Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance

by Sosie Frost

  Technically, I was told by my PR team not to mind. One of Leah’s fucking rules. Be gracious to the fans, even if they interrupt your dinner, your night out, or your score with three beautiful women. After the run-in with the drunk asshole who thought it’d be a good idea to grab my dick while taking the selfie, Leah clarified I also wasn’t allowed to punch any fans. Apparently having a bruise on my cock wasn’t an excuse.

  Nothing was an excuse for Leah.

  “Goddamn, Jack-fucking-Carson!” Plaid stumbled before me to shake my hand. “My oldest son played for Oakdale High School. He faced you every damn year. You whooped our ass.”

  Everyone loved a local boy. “I broke every record Shawnee Hills had.”

  “And State too.” He pointed at me, posing for the selfie. “Never saw a quarterback like you. You’re goddamned talented, Carson. One in a million.”

  So I’d heard. Again and again. It didn’t stop them from praising me, and the hundredth time it was said sounded just as good as the first.

  I graced their camera with a grin that showed both dimples. The women giggled. I offered to sign an autograph, despite Bryon gesturing like I volunteered to give the fans a blowjob.

  Plaid shook my hand again. “Can’t wait to tell the guys at work I met a damned hero today.”

  The older man snorted. “Hero? Christ. What the hell happened during that championship game last season? Goddamn, never saw a man choke so bad in my life.”

  My team hushed into silence.

  My dimples disappeared.

  The pen tore through the napkin I meant to sign.

  The old man slapped his friend’s shoulder. “How much money we lose? Five hundred bucks?” He shook his head. “Third and inches, and you audible and throw the ball? When you got Bryon Washington over there with sixteen consecutive one hundred yard games? Jesus. That was a bad play call, and you knew it before throwing the interception.”

  It didn’t take a lot to piss me off, but I didn’t have enough to drink to dull my temper.

  Talking about that game didn’t just tempt the rage. It unleashed it.

  Championship game. Tie-fucking-score. We were almost in field-goal range for the last goddamned minute of the game…and I threw an interception that was run back for a touchdown.

  I still had fucking nightmares from that game, and this random asshole thought he could judge me without ever stepping on a football field? He lost money? I lost more than that.

  Sponsorships. The renegotiated contract. My face on every video game.

  Respect.

  I slammed the napkin against the man in plaid. My guys hadn’t moved. Smart.

  The older man sensed he was in mortal fucking danger and wisely cleared his throat. He thanked us for our time and led his friend away. Plaid scolded him as they ducked into the main room.

  “What the fuck did you do that for? You’re lucky he didn’t deck you. That bastard is a loose cannon.”

  And so it went.

  Cocksuckers. The only cannon in the room was my goddamned arm, and it was more than ready to lead us back to the championship.

  I snapped my fingers and summoned the girls to my side.

  “We’re leaving.”

  The rest of the team took the hint. The waitress brought the check. I didn’t even look at the total. I counted out ten, one hundred dollar bills from my wallet and tossed it on the table. Half of them fell onto the plates of wings and burgers, but the girl would earn four hundred in a tip if she just wiped the barbeque sauce off the bills.

  I led the women from the table without a word. Good thing I was taking home three girls. I’d have to get sucked off twice before I’d relax after dealing with that bullshit. They could fight over who got the shit fucked out of them first. It didn’t matter to me which pussy sat on my cock, just so long as they realized what a goddamned privilege it was to get fucked by me.

  Even if I didn’t have that final win of the season.

  Halter-Top snorted in the parking lot as I led them to my car. “That’s…your ride?”

  She needed a cock in her mouth before she said anything else stupid. I glanced from her to a beautiful classic car that shouldn’t have existed in such great shape. “That is a 1968 Camaro Z28. Mint condition.”

  “It’s old. I thought you’d have a Hummer or something.”

  Yeah. One of those sounded perfect about now. I opened the door for her like a gentleman, but where was the press to take that picture?

  “It’s a classic,” I said. “Anyone can get a Hummer. There’s only a few of these cars left in good condition.”

  Blondie peeked inside. “It doesn’t have a GPS.”

  The brunette pouted and held out her phone. “I need a charger.”

  Jesus Christ. Three times the pussy, three times the headaches. None of them wanted to ride in the back seat. I finally pointed Halter-Top and Blondie to the rear. Brunette would ride with me.

  I sunk into my seat and started the car. It roared to life, a sexy purr that’d sound better once all three of the women made similar sounds. Black dress knew what to do. Her hand immediately found my leg. I glanced at the two pouting in the backseat.

  “Feel free to warm up together.” I peeled from the parking lot. “Gonna be a long night ladies.”

  That got smiles from them.

  The brunette unzipped my pants as we crossed the bridge to downtown. I adjusted my arm and let her lean across the seat. She was in for a show.

  She gasped as my cock burst from my jeans—hard, throbbing, and demanding that one of the girls swallow every inch. Brunette obliged, immediately gagging over the length. I put up with it until her tooth accidentally scraped me.

  Oh, hell no. One of Ironfield’s famous potholes and I’d be circumcised. I tugged on her hair and encouraged her to use her hand instead.

  It wasn’t as good, but Blondie and Halter-Top made up for it. They timidly kissed as if neither of the girls were bad enough to experiment in college. After a few seconds, they started groaning. Blondie got the right idea. Her fingers slipped beneath Halter-Top’s shirt and crept up, up, up until her new friend’s eyes widened and she breathed that telling little Oh!

  Never let it be said Jack Carson didn’t offer his girls a good time and a variety of new experiences.

  My luck didn’t last long. I merged onto the bridge and into traffic just as Brunette screamed.

  She braced herself against the dash as a minivan tried to exit the bridge by cutting across three lanes of traffic and weaving in front of my car. I jammed the brakes, but it didn’t do a damn thing when the van swerved into my lane. For whatever bullshit reason, the van slammed her brakes too.

  I couldn’t prevent the collision.

  My pristine 1968 Camaro crashed into some shitty soccer mom’s rusted van. Both vehicles lurched across the lanes as frames bent and tires popped. My hopes of getting laid ended as my head bounced off the steering wheel.

  Smacking my nose was better than my arm or knee, but not by much.

  The women turned to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.

  Fuck. We blocked the entire highway.

  The traffic stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute hysterics.

  My girls burst from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the crash.

  Halter-Top screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”

  At least she had a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.

  I kicked open my door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke it. My car was completely totaled.

  A camera flashed.

  I grunted, turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant someone recognized me
and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time belonging to the three women I had escorted. My dates categorized their injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.

  Those pictured would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough hashtags at the moment.

  Flashing red and blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed over my face.

  “Hey! You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan. You okay, man? What happened?”

  I wished my nose would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”

  “Can’t be any worse than that championship game, am I right?”

  I forced a laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for me.

  Coach Thompson would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.

  And Leah?

  Holy shit. Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to her.

  Leah was going to have my balls.

  If she didn’t kill me instead.

  2

  Leah

  “What did you do this time?”

  I wanted to slam the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a thunderous crash.

  Jack Carson flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body flexed as he stretched his long arms.

  He rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest, hard-working girl blush.

  And I was the one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets sneaking from his bedroom.

  Not today.

  Oh, not today.

  I was in no mood for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.

  Trouble-Maker.

  At least, that’s the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He deserved many more names—starting with bone-head and working up to the insults my father yelled watching his championship game.

  “Mornin’, Kiss.” He gave me a victorious grin that probably melted the panties off the girls from last night. If they had been wearing panties. Knowing Jack, that was unlikely. “Looking good today.”

  “Don’t start,” I warned.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you start with me.”

  He surrendered and held up his hands. His arm was bruised, but not as bad as his face. Did he break his nose last night? I considered throwing the newspaper at him, but a calming breath worked wonders to deal with his crises in the past.

  I set the article on the table, neatly folded next to my laptop, cell phone, and untouched mocha latte. I usually needed the coffee, but anything I drank this morning would have spit up in a panic. I ordered one anyway, just to give the appearance that today was like any other scandal. It wasn’t, but I had my own reputation to maintain.

  Three hours of sleep left me cranky, but that was fine. I could be professional during the interviews and press conferences. Cordial. I’d handle Jack Carson’s latest catastrophe with the grace expected of T&R Publicists LLC. He hired us to buff out the blemishes in his reputation. Sometimes we needed a heavy rag. Today, we…needed a sledgehammer.

  This problem wasn’t like Jack’s other situations. It was worse. Much worse. The league scheduled a call for eight AM, and the email we received from the president wasn’t friendly.

  I’d rather deal with prosecutors and jilted lovers than Frank Bennett, president of the American League. Not only was he a hard-ass with the teams, he had a hard-on to destroy Jack’s career.

  Which meant he’d destroy my career.

  And that was quite unacceptable.

  Jack took the newspaper and glanced over the headline. Playboy Quarterback Blitzed In Car Crash. The picture was graphic, a candid photo of Jack with blood smeared over his face and dripping onto his shirt. I ignored the three women in the background of the picture—for now. We had enough work to do.

  I didn’t wait for my boss to arrive. For nearly a year, Jolene had trusted me to tame the untamable, if only because she had too much of a crush on Jack to take the lead on his case. Not a problem for me. Jack wasn’t my type. I kept myself out of trouble.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn’t that your job?”

  “Don’t call me Kiss.”

  “I thought you liked that nickname.”

  “I don’t.”

  “It suited you.”

  How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.

  “Don’t call me Kiss,” I said. “I’ve told you before.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Many times.”

  Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming infatuated.”

  Oh, please. “So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”

  “You’ll know when I lay on you.”

  That wasn’t ever going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for three hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.

  “Seriously, Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”

  His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s what happened.”

  I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.

  “Forget about the car,” I said.

  Jack’s dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.

  “Forget the car?” He acted like that was the scandal. “It was a classic. 302 V8 engine. Four speed manual transmission—”

  I already learned football for this job; I wasn’t taking a literal crash course in cars too. “Jack, the car doesn’t matter. You had three women with you and the van driver had just dropped her children off. You are so lucky you didn’t slam into a family with your…your…”

  “My what?”

  “Your…whore-mobile!”

  “My whore-mobile?”

  I waved a hand. “What would you call it?”

  He shrugged. “My totaled, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores not included.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”

  He smirked. “We were just taking a drive.”

  “A drive?”

  “I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Mig
ht not kill you to try it once in a while.”

  His fun wasn’t my definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed you.”

  “Only makes me stronger, Kiss.”

  “Only makes you look like more of a playboy.”

  Jack’s words didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a drive.”

  I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.

  “Why was your fly down?”

  Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers.”

  “You think?”

  “I almost gave a free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have been a lot worse.”

  He was delusional. “How?”

  “Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”

  “Too much information.”

  “Believe me, there’s enough to spare.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You might, one day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”

  “Neutering you might actually settle your ass down.”

  “I’m never settling down.”

  “What a surprise.”

  Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.

  Me included.

  “You realize how bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. “The restaurant you left was trashed. The waitresses humiliated. There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night—”