Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance

by Sosie Frost

  Unfortunately, the padding underneath his slug of meat caught the brunt of my elbow.

  Jude went down.

  Phillip grabbed the towel with a victorious bark.

  And I resolved to mop of the blood spilling from Jude’s nose, pack my bags, change my name, and escape into the night. I’d find work under an assumed identity. Hell, I’d open my own private medical practice. Apparently I was damn good at drumming up business.

  I handed Jude a paper towel. It wasn’t his nose that concerned him. Jude curled, against the wall, and grabbed at his boys. He hissed, but he seemed to be in one piece.

  Mostly.

  I awkwardly shifted my weight. Of course I was still naked. God forbid I retain any dignity.

  I gave him a weak smile. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  Jude groaned. “I’m gonna hope yours felt better.”

  “Would it help if you knew that it was very nice?”

  Jude chuckled, letting me tilt his head slightly forward to check his nose. “Then it was worth it.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why, planning to break my leg if we sleep together?”

  The thought of a night with him nearly stole my voice. “Don’t ruin the surprise.”

  “How’s my nose look, Doc?”

  “Like we should go to the hospital and call the Rivets’ trainers.”

  “Won’t we have a story to tell?”

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “And I told you, Rory.” Jude didn’t let any crippling pain stop him. “You’re worth it.”

  Was it wrong to think he was being sincere, or was I just being foolish? Who was I kidding? I wanted to believe him as badly as I wanted another touch.

  This was a mess. I’d just made everything more complicated…and bloodier.

  One selfish moment was enough to ruin a friendship. What would happen if I admitted my feelings?

  How many lives could I destroy with the truth?

  11

  Jude

  The team listed me as questionable for the game—because of the broken nose.

  I’d survive, but Rory nearly died of embarrassment. At least I’d be there to kiss her awake if she went down. Then again, if she went down on me, I’d be the one dying and going to heaven.

  If she gave me the chance.

  If she’d ever talk to me again.

  If she wouldn’t hide from me at the field, in the house, and in the locker room.

  I shouldn’t have been thinking about Rory, not while suiting up for an important game so early in the season. My pads were on. Jersey stretched over my chest. I bundled my hair in a ponytail and swiped the black under my eyes. At this point in my career, the only way I’d stay in step with the younger guys was if I focused entirely on the game.

  But, fuck, the locker room made it hard to concentrate.

  Too much noise. Hooting. Cheering. Yelling. Lockers slammed. Equipment thudded. Water ran. Life buzzed into a grating hum, and it set me on edge.

  This wasn’t me. I never used to hate this part. I lived for the high-stakes atmosphere. I loved the sweat and the hits and playing under the lights. Night games were intense. We played late tonight, 8:30, a nationally televised game against the Atwood Monarchs.

  It’d be the first time I faced Eric since the disaster dinner with Rory’s family.

  What might have been a chance for a little friendly competition became another source of stress. It throbbed my headache even more, blitzing me like the noise of the locker room. My blood pressure rose without stepping onto the field. I tried to find a quiet place to think before kickoff.

  That was impossible.

  My headache got worse.

  “J-u-u-u-de.” Lachlan howled. He encouraged the guys to mimic the cry. Somehow, Lachlan even had the fans doing it, chanting for me every time I touched the ball. “You feeling good, All-Star?”

  No, but that was normal for me anymore. “You know it.”

  “Got you listed as questionable,” he laughed. “Couldn’t believe it until I saw the shiners myself.”

  The black eyes came with the broken nose. Not terrible, but enough that Rory couldn’t look at me without her mood flinging past humiliated and crashing into the weepies.

  Which she adamantly denied, of course.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t need my nose to run the ball.”

  Jack slapped my shoulder pads. “Still not gonna tell us how it happened?”

  “I already explained it.”

  “Run it past me once more.”

  I wasn’t in the mood. “Rory bumped me while we were cleaning…vacuuming.”

  Cole snickered. Jack raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” Lachlan said. “You fell headfirst into some kind of carpet.”

  DeSean and the linemen overheard. “You’d think the honeybuns would break the fall.”

  Jack laughed. “Oh, she gave the man a thorough physical after that one.”

  “And a sponge bath for good measure.” I dropped the smile. Took too much energy to fake it.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Maybe I needed to hit something. Get on the field and smack into a defensive lineman or linebacker. Once I stepped on the grass, I’d calm down.

  I had to.

  My heart thudded too hard, and the noise in the locker room pierced into a single note of pure aggravation. I hated this. My temper never got the best of me.

  Except for now.

  “Jude?”

  Her voice was a tinkle of bells in a locker room of braying jackasses.

  Rory had joined the team during the games, remaining on the sidelines with the other medical staff. She donned the same polo shirt as the trainers, but she was going to need a bigger size if she wanted to hide the bump.

  “Jude.” Rory beckoned me over with a quick wave. “Come here!”

  Lachlan laughed as he tied his shoes. “Careful she doesn’t snap a finger this time.”

  I responded with a perfectly in-tact digit.

  I didn’t like how quickly Rory ran, or how her expression twisted. The tunnel wasn’t a good place for a conversation, not when the stadium shook with seventy thousand screaming fans waiting to cheer on their Ironfield Rivets.

  She stared at me, and my mood improved. Maybe she couldn’t look me in the eyes, but Rory’s lips parted as she surveyed the uniform.

  She liked what she saw.

  And, if she said the word, she might have had all of it.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, my voice raised.

  Rory said nothing and took my hand. I froze as she pressed it hard against her belly.

  No.

  The stadium fogged into silence, and I nearly dropped to my knees.

  The thought of anything happening to her or Genie crushed me. I was supposed to be her protector. I swore I’d help her. I’d promised—

  And then I felt it.

  The thud.

  Even through my gloves.

  Rory smiled brighter than any of the lights over the field. “Do you feel her?”

  I did.

  And it was…

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s…”

  “I thought I had felt her kick last week, but it was so faint! This though! This is a real kick!”

  “Hell yeah it is!” I grinned. “She’s got one hell of a punch on her!”

  And not a moment too soon. Genie might have been the only reason Rory wanted to talk to me, but I’d take all the help the kid could give me.

  “She’s cheering you on.” Rory giggled. “Must know it’s a big game.”

  “Glad to have another fan.”

  Rory touched her tummy too, but her hand traced over my fingers. “Eric’s playing tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “You shouldn’t mess with him.”

  The crowd cheered. I leaned close to hear her. Rory still had to shout.

  “He wouldn’t answer his phone last night,” she said.


  “I texted him too. He…blocked my number.”

  “He’s angry. Don’t try to approach him during the game.”

  That’d be hard. I’d be clashing with him head-on tonight. But I’d been friends with him for twenty-six years. That was a bond nothing could break.

  “I’ll handle your brother,” I said. “It’ll be fine. But I gotta focus now.”

  Rory understood. “Good luck.”

  “Got that in the form of a kiss?”

  She smiled. “You want me to get that close after what happened?”

  “Everyone’s watching.”

  I’d lied. Only a couple guys waited outside the locker room. It was enough to convince her though.

  It might have made me slime. At least it made me happy.

  “Don’t want to risk a bad game, do you?” I asked.

  Rory stood on her tip-toes, afraid to touch me even though I sported twenty pounds of gear to protect me from her worst.

  Her kiss was light, sweet, and just the sort of motivation I needed to get my ass on the field.

  And then back to the penthouse.

  To bed.

  What did I have to do to make sure she’d be there?

  And how the hell was I supposed to concentrate on the game when the baby was kicking, Rory was finally smiling, and Eric wanted to knock my goddamned head off?

  Our defense took the field first, and Cole Hawthorne’s hit on the Monarch’s quarterback, Tim Morgan, was bloody and brutal.

  One play, and the tone of the game was set. It’d be vicious. Yards stolen, not gained. Punishing hits, ruthless blocks, and success earned through torn muscle and veteran skill.

  Good thing I always won the tough battles.

  We got the ball on our thirty. Jack smacked my helmet with a grin.

  “This one’s gonna be won in the mud,” he said. “You got this, All-Star?”

  “Think they can stop me?”

  “No one can.”

  Never hurt to be confident.

  I lined up behind Jack. The crowd roared, and the screams cracked in my ears. My blood pumped. Too hard. My heart crashed against my chest like I had run the length of the damn field.

  The ball snapped, and Jack fell back three steps, handing off to me as I sprinted past. I gave a stutter-step at the line before tearing up the middle. Daylight. I planted a foot and cut, spinning through a gap in the line of scrimmage. I broke free to the outside for a seven-yard gain.

  And then I hit the wall.

  A crash of muscle, sweat, and rage pummeled me. I fell to the ground. The defender landed on me.

  His elbow cracked into my shoulder.

  Eric.

  “Hey.” I stared at him, hardly recognizing my enraged friend. “Keep it clean, all right?”

  I didn’t expect him to spit in my face.

  His voice rasped with raw hatred. “Fuck you.”

  Holy shit.

  He didn’t help me to my feet. My temper flared, and I rubbed the spit from my cheek.

  If he hit me again, I’d hit him back twice as hard.

  We huddled up, and Jack called for another run. Unfortunately, the defense read the play. The ball snapped, and they stuffed me at the line. I tumbled under the linemen, and a foot stomped on my hand. I swore, but at least son of a bitch didn’t break my fingers.

  Eric wasn’t making this easy.

  We passed on third down, and Eric stayed in coverage. I gave a good block for Jack, but he overshot Lachlan. We had to punt.

  That gave me a couple of minutes to think.

  How the hell was I supposed to do my job when someone roamed the field looking to kill me?

  The first quarter ended without a score. The second started with us encroaching on their territory. Jack opened up the offense with a thirty-yard pass to Lachlan, but our quarterback still looked to me to get his yardage. He audibled the next play into a run, but hell if I could remember which way I was supposed to cut on it. I let my mind fog, and I ran on pure instinct instead.

  I spun to the outside as the pocket collapsed. The offense cleared a path for me, and I rushed along the sidelines, finally pushed out after an eleven-yard gain. I slowed my steps near the white boundary line.

  But Eric sped up.

  He slammed into me after I crossed out-of-bounds, crashing both of us to the ground in a late, dangerous tackle. We smacked into the grass. It hurt.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shoved him away and adjusted my helmet, yanking out a handful of grass from the visor. “That’s a late hit!”

  Eric held his arms out, welcoming the penalty flag called on him. “Next time I hit you, you’re staying down.”

  Jesus Christ.

  We were grown men. We’d worked our entire lives to reach this point, to don our jerseys, to play in the league. Why was Eric fucking everything up to come after me?

  What an idiot.

  Maybe he deserved to get hit too—maybe it’d make him realize I wasn’t the one who had betrayed his sister. I was the one helping her.

  We lined up once more. Jack audibled off the run and called for a pass instead. This play I remembered. I rushed forward, helping as an additional blocker against the blitz.

  But the one rushing through our offensive line wasn’t aiming for Jack.

  I crashed against Eric, but running back versus defensive end wasn’t a matchup I was going to win. Jack dumped off the pass. The hits didn’t stop once the whistle blew. Eric threw a punch at me that went unnoticed by everyone except Lachlan, rushing in to separate us.

  “Ohh.” Lachlan understood. “That’s Honeybun’s brother?”

  Eric pointed at me. “You’re dead.”

  This had gone on for long enough.

  The time ticked down at the end of the first half, and I lost my patience. Late hits. Stomped fingers. Dangerous tackles. The rage blended with a headache that already tunneled my vision. Sounds faded. The pain tore through me. Eric still harassed me.

  And I was done with it.

  We lined up on our forty, and Jack called a run.

  “Don’t twinkle-toes it,” he warned. “Get the yardage then get down so we can call a time-out.”

  I didn’t answer. I knew how to play the fucking game. The crowd roared—the fans on their feet, stomping and screaming and throbbing my head.

  At least I was used to the pain.

  The ball snapped. Jack handed it off to me. I cradled it to my chest with both hands and ran, churning through the smallest hole the line could open for me. I managed six yards before hitting the safety that pulled up to protect for the run. I went down quick, preparing for the time-out.

  Eric leapt on me.

  Late. Again. Only this time, he’d aimed for my head.

  I saw red.

  The fury erupted through me. I lost my sight. My hearing. My rationality. My every thought burned in violent instinct to protect myself.

  And I did.

  I launched upright, slamming my hands into his chest. Eric reared back to punch. I was quicker. I dodged, jammed my shoulder into his gut, and drove him onto his ass.

  Whistles blew. The stadium erupted into chaos.

  I didn’t care. I’d hurt this man for daring to push me, to bait me, to aim for my fucking head. This wasn’t about Rory anymore.

  This was about me.

  My safety.

  My future.

  My vengeance.

  I shouted and ripped my helmet away. Eric did the same, but he launched at me first, fists pounding. I dodged one. The other clipped my jaw.

  I threw myself at him, but Jack and Lachlan leapt between us. The offensive line filled in the gap, and the referees blew the whistles and tossed the flags.

  “Don’t you fucking touch me!” I shouted at him. Didn’t matter if he couldn’t hear me. “You wanna settle this? Let’s fucking fight!”

  “Enough!” Jack hauled me away by my shoulder pads. “Off the field. Go. You’re done.”

  The coaches agreed. The offensiv
e coordinator pushed me towards the locker room. “Go. Cool down. Wait for half-time.”

  Jesus fuck. I’d never been tossed off the field before. I checked the clock. The team could manage without me for thirty seconds. Why not get to the locker room and blow my motherfucking head off?

  I lost my helmet somewhere on the field. That was fine. There was enough shit to throw down here. I hit the door first. Then the water cooler. A folding chair crashed into the showers.

  I couldn’t think.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t even feel the pain when a strong arm shoved me into the lockers.

  “Calm the fuck down.”

  It wasn’t the first time Cole Hawthorne had me pinned, but I’d make sure it was the last time he ever put his hands on me. I spun, knocking him away. The Beast didn’t scare me.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Cole didn’t hit me. He pitched a cup of cold water in my face. The second was just an insult. “Fuck, Jude! What the hell’s gotten into you? You’re acting like me.”

  I shook.

  Fuck.

  The rage burned now. Tightened my chest. Throbbed in my head.

  I had never been this angry before.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever calm down.

  The equipment managers watched in quiet fear, desperately attempting to fix Cole’s broken shoulder pads. The coaches and players funneled inside as the half ended. I couldn’t handle their stares. Couldn’t explain what the hell it was I felt.

  This wasn’t me.

  It didn’t even feel like me in my own head.

  Cole gripped my shoulder. “Breathe, Jude. Count to ten.”

  “What the fuck is that gonna do?”

  “It gives you something to do before you break another chair…or your hand.”

  I leaned over, grimacing, fueled with hate and anger and black-pitted emptiness.

  Coach Thompson roared through the locker room. The team silenced, and he pointed a fat finger in my face.

  “What the hell are you doing, Owens? You’re acting like a goddamned rookie. Twelve seasons in this league, when have you ever gotten into a fight on the field?”

  Never.

  I never would have fought during a game.

  It was stupid. It was dangerous. It cost the team yardage.

  I raised my gaze, looking past the coach, the confused team, our frustrated quarterback.