Bad Boy's Revenge: A Small-Town Romantic Suspense

by Frost, Sosie

  The valet arrived with the car. Jack helped me into the passenger seat but the door slammed shut the instant I was settled inside. He nearly broke it. I tried to calm him down, but Jack was beyond reasonable. The Porsche peeled from the parking lot, and he took his anger out on the road.

  “There’s going to be more questions, Jack.” I brushed his arm. His breath caught. At least he liked my touch. “We’re hiding it well now, but people are going to ask why I was let go from my job immediately after the pregnancy hit the news.”

  “Tell them you wanted to stay at home with the baby.”

  “We’ll need a better answer than that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am living with you, but we’re not married. I’m not working. For all they know, I was fired for messing around with you. It looks bad.”

  “What would make it better? Wanna get married?”

  He was impossible. “You have to take this seriously.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m not marrying you to avoid the press, Jack.” My heart thudded too hard. “We’re a young, modern couple. We don’t need to be married to have a baby. It’ll just be harder without it.”

  “Then let’s get married. What does it matter?”

  Jack could be romantic, or he could be an idiot.

  Tonight, he was an idiot.

  I stared at the road and willed the car to return to the house before the conversation got real.

  “We’re not getting married,” I said.

  Jack shrugged. “If it shuts them up? If it stops them from calling my child illegitimate?”

  “He is illegitimate, technically.”

  Jack’s jaw tensed. “That makes the baby sound unwanted. Damn it. I remember working hard to make that baby.”

  It wasn’t a boast, but I relived the memories. What calmed me only frustrated him more.

  “All we need to do is be careful,” I said. “Nothing needs to change.”

  “Fine.”

  I bit my lip. My stomach flipped. Was he satisfied with how things were? Wasn’t he wondering about a future? What it meant that we were still sleeping together? What would happen when the baby came?

  Jack passed a car on the highway, blitzing by entirely too fast. He had control of the car though, complete and total control, reading every bump in the road and sound of the engine with ease. How could he be so confident about everything, especially when I wouldn’t dare plunge into the darkness as effortlessly as he did?

  I took the leap. “I guess we have to talk about it sooner or later.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “About…how we’re doing this. You asked me to move in, but how are we…what did you…”

  “You’re living with me. What’s to talk about?”

  I exhaled a shaky breath. I hated that I was without a plan, without even a clue how to approach a man who’d get married because it was easier than facing a reporter. Jack didn’t have the same goals as me, he hardly seemed to share any of the responsibilities I wanted in life.

  Except the baby.

  Except staying in his arms at night. Flirting with him in the house. Kissing away our frustrations.

  “Are we raising the child together?” I asked, finally. “Or…how did you want custody…”

  His voice roughened. “I told you. You won’t be alone. I’m going to be there for my kid.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But you know what this will look like, right?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t be seen with other women. You can’t go out and party. You can’t get into trouble, especially if Ainsley is watching. We have to look like…like a real couple.”

  “And what do we look like now?”

  His hands twisted over the wheel. Mine folded in my lap. I couldn’t breathe.

  I didn’t know.

  Did he even know?

  Did he know what he did to me? How he made me feel?

  It was stupid to surrender to a man who couldn’t go one night without getting into trouble. He had no self-control, no desire to be responsible. Our fling was fun now, while I was in shape and before a screaming baby invaded his bachelor pad, but who knew what would happen in the future?

  I read enough articles. Witnessed enough of Ainsley’s reports. I couldn’t imagine Jack changing diapers and dealing with colic if something more tempting captured his interest.

  So did we look like together?

  Easy. I was Leah. Kiss.

  I couldn’t be any more.

  “I’m your pregnant ex-publicist,” I said. “And we look like a perfectly content couple.”

  “Is that it?” Jack pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. He’d fight anyone now, including me.

  “I’m also the mother of your child. We’ll be okay as long as you behave until the baby is born. Do that, and I’m sure you can convince the league you’ve changed.”

  “And what do I have to do to convince you of that?”

  I looked away, nibbling on my nail. Jack shook his head before I could speak. He turned off the highway, heading to the house.

  His house.

  Our house?

  “Forget it,” he said. “There’s the answer.”

  “Jack.”

  “I can’t convince you that I’m anything but a fuck-up. You’re worse than Ainsley, you know that? You got me all figured out, like I’m another bullet point on your list to check off once I make that final mistake.”

  “You’re more than a checkmark.”

  “Bullshit. You have less faith in me than the league or my fucking team or the media.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Combined.”

  I wished I could have said something, anything, but I didn’t have a response.

  Not when he was right.

  And not when I knew I hurt him that badly.

  “Tell you what, Kiss.” Jack didn’t let the revelation steal his confidence. “I’m gonna prove myself. Not just to them, but to you and the baby. Then maybe one day you’ll see the man I really am.”

  My heart fluttered.

  I could see exactly the type of man he could become. It was the reason I shared his bed, agreed to have the baby.

  But it wasn’t up to me to believe him.

  He had to want to change.

  And I really hoped he would.

  Chapter Seventeen – Jack

  The whistle blew, and I saw red.

  I spent the morning in the weight room. Mid-morning running laps. Late morning scouring the playbook.

  This afternoon was practice. Full pads and contact. People watching—media, coaches, fans.

  Everyone in attendance to witness as I melted-down in pure, unbridled rage.

  I don’t know who pissed me off more, but my temper snapped. Life decided to fuck me all at once.

  First, the Rivets declined the contract renegotiation. Then an article appeared about my non-arrest and the league’s political fallout.

  Worst of all? Leah went to the doctor without me for a checkup. She promised it was routine, that she wanted to get it over and done with. I knew the real reason.

  She didn’t trust that I would remember we had an appointment.

  How the hell was I supposed to prove my commitment to the baby? I built a nursery. I bought everything the kid would need until college. Leah even moved in. I kept her in my bed at night so I could be there when the morning sickness got bad. When she felt lousy, I was there with a bottle of water.

  I was trying to change. What more did she want?

  What did anyone want from me?

  The ball pumped from my hands—a clean, tight spiral. The rookie receiver ran the route perfectly, but the ball bounced off his fingers.

  And Coach Thompson yelled at me for it.

  We lined up again. I called the count.

  My guard, Orlando, moved before we snapped.

  Coach Thompson blamed me.

  God damn it. Was everything in the world my fault?

>   Apparently.

  Fuck.

  I pushed through, hitting my limit and then setting a new mark for my physical and emotional endurance. Training camp was grueling enough. Men dropped on the field with heat cramps. It wasn’t a real practice until a handful of our bigger guys threw up on the sidelines.

  According to my coach, that was my fault too. I hadn’t called the trainers to deliver water while I practiced the hurry-up offense. But how was I supposed to run a quick offense if my guys were still guzzling water?

  Coach Thompson didn’t care.

  We lined up for a play. Insects buzzed our faces, and the sun scorched our backs. My head ached with dehydration even though I downed an entire bottle of water before kicking onto the field.

  I called the play. The center snapped the ball. The coach blew the whistle.

  “Carson!” Now he meant to get under my skin. “Your drop back isn’t clean.”

  Like hell it wasn’t. I called the men to the line. He bitched at me again.

  “Three steps, twinkle-toes. Quicker, or your ass is going to eat it next time we play Ashenville.”

  Bullshit. My play was clean. My snap perfect. My drop back in perfect sync. He was trying to piss me off.

  Why?

  What did they stand to win if they got me mad? Mouthing off wouldn’t make anyone look good, especially with the media and the fans in attendance for the afternoon practices.

  I took the snap again.

  The whistle blew immediately. I resisted the urge to spike the ball in frustration. Bryon slapped my shoulder.

  “He’s getting in your head, man,” he said. “Let it roll off.”

  “Can’t.”

  He smirked. “You need a drink and blow-job in no particular order.”

  “No kidding.”

  He pointed to the sidelines. “Have that little baby-momma of yours take care of you tonight.”

  Of course Leah would be here now. I told her to come by and cheer me on. Figured it’d pump my ego if she stroked it as good as she stroked my cock.

  It was a selfish request though. I shouldn’t have made her come out in this heat. I only hoped she’d see me at work. If she understood how hard I tried, how rigorously I trained, maybe she’d cut me a break. Let me in. Take me to the doctor’s appointments.

  Maybe she’d trust me.

  I shouldn’t have felt the things I did for the woman I knocked up for my own personal gain. And I didn’t understand the raging possession that coiled through me when I looked at her with that little bump. God, it made me proud.

  I had a lot of pride in myself, but not much in anything else that I had done. Except that. Except her. And I wanted everyone to see that bump and know what I did. Maybe then they’d understand there was more to me than getting in trouble.

  That goddamned whistle blew again.

  He was lucky I didn’t force him to swallow it.

  I swore and refused the water from the trainers. The defensive coach settled his men down, letting Coach Thompson stop the play for the fifth time in a row. I rubbed the sweat from my eyes with fingers itching to throw the damn ball.

  It didn’t help that the play called was a simple run for Bryon. Straight up the middle, nothing complicated. Not even a play-action to give me a chance to do something besides hand the ball off.

  Another whistle. Bryon caught me before I went nuclear. A hush fell over the crowd, loud enough to hear my frustrated profanity. I didn’t even bother looking at Leah. I knew what she’d say.

  Stay positive. Imagine there’s a camera on you. Be more patient.

  Well, I wasn’t patient. No sense hiding that from the crowd.

  The coach called us to formation again. Bryon pushed me back to the line.

  “Don’t let him fuck you over. He’ll kick you off the team the instant you pop.”

  I’d like to see him try. Coach Thompson antagonized me for a reason. Every move I took, decision I made, and call I shouted was questioned, ridiculed, and denied.

  So be it. I ignored him and counted to ten—Leah’s suggestion for when my temper got the best of me. Hell, she even moved closer to the sidelines, holding up her hand and counting one-two-three-four on her delicate fingers.

  I heaved a breath.

  It worked, but it wasn’t the counting that steadied me.

  It was her.

  Leah’s chocolate eyes studied me from across the field, and the tug of her smile chased the adrenaline from my veins. She gave me a cute little wave, as though she didn’t know what her place was or why she was there for me. She cupped her hands over her tummy and cheered me on.

  And holy hell, I never saw anything greater.

  I lined myself under center again. No whistle yet. I took it as a good sign and scouted the defense. They lined up to trick me, but I read through it. I grunted the snap-count to lure the line off-sides—a particular specialty of mine.

  It worked.

  The corner jumped, and he didn’t make it across the line before the snap.

  I expected Coach Thompson to whistle and bitch him out. So did my center. He was slow to rise and even slower to block. But the play didn’t stop, and the defensive line roared over my men in a wave of testosterone—violent and angry and looking to prove how big their dicks were before the end of camp.

  I dropped back, but the center got in my way. I saw it happening. There wasn’t a goddamned thing I could do about it. I clenched my jaw for the sack.

  The defense rode over the line. I grunted as I slammed into the ground. My leg planted.

  Twisted.

  Popped.

  I felt nothing but pain.

  Then shock.

  The field silenced as my agonized shout ripped through every single man, woman, and child in earshot.

  I fell on my back, but I couldn’t have risen again if I wanted. My leg screamed with pain, not broken but something equally bad. My knee instantly swelled.

  And I knew right then I was fucked.

  My vison blurred into pained halos as the trainers sprinted onto the field. My offense crowded tight around me, trying to help. Nothing they could do. Not now.

  It couldn’t end like this.

  Terror cracked through me. I had to get up. I had to walk it off. I had to—

  Pain. Blinding, frustrating, enraging pain.

  I rolled. The trainers rushed to my side, ripping off my helmet and shoulder pads. Did it really matter if I was hot? The knee injury laced my body in a chilled dread. I’d be lucky if I didn’t puke.

  Now there was a headline.

  “Gotta get you to the locker room, Jack.” The red-headed trainer who had once helped Leah stared at me, her eyes wide with worry. I didn’t like that look. I hated even more that she prevented me from rising up. “Wait for the cart.”

  “No, no, no.” Now I was dizzy. The pain had me nauseous. “No cart. I can walk.”

  “No, you really can’t.”

  “I’m not getting in the cart.”

  “Jack—”

  “Fuck off, I’m not getting in the cart!”

  Everyone heard that. Figured. I was lucky I didn’t blaspheme every Abrahamic religion when I went down. The team parted, and I figured it was because of Coach Thompson.

  It wasn’t. His ass hadn’t moved from the bench.

  But Leah ran to my side—something profoundly stupid for a woman in her condition. She was already weepy with hormones. This would be worse than the empty peanut butter jar fiasco.

  “Jack, are you okay?” Her voice wavered.

  She wasn’t supposed to be on the field, but no one was moving her. She took my hand, her eyes welling with tears. God damn. She was really upset. Honestly worried for me.

  My chest tightened. I couldn’t deal with that thought, not when I wanted to rip my own leg off. I hated that I couldn’t comfort her, even as I writhed in pain.

  “I’ll be fine.” I lied. My knee looked like a softball grew out of it. “Just gotta get up.”

  “Why won
’t you get in the cart?”

  Oh, she was cute when she only studied enough football to release a press statement. I called for my guys to help me to my feet. The trainers protested. I ignored them. Bryon and someone else could help me walk to the locker room. I didn’t need a cart.

  “Jack.” Leah flittered at my side. I wasn’t used to a feminine voice on the field, much less her beautiful whisper. “Listen to the trainers. Get on the cart.”

  “Kiss, get off the field.”

  “I’m going with you! Just take the ride.”

  “It’s not a ride.” I stared at her, snapping at a woman who didn’t deserve my anger. “It’s the cart. You don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me. Please.”

  Fine. Plain and simple. Her favorite language.

  “You only get on the cart if it’s a season-ending injury.” The pain cracked my voice. The fear took the rest. “I just fucked my chances of playing this year.”

  Chapter Eighteen – Leah

  Jack’s injury tortured him beyond the pain of a sprained knee. It stole his purpose in life.

  It broke my heart to see him so upset, frustrated, and panicked. I couldn’t even help.

  I never felt more helpless than watching when his teammates had picked him up off the field. The pain overwhelmed him by the time he reached the locker room. He’d rested on the exam table, hands covering his face during the assessment.

  And what scared me the most?

  He didn’t fight when they immediately sent him to the hospital.

  Fortunately, he’d suffered only a sprain. Unfortunately, it would force him onto crutches and off the field for the rest of training camp.

  Not a good way to start the season.

  But he was still working his ass off, even when the doctors and I told him to take it easy. He couldn’t run the drills, but he trained his upper body in the weight room, studied the playbook, and helped to call the plays at practice to assist the team.

  Jack was full of surprises.

  His car pulled into the garage, but it took him longer to move now. I stood as he limped into the kitchen. He aimed for the den, but he gave up after only one step downstairs. His fingers curled into the bannister, and I darted to his side to help before he did something stupid.