Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6)

by Kata Čuić

  I hold out my offerings to the altar of her mercy.

  She snatches them up and breathes, “You’re a saint.”

  I grin at Mayview.

  He shakes his head and walks away, probably thinking I’m still going to be murdered.

  I fucking hate that he’s not wrong.

  My knee is the least of my worries when I step into her office.

  Time to really grovel. A pissing match between me and Mayview is not the way to go. “Have you toured any of the apartments you found yet?”

  “No, not yet,” she admits through a mouthful of crackers. “Why?”

  I shrug, trying really fucking hard to act like I’m not terrified for my life. “I thought we could go look at them together. You’re new to the city, so you might not know which neighborhoods aren’t safe. I already told you the reason I paid a fuck-ton of money for my house that I barely use. Orlando is mostly a ghetto unless you’re filthy rich.”

  She frowns then washes down her crackers with a swig of ginger ale. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to find a place. If the rent is affordable, then it’s probably in a bad neighborhood. A too good to be true sort of thing. Do you know what the average rate for an apartment in Orlando is?”

  No. I have no idea. Money has never been a concern to me, not even growing up. I’m well aware that I’m the poster child for white privilege. Most of the guys I play with came from absolutely nothing and have to bust their asses way harder than I do to make something for not just themselves, but for their families who are still stuck in poverty.

  Amira continues to talk with her mouthful, which is weird for her. She’s usually so polite, probably because of the way she was raised. “For a place that allows pets and isn’t in an unsafe neighborhood, monthly rent is around two to three thousand dollars. I make seven thousand per month—before taxes—but my loan repayments are going to kick in soon, and trust me, a PsyD isn’t cheap.”

  We’ve had this conversation before. Her parents were only willing to help pay her tuition as long as she was a good girl. The second she grew a backbone and refused the arranged marriage they planned for her? They cut her the fuck off. She went from free-and-clear to taking out loans that her paycheck will only barely cover until after a decade or more in the business.

  I used to send her little care packages of Ramen all the time. She thought it was funny. I was seriously trying to help. I knew damn well she wouldn’t take actual money.

  So…as much as things have changed, they’ve stayed the same.

  She could live rent-free with me in a fucking mansion, but she’d rather burn her salary on a shithole in the ghetto.

  “Please tell me you have more than a few places lined up to look at.”

  “I do.” She nods. The murder in her eyes bleeds out to excitement. “One isn’t an apartment at all! It’s a cute little house with orange trees in the front yard!”

  We’re both originally from Ohio, but I’ve lived in Florida for over two years. Orange trees aren’t that exciting. Everyone has them.

  “All right. So, let’s go.” I can be supportive. That’s not a foreign concept to a spoiled jock like me. I’ve had experience almost no one knows about.

  No one except the woman eyeing me like I just said I put a spider in her crackers. “You are going to give up a free evening before the pre-season to go look at rentals with me?”

  “Uh, yeah. We’re friends. I helped you before. Why is it so hard to believe I’d help you again?”

  Personally, I think it’s because of some freaky black magic from her black voodoo eyes, but I’m not going to question it anymore. I’m tired of fighting it. Everything we’ve been through so far has been leading to this. How else am I supposed to explain her landing in Orlando for her first job?

  If fate wants to make me its bitch, then so be it. As long as Mayview loses, I’ll be happy.

  “Want me to drive?”

  Her expression deadpans before she even finishes swallowing to speak. “No. You drive a Lamborghini. I tried to choose neighborhoods that didn’t have safety warnings, but I can’t exactly afford the types of places you live in either. Besides, I need to learn my way around the city.”

  “That’s fair,” I admit. “I don’t really feel like getting carjacked tonight. It’ll be a miracle if I make it through the season as it is.”

  She finishes her snack, then gathers her things. By the time she’s standing in front of me, her head tilts, and her eyes narrow just like Pavlov before he pounces on me. “Why would it take a miracle for you to make it through the season?”

  “I’ll tell you about it on the ride.” I hold the door open for her.

  For someone who spent last night puking her brains out, her breath is warm and sweet on my chin when she leans dangerously close to me. “It would seem I have not been the only one keeping secrets.”

  I’ve got a shit-ton more where that came from. If I play my cards right, I won’t have to confess all of them.

  “You can’t live here, Brain,” Alex whispers out of earshot of the rental owner.

  From the outside, this little house is perfect. A quaint yard separated from the neighboring homes with a white picket fence, a stucco exterior that looks clean and cared for. Orange trees thrive in the front yard, the branches bent with heavy fruit.

  The inside boasts a single toilet so stained with years of fecal matter, I’m not sure even hydrochloric acid would clean it. Carpet that reeks of human—not cat—urine makes the small square footage nearly toxic. My stomach roils even though I’ve been mouth-breathing since we set foot in this house.

  I bite my lip to stifle a sob. I know I can’t live here. If it was just me? It would be disgusting but bearable. With a newborn baby? This place is out of the question.

  I haven’t found an obstetrician in the Orlando area yet, but the over-the-counter pregnancy test I took this morning left little room for doubt. Though the instructions said to wait two minutes after urinating on the stick, those two pink lines were clear as day after only a few seconds. According to the almighty Google, home pregnancy tests are ninety-nine percent accurate. The only question that remains is how far along I am. My completely accurate guess is ten weeks. That was the last time I had sex. Before then? It had been months.

  The late-night booty call from Tinder had been an extravagant gift to myself. I wanted to celebrate passing my boards. I wanted to prove that applying for the open position with the Orlando Sharks wouldn’t mean opening my heart again for Alex to stomp all over it.

  Something dark and small skitters across the floor in my peripheral vision.

  Alex squeals like a toddler and wraps his arms around me, his considerable muscles quivering. “That was a cockroach. Jesus Christ, Amira. I just saw a cockroach. You can’t live here. I won’t let you.”

  I’m not going to argue. This time.

  I am also not going to give up. A baby might not have been in my five-year plan, but all the more reason to behave like an independent adult.

  “Maybe the next one will be better,” I hope.

  I say the same thing six more times.

  After several hours of driving all over the city, I’m out of options. My chest grows heavier as my stomach sours. Alex climbs behind the wheel of my rental car. He stares at me while I take my time buckling my seat belt, adjusting my purse on the mat between my feet, and generally doing anything to avoid looking at him.

  “Brain.”

  “I know,” I mumble. “They’re all horrible.”

  I lean my head against the window that’s not even cool to the touch since the car has been baking in the Florida sunset. My body heat soars from a combination of nausea, disappointment, and embarrassment. A sob crouches in my throat. It won’t take much for it to break free of the flimsy confines of my willpower.

  The rough callouses on Alex’s fingers are surprisingly soothing against my sensitive skin when he grabs my hand as he navigates us out of this neighborhood that’s likely far less pictur
esque than it seems during the daylight hours. “There’s no rush. You’ve got a safe, free place to stay until you find something better.”

  There is a rush. By my calculations, I have to be nearing the end of the first trimester. I only have a month or two until anyone who looks at me notices the obvious. I’m not above pretending that I’ve gained weight from stress eating, but even that excuse will only carry me so far.

  How am I going to do this?

  How am I going to find a decent place to live, manage my job that I’m still learning all the ropes to, maintain a healthy pregnancy, and somehow, not lose the respect of all my new coworkers when I start showing?

  Oh my God. My parents. What will my parents say? What will they do?

  Does this let me off the hook for marriage, or will it only speed up the process?

  The longer we drive, the more anxieties pile onto my shoulders until I’m crushed beneath the weight of what-ifs.

  I blink at the parking lot we’ve pulled into, ripped from my justifiable panic attack with more unknowns. “Where are we?”

  Alex glances over at me quickly. His hunched shoulders and expression are a thousand percent guilty. He scratches the back of his neck. “I know you said you don’t want to be seen in public with me, but…I’m starving. Can we please eat? If we go home first, we’ll have to wait longer for a delivery.”

  I almost laugh. Almost.

  “Brawn, you really don’t want to be seen in public with me either.” I can already imagine how the media will spin things if we’re photographed at dinner now, only for me to be seen with an obviously rounded belly in a few short months. No amount of hunger could justify being labeled as a baby daddy.

  Alex rolls his eyes. “For the love of Christ, I don’t care if Evie sees pictures of us together online! I’m over it!”

  That outburst makes me think otherwise. As much as I’d love to bury my head in the sand by concentrating on someone else’s problems, I don’t have that luxury any longer. “If you are hungry, then please go eat. Thank you for giving up a few hours to apartment hunt with me. I’ll wait here.”

  His eye twitches before he reaches across the console to wrap his hands around my throat. He shakes me a little and hisses, “I swear to God, woman. Get out of the car and get your fine ass in the restaurant. Remember rule number two? I’m not even asking you to jump. I’m saying we’re going to dinner. Why do you fucking have to argue everything?”

  I swallow against the pressure. This time, I do laugh. My arousal is hilarious in light of the situation.

  He removes his hands like my skin burns him. “You’ve lost it. What the hell is funny right now?”

  I lean back in the seat and clutch my stomach that’s cramping from laughing so hard. He may be right. I may have lost it completely.

  “I live by a different set of rules now. Yours no longer apply to me, and you should be grateful.”

  “No. No way,” he insists, lightning in his wild eyes as he grasps both of my hands in his. “I will not be grateful. We can work on the rules. We can have dinner and renegotiate and discuss the blah blah blah behaviors like you wanted before. We’re already friends. We can’t become enemies just because we work for the same team now.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply we’re going to be enemies,” I chuckle, having forgotten how dramatic he can be. “I still can’t go to dinner with you though.”

  I’m avoiding. I need to say it out loud, and who better to test the waters with than a friend?

  I take a deep breath and rip off the bandage. “Alex…I’m pregnant.”

  “Are you certain I can’t order you something to eat? You said you were starving.”

  I see her lips moving. I hear sounds coming out of her mouth. I stare at her flat stomach again, imagining all the weird diagrams we were shown in high school sex ed classes happening in real time inside her.

  It’s fucking weird.

  She still looks like Amira.

  Holy shit, she’s a MILF.

  I think I’m gonna be sick.

  Wait a minute. This is awesome. This changes everything. The bet’s already over, and Mayview has no idea.

  Oh, shit. Wait. No. If the bet’s over, he’ll just move on to a different victim. I can’t let that happen.

  Shit, shit, shit. What’s the solution here? There’s gotta be an answer to all these problems…

  I eat up the floor in the living room, pacing back and forth across the area rug Amira bought that actually feels really nice beneath my bare feet. I wiggle my toes against the plush fabric. “Who’s the father?”

  She shrugs then stares at her lap. “I don’t know.”

  Yeah, right. This is Amira Deep. She fucking knows everything. Except how to lose her virginity. She’s obviously crossed that hurdle already.

  “You’re telling me that baby was immaculately conceived? Should I start saying the rosary to you now?”

  She glares at me then taps her phone a few times before tossing it to me.

  I catch it easily. The guy staring back at me looks like a total douche. Teeth are not that naturally white, and no one actually enjoys quiet walks on the beach.

  “I do not even know if that’s his real name,” she confesses.

  “What the fuck did I tell you about using these apps?” I grind out. At least her kid probably isn’t going to be ugly. This dude tries too hard, but he’s not a dog.

  “I moved to California!” She spreads her arms wide. “I knew virtually no one! Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked for the past four years to earn this degree and complete the necessary internships and licensure exams? When I had an itch to scratch, my options were limited!”

  Fucking hell. My eye’s twitching again.

  “Why didn’t you scratch your own damn itches?” I shout. If I can do it for nearly six years, then why couldn’t she?

  “I still can’t, okay?” she yells back. Then, she turns her gaze back to her lap and mumbles something under her breath.

  I toss her phone back to the couch then interlace my fingers into a locked position resting on my head. I’ve gotta do something with my hands to keep from strangling her. I have a million more questions, but she’s in the hot seat in more ways than one. It’s not fair of me to read her the riot act. Especially since I’m the one who taught her everything she knows.

  “What’s the game plan, Brain? What do you know as of today?”

  Pavlov is nowhere to be seen, so she pets the couch. It’s weird, but everything is weird right now. “I spent an hour with him the day I found out I got an interview with the Sharks.” She barks out a laugh just like she did in the car. “The sex wasn’t good. He was so slobbery, I couldn’t even use him to get myself off.”

  That’s some serious bullshit right there. She didn’t enjoy getting knocked up. Seems like if a woman is gonna give up the rest of her life, at least she should have the ride of her life.

  A sob that gets caught in her throat ricochets through my chest. “I did everything by the rules except using an app. We went to a hotel. I texted a friend my location and a time. I insisted on a condom. I’ve been on the pill for years!” Her shoulders collapse in on themselves as she gives in and cries her heart out. “It’s not fair! I just landed my dream job! And the worst part is…the worst part—”

  Anything else she was going to say is lost in a waterfall of tears. These aren’t the fake kind either. Her entire body shakes. She’s genuinely terrified, and she has every goddamn right to be.

  Fuck. I’m a royal asshole for yelling at her at all.

  I cross the room and sit beside her, then pull her into my arms. She can soak my shirt if that’s what she needs. She wants to vent it out? I’ll be her punching bag. She has the urge to puke again? I’ll take one for the team.

  I don’t rock her. I don’t shush her. I don’t pet her hair or tell her it’s all going to be okay.

  I stay until she’s a hiccupping ball of limp muscles against my chest.

  “What do you
want?” I whisper into her hair. It’s almost a cruel way to ask her how I can help.

  “I think I want to be a virgin again.” She pulls away and barks out another laugh that sounds out of place with her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She swipes at her face. “Sorry. That was highly inappropriate. I haven’t gotten to the depression phase yet. I think I might actually be a little manic right now.”

  I blink. There’s no way I can pretend to know what’s going on in her head. Getting pregnant has never been a worry for me.

  She furrows her brow. “I’m talking about the five stages of grief. I spent so long in the initial denial phase that I don’t have many options now. I have to be close to the second trimester. I don’t want to have an abortion.”

  “Okay.” I hold out my palm for her.

  Her body, her choice.

  She grasps my hand and squeezes as silent tears trail down her face. “I haven’t even found an obstetrician yet. I just took the home pregnancy test this morning.”

  I don’t remember seeing any evidence in the bathroom.

  She must notice my confusion because she admits, “At the office.”

  “Are you going to tell him?” I hate to even ask this, but… “You might not know his real name, but you do have a way to contact him again.”

  She nods while she chews on her lip and stares at our joined hands. Her black gaze suddenly snaps to me. “Would you want to know? If it was you?”

  I’ve slept with my fair share of women. I always wrapped it up, and I always asked if they were on the pill. I guess that wasn’t as foolproof as I believed.

  “Yeah,” I admit even though it might not be what she wants to hear. “If it was me, and I’d made a kid? I’d want to know.”

  She drops her gaze again. “What would you say?”

  I don’t want to blurt it out, even though I already know the answer. It takes no thought at all. “My situation would be a little different. If I got that call today, my kid would already be about five years old. I don’t know if it would be fair to them to suddenly play daddy when they’d spent so many years without me. I’d offer financial support though.”