropping me to the floor. I stayed there, facing the prospect of either my own humiliation or The Beast breaking my neck.
Coach Thompson burst into the locker room. He checked on his highest paid player then came to spit on me, soaking wet and broken in the damn shower.
“Goddamn it, rookie.” He hissed. “Don’t give me a fucking reason to cut you. You pull this bullshit again, and you’re outta here.”
“Yeah.” I rocketed to my feet. “I’m sure I’ll be packing my bags soon enough.”
The locker room was silent as I emerged—dripping, bleeding, cold.
Jack ignored me, touching his nose. Probably broken.
“Fuck…” He surveyed the damage in the mirror. “I promised Leah I wouldn’t get in any fights this year.”
He wouldn’t have to worry about it.
I wouldn’t fuck with him anymore, the one man on the team who had yet to give up on me. I wouldn’t have a chance once the team cut me.
Regular season started in a week, and when it did?
I doubted I’d be an Ironfield Rivet.
21
Elle
I waited alone in Coach Thompson’s office.
My camera rested in my lap. Was it possible it felt heavier? A couple hundred stolen pictures might have a given it a little extra heft. Or maybe that was my conscience weighing me down.
Peter and the coach made me wait. It was probably some psychological game, but it let me pick through my fraying thoughts.
I clutched my messenger bag, but, like a kid who had to touch the stove to make sure it was hot, I poured over the contents once more.
Not that I didn’t believe it, and not that I hadn’t expected it, but the note from my father was just as cruel, cold, and calculated as ever.
His law office was in Atwood. I’d made an appointment. Wanted to see him. Thought that maybe since I had accidentally started a family, it might have been nice to visit my old one.
Wrongo.
The receptionist presented me with a manila envelope. Inside was my marriage license—a formal little thing for such a haphazard mistake. White stock paper. Scrawling calligraphy.
A post-it from my dad stuck on top.
Elle—as long as this marriage is valid, you are not welcomed in my home. Tristian Marina
He hadn’t even signed the note as Dad.
I expected nothing else, but it still hurt. And that was fine. It was the final lesson I needed.
The man who signed that note wasn’t my family, but I had a real one now. My own little world—a growing baby in my tummy and a man who would love him without any conditions.
The door opened.
Moment of truth.
Peter and Coach Thompson took their seats, staying silent as if they expected me to break. I wasn’t intimidated. I didn’t do right by myself, but I sure as hell did whatever it took to protect Lachlan.
Coach Thompson spoke first. “Do you have the pictures?”
This wasn’t some CIA operation. I tossed an SD card onto the desk.
“Excellent.” Peter nodded. “Good job, Elle.
How were the shots?”
The images were clean, but I felt dirty. “I did as much as I could without drawing suspicion.”
“Did anyone see you?” Coach Thompson asked.
“No.”
He loaded the card into his laptop and opened the files. I’d snapped various images of line-ups, formations, and installations. I held my breath until he nodded.
“This will work.” Coach Thompson quickly scrolled through the rest of the files. “I can use this.”
I shouldered my bag “Can I go? I have a lot of work to do before the season starts.”
Peter spoke after a long moment, his words soft. “Go home, Elle.”
That would only make the team more suspicious of my absence. “I don’t need time off.”
“It’s not time off,” he said. “Your services are no longer necessary.”
The bag dropped. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Elle. You’re fired.”
No.
The silence sliced through me. I stared, dropping the fake confidence and attitude.
Coach Thompson reveled in my shock. “No one is sorrier than me to see you go.”
“I doubt that.” My words turned sour. “You still have my nudes.”
“No substitute for the real thing.”
This wasn’t happening. My stomach twisted, roiling with morning sickness, rage, and a quick and quiet fear. If they were firing me…what would they do to Lachlan?
“I did everything you asked,” I said. “I got the pictures. I traveled. I agreed to do this. Why the hell would you fire me?”
Coach Thompson usually spit and yelled on the field. The softness in his voice unnerved me. “The Rivets are a family, Elle. If you’re not one hundred percent committed to this team…”
“I am committed to the team. To the players. To them men out there breaking their own bodies every day to get better and work harder and earn another championship.” I quieted. “Someone has to protect them from you.”
He wasn’t threatened. “So what will you do? Release the pictures now? And what would happen to Lachlan? I have every reason to let him go, Elle. Did he tell you he got into a fight with Jack Carson? Nearly broke my hundred-million-dollar quarterback’s nose?”
