Knocked Up By The Doc Box Set (A Secret Baby Romance)

by Claire Adams

  I saw it the moment that Johnny did—I realized that later when we were lying in bed together, talking about the game. The goalie was ready for Johnny. He knew what Johnny was going to do. So Johnny knocked the puck to the right winger; it was just fast enough that the goalie didn’t have time to shift his strategy. The right winger shot and scored, only a few seconds before the buzzer went off to announce the end of regulation time.

  My heart was pounding in my chest, and I sat down heavily as adrenaline rushed through me. They had finished the game in a tie. They would have a shoot-out in order to see about breaking the tie. Georgia was explaining the rules to me. Each team had to pick a shooter and could pick either their regular or relief goalie. Each shooter would take their assigned shots, and then the shots would be tallied with the regular points and a winner would be determined. I took a deep breath; there were other good shooters on the team besides Johnny. He didn’t have to be the one to make the shots.

  But of course, he was the one they chose. I held my hands tightly in my lap, watching as Johnny took the ice again. My heart was racing. I wanted this so much for him. It would be just as upsetting to me for Johnny to be unhappy over this as over anything else. I grabbed at Georgia’s hand and held it tightly.

  The other team’s shooter went first, and his ability was immediately impressive. Then I watched as Johnny took up his position on the ice. “Johnny can do that in his sleep,” Georgia told me.

  “Shh!” I said, flapping my hand at her. In fact, everyone was silent—even the other team’s side. It was a gesture of respect. I pressed my lips together and watched as Johnny made his way across the ice, gliding smoothly and confidently on his skates. I barely breathed as he advanced towards the other team’s goalie, switching around the puck, moving it to confuse the player. I gripped Georgia’s hand harder as he came to the crease and shot.

  The shot went in—the siren announced it, and everyone roared in reaction.

  We got more worried as the player for the opposing team made his second shot. If it weren’t for the fact that I knew Johnny was the man I loved and that he could wipe the floor with that guy, I’d be impressed. Georgia laughed when I said as much. “No guy is ever going to be able to stack up to Johnny in your mind,” she said. “You might as well just marry the guy and get it over with.” I rolled my eyes.

  “That is not what I mean and you know it,” I told her. After a few moments, all of the raucous sound and cheering from the other team began to subside, and Johnny took up his position once more. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, saying a prayer without being entirely sure of who I was praying to. I opened my eyes in time to see Johnny take off again. He was rushing down the ice, even faster than the first time, and I realized that he was trying to psych the other player out, that he was trying to overwhelm the goalie—who might then make the wrong judgment when he went to shoot. “I’m starting to pick this stuff up without even trying,” I told Gigi in a whisper. She snorted and gave me a poke to the ribs.

  Everyone held their breath as Johnny once more got into position and shot the puck, but he had not been quite fast enough to overwhelm the goalie, who barely managed to knock the shot aside. There was a groan in the audience.

  The third shot by the opposing player went wide and missed, but the crowd was well aware of the remaining chance to score.

  I looked at Johnny closely, worried—maybe he was not as recovered as I had thought he was. But I saw him shake it off, saw him look at his coach, and then up at me, with a little smile. He headed back to center ice, and I knew that he was going to get the next one. I smiled and gripped Georgia’s hand. Even if I had the intuition—the instinct—that Johnny had it, that didn’t make it any less tense in the audience. I looked around. Nearly everyone on our team’s side of the ice was invested in the game, wanting Johnny to make it. They had forgotten whatever stupid rumors they had heard or whatever delight they had taken in the “golden boy” being pulled down off the pedestal.

  Johnny went with a different tactic; instead of trying to overwhelm the goalie, he moved more subtly, shifting and feinting, moving the puck around on the ice without even seeming to. Even I was mesmerized, watching him move from the center to the net. By the time Johnny made his shot, the goalie was utterly confused and transfixed by what he had seen. The crowd erupted—cheers on our side, groans on the other side.

  “I wish they’d get it over with before you crush my hand,” Georgia said jokingly. I glanced at her; she gestured with her other hand that she was fine, that it was a joke. I eased up anyway.

  It was nearly over—one way or the other. As the other player missed, everyone knew Johnny would have to make the last shot count to win. I sat back down, tapping my foot on the floor, wanting nothing more than for everyone to just shut up, let Johnny take his last shot, and let us all know what the outcome was going to be. But everyone was more excited than ever, which I could understand—so was I. I took a deep breath and watched as Johnny moved to center ice for the final time.

  He was somehow combining his two previous tactics, using both speed and subtlety. I couldn’t even tell where the puck was half the time as Johnny blazed down the ice towards the goalie. I couldn’t believe that the goalie had any clue, either, in spite of trying as hard as he could to watch the movements. There was just too much to see. Finally, Johnny was in the crease, and he was shooting the puck—and the goalie had no idea where to grab for it. It hit the net, and I sagged against Georgia as the siren announcing a successful shot rang out over the ice.

  The roar of the crowd was so loud that I was sure I was going to go deaf. I watched as the winning team streamed out onto the ice, cheering and screaming, happy as they could possibly be at what Johnny had helped them accomplish. I couldn’t blame them for being happy—or for lifting Johnny up on their shoulders and carrying him around as the MVP. Georgia’s comments about my status to that title notwithstanding, Johnny was an important leader on the team, and it was obvious that when he was having an off night, the team suffered; when he was on top of it, the team was, too.

  Someone presented the team with the trophy, and Johnny and another player hoisted it into the air, displaying it proudly to us all. The other team had tactfully retreated to lick their wounds and sigh about what could have happened if they had just pressed their advantage or at least kept their lead. I smiled and laughed, watching the team cavorting around, obviously drunk with pleasure at their success. Someone put a microphone in Johnny’s hands and asked him about the game—what he thought, who he credited with the win, the kinds of things that always get asked for athletes when they succeed.

  “It was a rough game, especially in the first two periods, but I have a lot of people to thank for this win,” Johnny said, grinning around at everyone. “Of course, I have to thank my team. Without the team, none of us is anything. We certainly couldn’t pull it off one-handed.” I was starting to think of just how much I wanted Johnny to myself again. Maybe I can convince him to hang around and take his shower late, so we’ll be all alone…I was thinking when he met my gaze. “I also have to thank the love of my life, the woman who has shown that she will go through anything with me, that she loves me and is there for me, my girlfriend Becky.”

  The crowd predictably went wild, but as Johnny and I held each other’s gazes, neither of us was even remotely thinking about the crowd. We were thinking about each other and about what was to come now that we had finally put the ghosts of the past to rest.

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  ADDICTED

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.


  Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams

  Chapter One

  Nate

  I rolled the window of my car down, letting some fresh air in. The planes above looked really big taking off and landing. You sort of forgot how freaking huge they were when they were flying above you.

  My assistant told me that the flight was at eight in the morning. I'd been sitting in my car about ten minutes, watching the sun start to rise over LAX, wishing I'd got a later flight. It was six thirty in the goddamn morning; the only other time I was awake that early was when I'd been up the entire night and hadn't gotten to sleep yet.

  What was I even doing here? I could have asked Dad to use his plane. I was Nate Stone; I didn't have to fly commercial.

  I shut my eyes and leaned back against the driver's seat. In ten hours, I wouldn't have to think about this place for another three months. I'd be in a fucking suite with a hula dancer sucking me off. I'd be eating seafood and drinking rum. I'd be too far away for any of the assholes in LA to get to me.

  I watched a plane take off and fly into the distance, until I couldn't see it anymore. In two hours, that would be me. I just had to last ’til my flight. I'd checked in online already, and I was flying first class. Just two hours, man, I said to myself. This vacation was way overdue. I knew it was over when I tried to write a song the other day and got nothing.

  Nothing. Not a word. The band didn't use my songs anymore, but fuck it, I did. The touring, the booze, the girls — it had done something. It had finally caught up with me. Yeah. That was it. Because there wasn't any fucking dope and booze in Hawai’i. I’d be fine if I just got away from it.

  I checked the time again. Five minutes had passed. Fuck. Could I fall asleep? Go inside? Eat? Something? Anything other than just sit here and wait?

  My phone was ringing. Still ringing. I'd ignored a phone call twice already. I didn't know who the fuck was trying so hard, but I was pretty sure you were meant to stop trying when it was obvious the person you were calling didn't want to talk to you.

  Fuck, what if it was important, though? What if it was my manager? Or Dad?

  The ringing stopped as soon as I reached for the phone to check who I'd been blowing off. I grimaced reading the name. Not my manager Doug. Not my father. Nope. It was Kirsten. I had her name on there as Kiki because that was what I'd called her when we were together, and I'd just never gotten around to changing it to something else.

  Kirsten Andrews. Sorry, Kirsten Stone: she'd kept my last name.

  Hmm, I wonder what she wants, I thought cynically. We didn't have any kids together, so it wasn't that. Couldn't have been her settlement because she'd cleaned the fuck up during the divorce. I'd call five million for three years of marriage a pretty good deal. Unless the bitch wanted more, which she was not getting.

  I could still hear the wedding bells. Kirsten had filed for divorce, not me. I had told myself back then that it was so many different things. She was just a bitch, she wanted my money all along, and she had met someone else. She was one of those women who used marriage to marry and then divorce even richer people. I couldn't stand thinking she thought of me as her starter husband.

  There was the little thing where I was drinking till I blacked out each day, but I had been too drunk to realize that that was it. And by the time I had, and lied to her that I would stop, I had already moved on to something a little stronger.

  Was there a time I ever loved her? Every time we'd had to go to court, I wasn't so sure. It had been almost five months now since the split was finalized. There was nothing I still had to say to her. There was nothing she could have said to me that I actually wanted to hear.

  She'd left me a voice-mail. Delete it, the voice in my head said. Delete it because you're going to listen to it and regret it immediately. My thumb hovered over the screen as I thought about that. Yeah, Kirsten drove me crazy, and yeah, I was here at the airport because I wanted to get the fuck away from her and everything else, but since I was going anyway, what was the harm in listening to it?

  I'd listen, get mad, and this time tomorrow, I'd have two naked Hawai’ian girls in my bed, drunk off my ass in the middle of fucking paradise. I'd listen, and when I got to Hawai'i, I'd throw my phone in the ocean.

  Was it worth it though? What was the worst thing she could say?

  I played the message. Kirsten's voice filled the car, like she was in there with me. I frowned, listening; she had the bitch meter turned on high. Her voice got really shrill when she yelled.

  "Nathan," she was saying on the message. She did that when she was mad at me. Talked to me like I was her kid. "Nathan, why aren't you answering your phone? You bastard, I know you have it on you. You always do." I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Bad idea. Should have deleted.

  "Where are you? You know what? I don't care. It doesn't matter anyway. Your manager's been calling me. He wants to know where you are. You can't hide, you know that, right? You remember you signed a contract, don't you?" she was saying. No, I forgot that, Kirsten; thanks so much for reminding me that I owe my next three albums to that bloodsucking label, I thought.

  "I told him I didn't know where you were. I can't believe you're throwing this all away. How long were you making your music waiting for someone to sign you?

  “Whatever. The band will do just fine without you. Doug taking a chance on you was obviously a waste of his time. It's sad, really. Keep hitting that bottle, babe. Go ahead and throw that dream away. What would you be without your rich daddy anyway? Nothing. Maybe Remus can dedicate their next album to you in their Grammy speech-"

  I cut the message off. There was about half a minute left, but I didn't have to listen to her anymore.

  Fuck.

  I could feel it. It was happening. I shut my eyes and tried to stop it. It felt like hot water bubbling up from my stomach to my chest, till I felt it in my head. It felt like being in a locked room with only one way to get out.

  She was right. They didn't need me. They had producers and money from a major label. They could hire anyone to write. They could hire anyone to play and just put their names on it. They could just shit out album after album and watch the money pile up. They could keep going on tour — getting high, drunk, laid. Have a great time.

  I wasn’t part of Remus, not anymore. They had our sound perfected; they could swap us all out and replace us the next day, and it wouldn’t make a difference. It was generic. It was stock; it wasn’t real. Obviously, they could make money with or without me. They didn’t need me.

  Fuck. I couldn't think. I felt like my skin was trying to crawl off my body. I couldn't fly like this.

  Good thing I came prepared. I kept my stuff in the glove compartment. I always had a kit close. My travel kit was small compared to my other one. Just the essentials. Syringe. Belt. Dope — pharma grade, of course; I wasn't trying to kill myself. Just a little something to take the edge off. It wasn't a big deal.

  I quickly looked out the window, rolling my sleeve up. I belted my arm and filled the syringe. I could almost feel it already. The anticipation before the high was almost as good as the main event.

  I flexed my arm, looking for somewhere to stick it. I watched the needle puncture the skin and shot one hundred percent pure, right in my vein.

  I took the belt off and leaned back in my seat, sighing. Yeah. That hit the spot. It was like that feeling when you were cold and got in a hot tub. Just like a liquid orgasm spreading all over your whole body.

  Right then, I forgot everything. I wasn't at the airport. I wasn't in my car. I was in heaven. I opened my eyes, watching another plane go by. It looked so happy. Maybe if I'd gotten Kirsten on heroin, she wouldn't be such a bitch.

  Time must have passed; it felt like hours, but it must have been half an hour or something. Everything moved slower when I was high. Everything was better. I had to leave, though. I had a flight to catch.

  I rolled my sleeve down. I could hide being high, but the track scars were a dead giveaway. I
pulled my hood up because I'd forgotten my baseball cap. Another reason why I should have fucking flown private. That way, nobody would recognize me.

  I got out of my car and went to the trunk to pull my suitcase out. I left my kit in the car because I had another packed. I'd check this bag so security wouldn't get to it. I didn't carry lighters or spoons and shit, obvious junkie paraphernalia. If they saw it, they'd see vials of clear liquid. When they read it, it would say it was insulin. Hidden in plain sight. Who wasn’t going to let a diabetic have his insulin? I'd done this so many times before.

  The trick was to act natural. Don't give them a reason to think you're doing something wrong. For all they knew, you were just another miserable traveler who had to make the drive to LAX that day. TSA didn't even look for drugs like that. I'd be fine.

  The high definitely helped. I got through security no problem. I took my time with it since I still had a lot of time left before the flight. Once I was at my gate, I considered my options. I had music in my carry-on backpack. I could put my headphones on and zone out till it was time to leave. I even had a book, but it was sort of hard to read while I was high.

  There was a bar, though, and getting a jump on that rum didn’t sound like a terrible idea.