Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  “You’re being pretty quiet.”

  “Well you’re being really mysterious,” I say quickly, taking a gulp of champagne.

  “Isn’t that what makes a marriage last?”

  I snort. “I think honesty makes a marriage last, or, at least that’s what they say.”

  Austin grins and sits back in the book, his eyes dancing over me. “Well, in that case, I can honestly say you look fuckin’ hot tonight.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I say, taking another gulp of bubbly to hide the grin and the blush that creeps over my face.

  He laughs. “I think I’m allowed to compliment my wife.”

  “Only if you behave.”

  “So is me telling you that your ass in that dress makes my cock hard as a rock behaving?”

  I swallow the mouthful of champagne quickly, choking suddenly on the rush of bubbles caught in my throat as my eyes dart to his. The grin on that handsome jaw says he’s messing with me - trying to get a rise out of me, or to test me to see where my boundaries are.

  But the way his eyes are burning right into me says that his words are anything but a joke.

  I shiver, coughing again as the heat pools between my legs. I’m remembering that kiss in the elevator, the feel of his hands on my face and my hips, the feel of his lips against mine. I’m imagining my dirty thoughts from the shower, and I quickly pull my eyes away from him.

  “Um, no,” I say quickly, clearing my throat folding my hands primly in my lap. “No, it’s not.”

  There’s a war inside of me. On one side is the proper girl - the girl trained to be polite, to fit into a certain level of society. I know I should be incensed by the crudeness of his words, the lewd way he’s trying to get a rise out of me. I should be turned off by every single facet of this man.

  Except I’m not turned off in the slightest. In fact, it’s that crude, dirty edge to him that maybe has me feeling the exact opposite of turned off. Because the other side of that war inside is caught up in this wildness, the recklessness, and the insanity of everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours. The other side of me is screaming for release from the stuffy, and the planned, and the boring, side-lined existence of being partnered with someone like Vince Capra.

  And release and freedom might just be coming from the cocky Texas cowboy smirking at me through the dim light of a Vegas dance club.

  “Alright, c’mon wife. Let’s go dance.”

  I bite my lip. “I’m not really a club person.”

  Austin grabs the champagne out of the ice and fills up the half-empty glass in front of me before sliding it my way. He winks as he fills his to the brim as well. “Well, down the hatch, then.” He tilts the flute back, emptying the entire glass down his throat before he sets it back on the table and grins at me, like he’s daring me.

  Screw it.

  I knock the glass back, draining the champagne down my throat and resisting the urge to cough as I empty the whole thing.

  Austin is nodding at me, grinning widely as I set the flute back down. “Well, shit. My wife, ladies and gentlemen.”

  He starts to fill my glass again when I shake my head, still trying not to cough as I wave my hands over it. “Whoa! Whoa there, buster.” I choke out, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Just trying to loosen you up, princess.”

  My brow shoots up and he rolls his eyes. “To dance, Jesus. I’m not a scumbag, you know.”

  “I don’t know you at all, actually.”

  He jumps up from his seat and sticks his hand down towards me. “Well let’s get to know each other.”

  I eye his hand, chewing on my lip before I move my gaze up to those deep, hazel pools of his eyes.

  “You want to get to know me after you fake marry me, huh?”

  “More than anything.”

  And just like that, as I reach for the glass of bubbly and take another huge swig of it, the battle inside of me is over in the blink of an eye.

  And the new Natalie - the new me who goes to Las Vegas clubs and drinks champagne in private rooms, and who has marriages of convenience with strange, wealthy, and ridiculously attractive men - stands and takes her new “husband’s” hand.

  “Alright, mystery man. Let’s get to know each other.”

  And that’s when I willingly, readily, and eagerly lose myself. It’s taking his hand and letting him pull me into the mass of swirling, dancing bodies as the music pounds around us. Because twenty-four hours after meeting this man – twenty-four hours after kissing him like a crazy person – I’m now in the middle of a Las Vegas club, feeling his body pressed against mine as we pulse and sway to the music.

  Twenty-four hours later, I’m leaving the good, the groomed, and the proper girl named Natalie Ames behind - leaving her standing by the wall like some piece of pretty art, or a conversation piece.

  Because this Natalie Ames just let go. This version of me is letting the thundering bass move through her like a live current, and undulating her hips against the tall dark and handsome with the body carved out of iron behind her.

  This version of me is running her fingers through her hair as she tosses her head back against his broad, chiseled chest. This me is biting her lip and moving in time with his hands on my hips, his breath against my neck, and his lips against my ears.

  And there’s still one lingering part of me that knows how crazy this is - one final part of me that knows I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be dancing with this stranger like this, and letting his hands slide over my body.

  But it feels too damn good.

  All of it does - the letting go, the freedom, the craziness and the music and the champagne pounding through my veins like fire. And of course, him. Him being my new fake husband, my wild-card draw, and my leap of faith.

  His lips slide across my neck as the music moves us like lovers, his hands entwining in mine.

  And I’m free.

  I’m wild.

  I’m hauling him to the bar, laughing when his brow shoots up at the shots I line up across the bar. And I’m laughing, and spinning, and falling into him at the feel of his mouth and his tongue tasting the salt and the lime from my skin. I’m feeling the charge of something raw and something wicked as I taste tequila on his lips.

  This is life. This is living.

  And for the first time since I can really ever remember, I just let go.

  9

  Natalie

  The first thing I’m aware of is the blinding pain lancing through my head.

  I wince, blinking and feeling even worse when I do. I haltingly bring my hands up in font of my face, pawing at the light in some vain attempt at shutting it out, even if I’ve got at least a vague sense of it being sunlight.

  Will someone turn that damn sun off?

  I blink again, this time feeling the rolling wave of nausea oozing through me. I groan, feeling my tongue rasp like sandpaper across my parched mouth, feeling my lips brush together like crepe paper. I roll on to my side, the pulse in my head like a hammer blow again and again.

  Gotta turn that sun off.

  I’m aware of the nonsensical phrasing of the thought in my head, but it’s the one thing I can think of that might help in that horrible nightmare of champagne and tequila hangover.

  My lips part in silent agony, wishing for water that isn’t there as I slowly push the sheets from my body and move to-

  Oh God.

  And that’s when I’m aware of the second thing.

  I’m completely naked.

  More than that, I’m completely naked, in a bed, next to Austin.

  I freeze, the roaring pain in my head almost forgotten as I cringe and turn towards him. I wince as I slowly lift the sheet from his sleeping body and peek under-

  Oh, yep, yeah, he’s definitely naked too.

  I flush red, feeling the panic shooting through me like an electric current.

  Oh my God, what did I DO last night?

  I can’t breathe.

  There’
s the feeling of weight pressing down on my chest, and I’m trying to suck in air as I bring my hands to my face to try and fan myself when-

  Oh. My. God.

  Because that’s when realization number three hits me, like a slap in the face. Or rather, like the glare from the gigantic rock sitting on a gleaming, gaudy ring on my finger.

  And very quickly, I am wide awake.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, staring at the diamond ring on my finger and trying to grasp for answers in the blank memory of my night.

  Holy shit.

  It comes back in vague flashes - a chapel, a bottle of tequila, a limo ride I think, with more tequila.

  Good fucking God, what did I do last night?

  My eyes slowly move from the ring on my hand to the carnage of the hotel room around us - the empty bottles of champagne leaking the last of their contents across a chair in the corner, both of our clothes strewn across the floor.

  I need to get out of here.

  I wince when the pain comes rushing back as I slide my leg out of the bed and stumble for the robe hanging off the back of the duvet by the window. I swallow thickly, tasting tequila and forcing myself not to vomit as I lurch on my feet and clutch at the side table next to me for support.

  I look down, and it’s then that the last of my grasp on keeping calm drops out the damn window.

  Please no.

  I want it not to be real. I want the very vague fracture of memory to be a nightmare, and I want the piece of paper sitting on the table to be a figment of my imagination.

  But the very real, very legal looking, very official looking document sitting there with both our names signed across the bottom says this is anything but a dream.

  In fact, it says one Austin Taylor and one Natalie Ames are legally married in the state of Nevada.

  The marriage license falls from my hands as my head swirls and my feet move on autopilot. I’m grabbing my dress from the night before from the floor, along with one of my shoes, and stumbling for the door.

  I clutch the bathrobe around myself as I yank the door to the room open.

  I have to get out of here, I have to go home, I have to-

  My eyes land on the complimentary morning paper, sitting there outside the hotel room door. And right there on the front page of the Los Angeles Daily Times is a picture of the man I just woke up naked next to.

  The entire world goes still as I pick it up, my eyes flitting over the “NFL’s Hottest Bachelor Wed?” headline to the byline beneath it: “Wild man party-boy Austin Taylor rumored to be on vacation with mystery new bride - who says you can’t tie them down!”

  It clicks right then, because very suddenly, I know exactly how I know the cocky Texan with the body made for sin.

  The guy on the news from time-to-time.

  The guy who was with that girl who was too young or something.

  The guy who crashed his car into a coffee shop.

  …The guy who’s naked and asleep in the bed I just crawled out of.

  The paper drops from my hands, and my eyes suddenly drop in slow motion to the giant, flashing rock on my finger.

  Oh, God.

  Because this may have been fake yesterday, but I think I just actually married the biggest and most infamous man-whore in professional football.

  I’m so screwed.

  10

  Austin

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  My head feels like I just got sacked by the biggest linebacker in the NFL, without wearing a damn helmet. I groan, rolling onto my side in the bed and clenching my jaw at the rolling waves of bile and nausea that boil up inside.

  Holy fuck, mistakes were made.

  Mistakes like that fourth bottle of Dom, or the who-the-fuck-knows how many shots of tequila strewn between them. I’ve also got a vague memory of smoking a joint somewhere - in a limousine I think - and judging from the acrid taste in my mouth, that’s probably not that far off from the truth.

  I was in a damn limo last night?

  The memory is extremely vague, which makes sense given what parts of the night I can actually remember. I grimace again at the thought of what I consumed last night, feeling my stomach turn at the mere thought of the word “tequila.”

  I remember her kissing me.

  Shit. That I damn well remember. I remember her lips on mine, her arms wrapped around my neck, and my hands on her body. There are flashes of laugher, and that smile, and the flick of fire in her eyes.

  In the limo? I’m frowning, trying to think past the kiss to the surrounding and see if I can grab at more of my night.

  Yeah, we kissed in the limo alright - that much is coming back to me. The limo and the private booth of that fourth club we went to. And then the limo again, followed by the hotel lobby, and the elevator, and I feel like I remember something about the suite’s couch, followed by-

  Aww, shit.

  And it’s then that I realize I’m buck naked in the bed.

  I sit bolt upright, my hands clutching at my pounding head as I glance across the destruction of the bedroom - at the knocked-over lamp, the empty bottles of champagne-

  …Her panties laying on the floor next to the bed, and right next to them, like a final damning piece of evidence is a ripped-open box of condoms.

  Oh holy fucking shit.

  I got had.

  It might sound like a shitty first assumption, but it’s spelled out as clear as can be. I’ve heard this story before, from dozens of other high-profile players. I’ve seen this played out before in a hundred tabloid stories. The mysterious girl who seems too good to be true who just “happens” to fall into the rich young sports star’s lap. The coy remarks, the alluding to needing rescuing, followed by the drinks and the drugs, until you wake up with an eighteen-year financial commitment to a girl you don’t even know.

  It’s the classic gold-digger scenario, and I fucking swallowed the whole thing - hook, line, and sinker.

  And now I’m sunk.

  Goddamnit, what was I thinking? A fake marriage? To a girl I met while drunk in a hotel bar? To a girl who I can see now obviously played me like a fucking chump with that whole damsel in distress shit, and the kiss at the elevator, and that little scene she staged in the lobby the next morning?

  Yeah, she probably saw me coming a mile away. She probable heard my conversation with Derek in the bar and saw a golden fucking meal ticket.

  Where is she.

  The bed is empty, although it’s still actually warm when I place my hand on the sheets. I stagger to my feet, feeling the room spin around me as the contents of my stomach churn.

  Jesus, I might still be a little drunk.

  I grab for a pair of boxers from the floor, slipping them on as I hold onto the wall for support. I’m blinking sawdust and regret out of my eyes when I look up, and suddenly, I spy her, sitting out on the balcony.

  I frown.

  Yeah, I’m gonna set this straight right now. I’m gonna give her a piece of my damn mind… if I can even speak right now, that is.

  I stumble towards the sliding door, ready for whatever speech she’s dreamed up. Hell, I wonder if she’s “already late,” I mean, I’ve heard the horror stories.

  The sliding door slams open as I stagger out, and I’m opening my mouth to say all sorts of horrible shit to this little gold digger, when she suddenly turns.

  And she’s crying.

  Wait, what?

  “Hey, uh-”

  She whirls back away from me, wiping her eyes and sniffling, and all at once, all my bravado and my righteousness shatters away.

  “Go away,” she mutters out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

  I swallow, running my hand through my hair and letting my fingers massage my aching temples. “Look, are you okay?”

  She whirls back to me suddenly, fury on her face. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know!”

  I blink at her outburst, frowning as I shake my head. “Excuse me? Says the girl that just fucking used me?”<
br />
  She barks out a humorous laugh. “I didn’t use you, you asshole! You’re the one that got me drunk, and- and-”

  “Whooooaa, hang on now.”

  I hold my hands up, shaking my head.

  “That is not how last night went down, and I think you damn well know that.”

  Her face falls as her shoulders slump. “I- I don’t know how last night happened.”

  The tension seems to drop out from between us as we both sag under the weight of our hangovers - her slumped into the chair, me easing back against the sliding door.

  “Look, I don’t think we- uh, you know.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think we fucked.”

  She wrinkles her brow, like I just fed her a lemon, and shakes her head. “Do you remember?”

  “Not really.”

  She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “Then what on earth makes you think that?”

  Blind hope? Desperate optimism?

  “Wait, hang on.”

  The thought hits me suddenly, and I’m quickly ducking back inside and stumbling for the box of condoms. I snatch it off the floor, and I’m tearing the rest of the top off as I frantically start to count the contents.

  Oh thank God…

  I let out my breath in a woosh - they’re here, all twelve of them still in the foils.

  Unless…

  I yank my boxers down and peer at my cock for a solid thirty seconds before I shake my head and turn to head back out to the balcony.

  “Look, I really don’t think we had sex.”

  She looks up, chewing on her lip and wiping the back of her hands across her eyes again. “I- I don’t know if we did either, but-”

  “Well great!” I momentarily forget my crippling hangover as I let out a whooping sound and pump my fist in the air.

  Natalie scowls. “Well don’t get too happy about it, you prick.”

  I roll my yes. “No, not that, just…you know.”

  She still doesn’t look as happy as I think she should be as she makes a face and drags her eyes back to me.

  I’m ecstatic though - the rush of realizing I’m not about to get raked over the coals on some paternity test somehow acting as the greatest hangover cure in the history of the world.