by Warren, Rie
I found my voice. It was in my panties. Panting. Surprise. “We thought you’d like to spend Family Day with us.”
“We?” He frowned.
And I was pretty damn sure he knew his scowl was nothing more than foreplay.
“Yes. Callum and me.” I touched Rafe’s arm—because muscles—but really, I was trying to invite him on an outing.
Like an outing of me and him and Cal.
“You. Me. Callum. At training camp?”
His frown dug even deeper, and I swear that sexy glare he had going on was gonna get him slapped.
Or fucked.
“If . . . maybe . . . you wanna do the family thing with us today?” I started rambling. “Not gonna lie. Callum had too many juice boxes, he’s vibrating in his car seat, the straps are the only thing keeping him put, but—”
Rafe’s rough finger settled against my mouth silenced me.
I tried not to pant against the pad of his fingertip.
“Gimme two minutes?”
I backed away.
He left the door open.
I watched his ass.
When he strode back, pulling on a shirt, his abs stretched in the gleaming sunlight. And I couldn’t even think when my gaze meandered from that tight black line of hair from his belly button to the top of his low-slung shorts.
Please God. Help me.
Once Rafe was in my Beamer, seated right next to me, it wasn’t he who distracted me but our baby boy. Cal acted like he’d been snorting pixie sticks up his nose. Except he hadn’t.
Rafe leaned back to kiss him on the forehead before strapping in, and then the journey began.
Cue twenty minutes of Callum chanting on nonstop repeat: “Goin’ to training day! Goin’ to trainin’ day!”
Where is the mute button?
“How do you tune him out?” Rafe asked.
“I don’t.”
“Turn up the music maybe?”
“No.”
“Seriously though, how do you concentrate?”
“It’s easier when you’re not sitting beside me.”
Whoops. Shouldn’t have admitted that. Ever.
“Oooookay.” Pirate smile. “But you know you’re still wearing your Fozzie Bear slippers, right?”
“What?” My gaze jerked down as my foot slipped off the gas.
“Kidding.”
“Rafe.”
“Love it when you say my name that way.” The sexy bastard grinned at me.
Phil was right. The gorgeous green-eyed man with the daddy swagger was well and truly under my skin.
“Playground rules!” Cal chirped from the backseat. “Mommy’s pretendin’ to be mad, but she really likes you.”
“Oh my God.” I stopped at a red light.
“Oh, realllly.” Rafe turned toward the backseat where our child flicked the switch to roll his window up and down over and over again.
Thank God for the window locks.
“Why don’ we have a swearsies jar at home like Rafe?”
I started counting under my breath.
Rafe chuckled.
Just for that I punched him.
“Holy shi . . . zznit, woman.” He rubbed his bicep. His big solid bicep.
“Playground rules, told ya.” Cal giggled. “You only hit someone when you like ’em.”
I chose to ignore that gambit.
“You know that’s my throwing arm, right? The one that’s insured?”
“Oh Lord, Rafe, I—”
“Mommy!” Cal sing-songed from the back. “Rafe’s a rightie like me, ’member?”
“Of course I remember. Every time you hit the rim of the toilet seat instead of the bowl.”
Leaning over, Rafe treated me to the scent of his aftershave or his preshave or his sexy face or whatever. “For the record, I have excellent aim.”
My knuckles almost turned blue they were so white on the steering wheel. That probably wasn’t possible. Didn’t have time to Google it.
“And we’re here!” I announced, jumping from the car as soon as I put it in park at the field.
Rafe slid out, unbuckled Cal, swatted him on the rump and sent him running.
I checked my feet to make sure I was not actually wearing my slippers. I’d showered and blow dried my hair and everything else this morning during the fifteen-minute time limit I had between Cal eating breakfast and Cal attempting to inspect the inner makings of the toaster.
Stepping around the car, Rafe wrapped his arms around me. “Breathe.”
“I am, dammit!” Every ragged breath dragged more of his manly scent inside me.
“Slower maybe?”
“I’m gonna kill you.” But I curled my arms around his lean waist, bending closer.
“This was your idea.” He nuzzled the top of my head.
“I hate”—kinda love—“you.” I worried my brow against his shoulder, unsure about everything that was about to happen, all the truth that would come to light.
I’d controlled everything for so long, I didn’t know how to let go. Let loose.
And I definitely didn’t know how to let love in. Not with this man.
“We got this.” Gathering my hand, Rafe propelled me forward. “Family outing? As one unit?”
“Yeah,” I muttered.
I might’ve dragged my feet just like Cal when I took him to the dentist, but Rafe was having none of it.
Callum already raced all over the place.
“That’s my daddy!” Jumping up and down within a circle of players and their families, he pointed at us. “And that’s my mommy!”
Astonished disbelief silenced everyone except Cal, whose maniacal giggling was just a little bit worrying.
“What the crunk?” Marquis broke the stunned silence. “You really are the Mac Daddy?”
And all attention swung to Marquis, thankfully.
“Crunk?” Rafe asked, swaggering up to the group, me in tow.
“What?” Marquis frowned at everyone. “I can’t curse with Charmaine and the kids here.”
“Because swear jar,” Rafe said.
“’Zactly.” The two of them knuckle-bumped.
“So I’m confused.” Bunyan folded his arms across his barrel-sized chest.
Brooklyn snorted. “How’s that different from any other day?”
“It’s a long story.” Rafe drew Callum to his side, keeping my hand clasped in his.
“Really complicated,” I added.
“But I can tell it really fast!” Callum hopped up and down like a pogo stick.
“Or not.” I muffled him gently with my hand cupped over his mouth, but he just kept talking. “So, guys, this is Rafe’s and my son, Callum.”
When a dozen more mouths popped open no doubt to spring questions at Rafe and me, I held up my hand. “This isn’t a press conference. I don’t want to hear any gossip about it. Please let’s just go on about Family Day activities.”
Except normal Family Day activities didn’t commence because of all the chest bumps, fist thumps, loud whistles. They all acted like they’d just won the Super Bowl. And I couldn’t help the small smile peeping across my lips.
Akoni squeezed Rafe’s shoulder. “This is beautiful, man.”
Then he started weeping. Not quietly. The man had an ugly cry, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
“Tissues! Grab the tissues now!” Brooks boomed out.
“He’s gonna flood the field . . .”
So that happened.
Rafe ambled over to me and draped his arm across my shoulders. “You done good.”
And Brooks butted in. “So are you two—”
“Noooo.” I jumped away from Rafe. “Uh unh. Nope.”
“Yeah. I think they get it.” But Rafe didn’t look too annoyed by my clear statement of non-relationship status.
In fact, he swatted my butt before jogging off with the dudes, scooping a squealing Callum into his arms on the way.
“Playground rules,” Rafe called over his shoulder a
t me.
For the next two hours he ran Callum ragged, which meant I didn’t have to pull mommy duty. Callum was gonna sleep like a baby tonight, and I could not wait. In fact Rafe was so good with him I didn’t hear my name–Mommy!—shouted once during the entire afternoon. Damn, I could’ve gone for a haircut. Gotten a pedicure. Met Phil at a bar.
Instead I took an endless stream of photos and videos on my phone, unable to wipe the huge grin from my face.
At one point Coach D sidled up to me. “You okay with all this?”
He pushed back the rim of his baseball cap, the one he wore to keep his big shiny head from getting sunburned.
“Not sure. I think so.” I started clapping when Cal actually caught the football Rafe tossed at him from two feet away. “Wait. How come you’re the only one who isn’t surprised?”
“Please. You and Rafe and Callum? Obvious.”
I started sputtering.
“And you know Philomena’s my daughter, right?”
“Don’t be playin’ me, David! Of course I know that. She told you?”
“Called me as soon as she left your house that morning.” His deep belly laugh rumbled as he ambled away.
“She’s a traitor,” I hissed. “Doesn’t anyone know the meaning of a secret anymore?”
Racing past with a hoard of kids chasing him, Brooklyn butted in, “Looks like you sure do.”
Urgh.
And urgh again when my gaze flicked to Rafe.
And no. Just no way. Why was he doing this to me?
He crouched centerfield with Callum. He’d put his team jersey on our son—the #32 shirt swamping him—pushed a helmet over his head, and—fuck, so not fair—drawn two mean straight black lines on his plump cheeks.
Rafe hopped from foot to foot, hunkering down, growling.
Callum wore the cutest scowl on his face . . . and pretended he was jump-roping.
That was it.
Done. Panties destroyed. Ovary explosion. Just plain Gah all over the place.
The man had no right to be so good with kids. Our kid.
I seriously did not know whether to cry or ask him to impregnate me again.
Gorgeous man.
The afternoon only took a bad turn half an hour later while Callum stood next to me, hitting the popsicle stash with the other kids, when a commotion exploded on the other side of the field.
Rafe was right in the middle of the fracas, and the contact was definitely unfriendly.
“What did you just say?” His voice rose above all the others, and he had the collar of Buckley’s shirt gripped in his fist.
Twenty-Three
Daddy Duty
Rafe
“WAY TO GO, DUDE. Hooked up with the boss lady and knocked her up too!” Buckley actually held up his hand like I was gonna high five it. “Wish I’d tapped that. I mean her ass, right?”
I almost spiked the football in his fucking face. Slamming the ball to the turf, I charged the loose-lipped asshat. I clenched his shirt, dragging him to my face. My fist primed to knock the fear of fucking God into him.
“Listen up, you second-string waste of space. You ever say another word about Peyton other than how she’s the best fucking owner in the NFL I’ll break your goddamn throwing arm in so many places they’ll have to pin it back together.”
Rage hurled through me, and I was so close, so damn close to coldcocking Buck the Fuckhead he’d need dentures to replace the teeth I knocked out of his head.
Brooklyn, Marquis, Akoni, Calder surrounded us.
“Whoa, hoss.” Brooks put his face within hitting distance of my punch-ready fist.
Voices raised all around us, but I wouldn’t let the loser go. Fury shook through my body and ramped up my muscles.
“Did you hear what he just said?” I growled.
“Yeah, well, idiot dickhole seems to be his going theme, but don’t think you want your son to see you pummeling a guy like this.” Brooks again intervened.
Wasn’t so sure I could let this shit go.
“The only reason I haven’t flattened you is because there are kids present.” Shoving closer to Buckley’s face, I treated him to some full-on menace. “You need to fucking grow up.”
Took Akoni and Bunyan to pull me off the shitstain, because he still wore his cocky grin and I wanted to replace it with my knuckles hammered against his teeth.
“Just calling it like I see it, has-been.” Buckley sneered.
Snarling wild, I tore free of Akoni and Paul. “You what?”
Brooklyn stepped between us before I could railroad right into Buckley.
He turned to Buckley, towering over him. “Next time you open your mouth I’m gonna let my man Rafe pound you into the ground. Got it?”
“Whatever. You all fucked last season. Probably gonna tank this one too.” Kicking the grass, Buckley backed away.
Good thing, too.
“Gonna destroy you, son.” Marquis got in his grill as he retreated.
Coach D blew his whistle, marching into the fray. “Y’all. Knock it off! This ain’t no way to act two weeks from the opening game. Get it to-fuckin’-gether. Because Miss Fox, the other coaches, and I haven’t been working you like demons all goddamn summer to watch you fall apart over bullshit that happens outside this stadium!”
Shit. Coach D was really mad.
Especially when he ripped the cap off his head, revealing the shiny brown dome, and muttered as he walked off the field, “Get it together before I fire all your asses.”
Maybe I should be the bigger man and shake Buckley’s hand. Nah. Not gonna happen.
Peyton hurried over. Pink cheeks, worried eyes. “What the hell happened?”
Yeah. No. She wasn’t gonna find out what that wannabe QB said. No way.
“Nuthin’, Miss Fox,” Marquis answered.
“Nada.”
“Zero.”
But Akoni looked like he was about to crack under pressure and tell all.
I shoved my fingers through my hair. “Don’t matter.”
Crooking an arm around Pey’s shoulders, I started walking her away as soon as Akoni’s lips began trembling. Sure sign he was gonna spill.
“Ready to head out of here?” I asked.
“You’re really not going to tell me.”
“No chance.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Heard that,” I said.
She sighed.
“Saw that.”
She chuckled. “You’re such a pain in the ass, Rafe.”
“Owning it.”
“You want to grab some dinner with us?”
“Us? Us who? Us the team? Or us—you, Callum, and me?”
“The latter.”
“You know I’m just a jock so not really good with that grammar stuff. Is latter the last and former the first?” I aped around in front of her just to hear her laugh again. “Yeah. I wanna grab some dinner, babe.”
“You’re not supposed to call me that,” she whispered when we located Cal at the top of a pigpile of kids.
“Whatever.” I grabbed Callum, lifted him over my head for a shoulder ride, and walked off the field a happy man.
Peyton inviting me to Family Day after she’d decreed our history private and under wraps was a giant step forward for mankind. Buckley, however, was a fucking caveman, and if I could find a way to slam his face into a locker—oops, I tripped, fucker—I’d do it.
* * *
“We’re eating here because there’s a climbing wall?” I asked, inspecting the interior of PhunZone.
No lie. This place was Chuck E. Cheese’s on crack. Mountain-climbing crack and go-carts included.
“Mm hmm.” Peyton placed the food orders while I stopped our little dude from pressing on all the plastic cup tops like they were packing peanuts waiting to be popped.
“But Callum’s not going on it, is he?”
“Yes he is.” She found a table, right next to the climbing wall, barricaded by a frail rope barrier.
/> “But he’s only five.” I passed napkins around as the food arrived.
Sodas. Pizzas. French fries.
And they had strobe lights, too?
What was this? A rave for toddlers?
“Five-almost-six.” Peyton started cutting Callum’s pizza into tot-sized triangles.
I folded my slice in half. “But—”
“He’s been climbing furniture since he learned to crawl. That’s a cake walk for him.”
I munched on soggy pizza, unable to come up with a valid reason why I didn’t want my son to rappel up a frickin’ cliff side . . . in a restaurant.
“What did Buckley say?” Peyton pushed the French fries toward me.
I shoved several into my mouth.
“Honestly? You’re not going to tell me why you went off on him like that?”
I shook my head. I’d keep eating soggy pizza all night long if it meant I never had to tell her.
“Rafe.” Gorgeous and adorable—not an easy look to pull off in the middle of Kid Zone mayhem—she grasped my hand across the table. “Did he disrespect me?”
“Look.” Scooting to her side of the booth, I cupped her cheek. “He’s an ass. Give him maybe two more years, and he might be worth what you’re paying him. Doesn’t matter.”
“So you were protecting me?” Peyton’s breath hitched.
“Somethin’ like that.” My thumb stroked the corner of her lips.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
I leaned in closer. “It’s kind of in my DNA.”
Our lips almost touched when I realized Callum was MIA.
Pulling back, I scanned the booth. “Where is he?”
“Climbing.”
“What?”
I vaulted the pathetic rope barrier in two seconds. Probably less. Callum was already halfway up, scaling what looked like a skyscraper-tall wall like a monkey. Or like he had Velcro on his feet and fingertips.
He’d totally make a good football player.
I’d keep that thought to myself since Pey wasn’t so thrilled about the idea.
Also my heart pounded in my chest. My mouth was cotton-dry. And my pulse raced like I’d started taking speed.
I think I stood at the bottom with my arms ready for a fireman’s catch.
