Check Swing (Callahan Family Book 3)

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Check Swing (Callahan Family Book 3) Page 9

by Carrie Aarons


  “Frankie?” He guffaws as if it was even more of an impossibility that I was here.

  He takes one look at my bump, those blue eyes flit up to mine, and then he’s spitting his coffee all over the concrete wall of the bowel of the stadium.

  My stomach drops to my feet, because for just one second, I was so excited to see him that I forgot I was pregnant. With his child. Which I haven’t told him about.

  “Sin, wait up.” Walker Callahan jogs down the hall and comes to stand next to Sinclair.

  My head swivels back and forth between them as Sinclair wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gaping at me as he does so. It feels like time is moving in slow motion as the cogs in my brain work overtime.

  Then it all clicks into place.

  The way he never had me over to his place. How he avoided questions about his family. Why he never kept in touch. Why he looks so goddamn much like the Pistons star player.

  The only player to ever play for an organization owned by his own family.

  Sinclair is a Callahan.

  Then I’m the one bending over and spitting up the contents of my stomach all over the wall.

  19

  Sinclair

  I usher Frankie into a chair, her hand clammy as it clutches mine while I help her sit.

  “You’re a Callahan?” she hisses, all of that redheaded rage doing something funky to my heart.

  Seeing her after so long, especially with what she’s carrying, is totally fucking with my head. I can’t decide between going utterly speechless, kissing her, and asking her every question under the sun.

  “You’re pregnant.” It’s not a question, but my voice takes on a tone of disbelief.

  As if I can’t see the very prominent swell of her abdomen, the way she cradles it after she just got sick in the hallway.

  We’re in one of the hitting coach’s empty offices, and I can’t stop staring at her.

  “You lied to me. Jesus Christ, how many lies did you tell me?” Her eyes flit back and forth between the hands in her lap, as if she’s trying to count all my lies.

  She’s talking to herself rather than to me, and I kind of understand why. There are about a million thoughts going through my head at once.

  I feel betrayed. She’s clearly pregnant, and a fit, petite girl like Frankie wouldn’t be showing enough if she wasn’t far along. Then there is the fact that it’s been five months since I’ve seen her. That’s, what? More than halfway through the period it takes to cook a baby? There are always a lot of little Callahans running around with such a large family, so I know a little bit. Though I guess I should have been paying closer attention when my cousins were pregnant.

  Is the baby someone else’s? What is she doing here? Has she thought about me? If it’s mine, was she ever going to tell me?

  Suddenly, I’m on guard. If that is someone else’s baby, then clearly, she never gave two shits about me. Or maybe she’s been hiding it, keeping this secret until striking the iron when it was hot. The Pistons are headed for the playoffs; maybe she’s here for a payday.

  Every emotion flits through me, and poison comes flowing right out. Aimed directly at her.

  “Is that why you came to find me? You found out I was a Callahan? What, do you need money or something?” My words are ice.

  I don’t even see it; she moves so fast. One second she’s sitting, trying to take deep breaths after throwing up, and the next, she’s standing in front of me.

  Slapping me across the face.

  Then her slim finger is right up against my nose, all but poking it. “Don’t you dare say that to me. I had no idea who the hell you were, because you fucking lied to me the entire time we knew each other. A fact I only just now discovered, that you’re a goddamn Callahan. I didn’t come to find you, you asshole. I got promoted. I’ll take my large paycheck to the bank and my baby and I will be just fine without you, thank you very much.”

  With that, she marches past me, a goddamn force, as she exits the office.

  My mind screams to go after her, but my feet stay rooted to the floor. I feel like I was just hit by a tractor trailer. My mouth is dry but has that bile feeling of nausea at the same time. Shock, hurt, and something fiercely protective move through my gut, while my heart beats like it’s just been woken up after five months.

  Frankie is here. Frankie is staying here.

  There has barely been a moment in the five months since I left Florida that I haven’t thought about her. That I haven’t wanted to pick up the phone and call. But I haven’t. I’ve been a coward. More than that, I’ve been waiting to get in touch until I had something to show for myself.

  For the past five months, I’ve been hard at work in the Pistons corporate marketing offices. After hearing how well I did in Florida, Dad wanted to put me in charge of my own team here at home. I declined. I hadn’t earned a thing, working for basically nothing as a video production runt. Plus, I would have no idea how to run a team, and no one would respect me. I wanted to put in the work for the first time in my life. So I’ve been working in an entry-level position, learning the ins and outs of the department, and working especially on the player and management interview packages we shoot and put on the website, on the Jumbotron, and for sports news networks.

  And when I finally make something of myself, I am going to try to get Frankie back. At least that’s what I kept telling my heart.

  Until she just showed up here and devastated my entire life, like a hurricane I never saw coming.

  “What the hell is going on?” Walker rushes into the room with a cup of ice chips.

  I grab it from him—though it was intended for Frankie—since I now feel like I might bend over and hurl. Throwing a handful in my mouth, I crunch as I try to hang on to my sanity.

  “Is she pregnant? That’s your baby, isn’t it? Oh Jesus, Sin.” Walker is rambling, but I can barely hear him over the whooshing in my ears.

  Because it just occurred to me.

  I am going to be a father.

  And out of everything that’s happened in my life, out of everything I’ve done, this is the thing that scares me half to fucking death.

  20

  Frankie

  I have worked my entire career to make it to Packton, Pennsylvania.

  And now, all I want to do is turn and run as far in the other direction as I can get.

  Sinclair is here. Sinclair is a Callahan. He’s an heir, one of the chosen ones when it comes to the Pistons. There is a reason he never told me his real last name, never took me to his place. There is a reason I barely knew anything about his family.

  For the past two days, I’ve been going over all of it again and again. Everything he ever said to me. Any intimate moment we ever shared.

  It was all a lie.

  Then, he had the balls to accuse me of keeping this pregnancy from him. Or worse, insinuating that it wasn’t his baby, that I’d been with someone else. It made me feel cheap, lower than scum. Which is why I’d slapped him.

  When we were together, I was using one of those little circular birth control devices that you pushed up there every month and then changed at the end of the cycle. Clearly, that thing wasn’t effective. Although, I probably shouldn’t have let the guy not use a condom. Or come inside me. It was a dumb thing to do, since they say all birth control methods aren’t completely effective. And I should have known; Sinclair’s sperm were bound to be as charming as the man himself. They probably waltzed right past my birth control with a wave and a smile.

  Every time I cradle my bump now, I no longer picture myself and this baby boy against the world. Because this child I’m creating, he’s a Callahan. He’s going to be the son, the grandson, of one of the most famous families in the nation. He’s an heir, and I’m a nobody. Could they take him from me? What will Sinclair want of him? Fifty percent? How the hell will I be away from my child fifty percent of his life? He’s not even born yet, and I can’t fathom letting go of his hand for one second.

 
The tears rush anew, and I blink them back, trying like hell to keep it together. It’s only my third day of work; I cannot break down in front of Seth, the head strength coach, here in Packton.

  “So we have the outfielders coming in later for a leg and back workout. We’re going to need to work with Max, the left fielder, because he’s coming off an Achilles strain. I’d love to hear your ideas for a lower impact workout.” Seth nods to me, and I’m writing notes to let him know I’m listening.

  I know he’s testing me, seeing what I can come up with and if my work actually lives up to its reputation. I still have to prove myself every step of the way, and there is that little extra bit of pressure being a woman. Not that Seth has said that, but it’s just innate. Now that I’m pregnant, I feel even more weight on my shoulders—and my abdomen, literally. These players are going to walk into the weight room and see some knocked-up woman and think I’m weak or motherly.

  No, fellas, I can still whip your asses into shape like the best of ’em.

  “I’ll get you a full plan by the end of the day,” I tell him as if it’s no big deal.

  “Good. And then let me see your typical nutrition plan for the pitching core. I like to switch up their diets if they’re in a slump, and work with the nutritionist to really maximize their nutrients.”

  My head is bobbing constantly in a nod. It’ll be a big workload, moving up to this level, but I’m so excited for it. This is what I live for.

  “Hey, Seth, how’s it goin’?” Sinclair walks into the weight room, tipping his chin up in that manly way of greeting at my boss.

  My heart stammers to a full halt in my chest, and sweat pools under my boobs. As if I’m not always having hot flashes with this baby in my belly, but now he has to walk into rooms unexpectedly. Inside me, baby boy jumps at the sound of his father’s voice, I swear he does. He just started kicking hard enough that I can feel him throughout the day, and he’s showing off for his father. I grimace in annoyance.

  “Sinclair, hey, good. Didn’t know you were back.” I can hear a bit of professional ice in Seth’s voice that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  I wonder how the employees of the Packton Pistons view the heirs apparent. Judging by the tinge of cold in my boss’s voice, not highly.

  “Yep. Working over in the marketing department. Just entry-level stuff, but it’s keeping me busy seven days a week.”

  I don’t miss the surprise that registers on Seth’s face. “That’s … great.”

  “Mind if I borrow Francesca for a second?”

  My face heats with embarrassment. It’s awkward to have him talk to my boss as if it’s his decision to make if I talk to him or not.

  “Uh, sure.” Seth looks even more surprised that I, the new girl in town, know one of the Callahan elite.

  Sinclair stands there awkwardly, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. So Seth stands, asking me if I’d like a water because he’s going to grab a coffee.

  “That would be great, thank you.” I smile my best even-tempered, cool employee-smile.

  The minute he’s gone, Sinclair is blurting everything out.

  “How are you today? How is the baby? I’m sorry about how we left things the other day. It was wrong of me to say those things to you. I know you aren’t like that, I was just so completely shocked when I saw you, when I saw that you were pregnant, and here …”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.” I feel empty and so full of every emotion at the same time that it feels like I’ve blown a few fuses.

  Sinclair ricochets back, as if my unenthusiastic response was the opposite of what he was expecting.

  “I want us to talk about this. I mean, fuck, there is a hell of a lot for us to talk about. We have … I know now that this is my baby.”

  He points to my belly, and I feel myself duck my shoulders in and try to retreat. The thoughts about custody and my baby being jerked around by the Callahans invade my brain again.

  “I don’t even know who you are. Everything you told me in Florida was a complete lie.” My voice is broken.

  It doesn’t help that I’ve been crying for two days. Well, at least when I don’t have to pull it together for work. At the stadium that his family fucking owns. God, I feel like such an idiot.

  For the last forty-eight hours, I’ve not only been playing over in my head all of the things Sinclair told me that were probably lies. But I’ve been playing over my own words. How many times did I say something about the Callahans that I never would have said if I knew he was one of them? How many things had I told him, about people with money or something random, that I never would have divulged had I known he was filthy rich?

  Jesus, I’d told him about my eating disorder, about my recovery. Those were things I’d never disclosed to my previous bosses. What would happen if the fact that one of the strength coaches on the Pistons’ staff used to be bulimic?

  “It wasn’t a lie, none of it. Yes, I gave you a false last name. But who I am? All the things I told you about me, how I feel about you? Those were all real. Francesca, I was the realist version of myself when I was with you.”

  I believe none of it. “You’re a goddamn liar, Sinclair. A con artist. And I may have kept this from you, but I don’t even know who you are. I thought I was going to contact the father of my baby, the man who I developed real feelings for all those months he was down at spring training. But that man is a lie.”

  Cupping my belly protectively, I scoot my rolling office chair away from him.

  “Frankie, please.” His voice is desperate.

  “I can’t do this. Not yet, and not here.” I know I have to do it at some point, but I just started this job. “I have to focus on this. On one day at a time, now that all of this has come to light. I … I won’t keep you in the dark. But I also want nothing to do with you, not when it comes to you and me. Let’s get that real clear. When it comes to our child—” It hurts just thinking that we made this baby under the pretenses of a lie. “Yes, I know we have to talk. But we will do so when I’m ready. Not when you decide to hunt me down and kick my boss out.”

  That gorgeous face is a mix of anger and understanding, and Sinclair hesitates before nodding curtly and disappearing the exact same way he entered.

  I blow out a breath, thoroughly overwhelmed. Talking to my bump, I ask, “What’re we going to do, baby?”

  Seth returns not long after and hands me an ice-cold water bottle. I suck about half of it down, and he chuckles.

  “I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first. She was so thirsty all the time.”

  “It’s like growing a baby turns you into the Sahara,” I joke.

  “Watch yourself with that one.” Seth eyes me curiously, nodding his head toward the door Sinclair had entered through, his voice a warning.

  I want to brush it off, act professional, and like I have no idea what he’s talking about. But the need to know who Sinclair really is gets the better of me.

  “Why is that?” My voice is too eager.

  “The Callahans are a flawed bunch, there is no denying that. But there are good eggs. Colleen, the general manager, has really turned this club around. Daniel, the owner, is a tough egg and typically watches out for the bottom line before the people, but he’s fantastic at his job. The others, they’re all over the map but generally do good by this team. Then there are the schemers. You know what happened with Jimmy Callahan, what he put this organization through. Sinclair doesn’t fall too far from his uncle’s tree. He’s a swindler, a good time guy. Has done nothing in adulthood but party and live off the trust fund he was born with. I’m probably saying too much, but you should know, the guy is bad news.”

  Maybe Seth has some sixth sense that alerts him to what my conversation with Sinclair was about. Maybe he doesn’t want me having a direct line to upper management. Maybe he’s just looking out for me, or maybe he assumes I’m trying to get promoted by using skills other than my brain.

  Either way, the
kernel of information invades my brain, sticking there and festering.

  I don’t trust people’s motivations as much as I used to. That’s what Sinclair has done to me with his lies.

  21

  Sinclair

  “That’s it, awesome job!”

  Hayes, Colleen’s husband, claps his hands loudly as Isaiah retrieves the grounder he just doled out.

  “I did it!” Isaiah, Hayes and Colleen’s eight-year-old foster son, looks so pleased and proud of himself.

  “Another family baseball player in the making.” I shoot him a thumbs-up, and there is no sarcasm in my voice.

  While I might not be the best athlete, and it’s a sore point when it comes to positioning within my family, I’m genuinely happy for the kid. He does have a natural talent, not that it would matter to Hayes and Colleen if he thought baseball was boring altogether. But it gives him another thing to bond with his soon-to-be adoptive father, and I love that for them.

  Hayes, a former Pistons player, grew up in the foster system and has seen how hard it can be. When he and Colleen started thinking about kids, it was only natural that they go the adoption route. They wanted to give a kid a loving home, something Hayes had always gone without.

  We’re playing catch in their backyard, experimenting with pop fly drills and grounders. Isaiah is trying out for a travel team soon and having a lot of fun with the sport.

  “Uncle Sin, catch!” The kid throttles one at me, and I flinch when it smacks into my palm.

  “Kid has an arm.” I raise an eyebrow at Hayes.

  “Or yours is just weak,” Hayes taunts me.

  “Jackass.” I snort.

  “We’re not supposed to use words like that,” Isaiah scolds me, and I know that’s Colleen talking.

 

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