Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  Please be ok, Oh God, please be-

  And there he is; kneeling in the rubble with chains dangling from his wrists. I’m crying out as I run across the room to him, kissing him and wrapping my arms around him as tears stream down through the stone-dust on my cheeks; “I love you.”

  The words I haven’t said in forever, and yet here they are sounding like the most natural thing in the world to say right now. And I’m saying them over and over as I kiss him, holding him tightly to me and crying; never wanting to let him go, and never wanting to stop telling him.

  “Took you long enough,” he says with a grin on his face, and I sob out a laugh; “I love you too,” He whispers, pulling me close and searing my lips with a kiss.

  “Who the fuck taught you how to drive stick?”

  I choke out a sob at the sound of Logan’s voice, and I turn and throw my arms around my brother; “You did, asshole, but I wasn’t driving anyways.” He winces; “Watch the arm,” he says, nodding at the askew-looking limb at his side. He chuckles and hugs me tight with the other as he nods at a broken spot on the wall right next to where the tank came through; “Well whoever was cut it pretty fucking close there, kid.”

  “I-” I glance at Bryce and reach out to grab his hand before I turn back to Logan; “There’s something I need to tell-”

  “Yeah, no, we’ve covered that,” Logan says with a grin as my jaw drops.

  “I’m- I mean, Logan, I’m so-”

  “You don’t owe me a thing you know, least of all an apology,” He says quietly, wrapping his arm around my shoulder; “I just want you to be happy and safe.” He arches a brow at Bryce; “Happy and safe; you got that, Connors?”

  Bryce grins; “I’m on it.”

  The top to the tank bangs open again, and Sasha comes sputtering out, frowning as she brushes dust and debris from her sleeves.

  “What’s she doing here?” Bryce mutters.

  “Oh, we’re friends now,” I say with a grin, wrapping my arm around his waist.

  “Lovely to see you too, darling,” Sasha says wryly, jumping down from the tank and tossing him a handgun before she hands one to Logan. She suddenly frowns and kicks at the rubble beside the tank; “Oh, dear, is that?-”

  “Anderson?” Logan says evenly. My eyes go wide as I turn towards him. He shrugs; “Like I said,” He nods at the jagged hole in the wall; “You cut it pretty fucking close there.”

  Sasha shrugs; “Well, that’s what happens when you don’t keep your hands to yourself.” She looks up, totally calm; “Now are we quite ready to get the fuck out of here?”

  Bryce nods; “Let’s go.”

  30

  Peyton

  We’re running through the hallways of the fortress towards the vehicle port, Sasha and I helping Logan limp along and Bryce bringing up the rear, when suddenly there’s a shout from behind us.

  I whirl, and my face goes ashen.

  “Alright, enough of this bullshit!” The man with the silvered goatee and the piggish face has a thick arm around Bryce’s neck and a gun at his temple. He’s snarling, his face red with rage as he presses the gun against Bryce’s head, his eyes swinging wildly between him and the rest of us.

  “Where are they!” He roars, clenching his jaw and tightening his arm around Bryce’s neck. I cry out and take a step towards them, but the man hisses and levels the gun at me; “Back up there, sweet cheeks.” Bryce growls and moves to break free of the arm around his neck, but the man who can only be Benson brings the gun right back to his head; “Easy there, Connors,” He spits; “Now where are they?”

  “They’re gone.”

  Benson’s eyes narrow into slits, his lips pulling back in a snarl; “What?”

  “I said they’re fucking gone, Benson; long gone.”

  Benson’s face goes a shade redder and he snarls viciously at Bryce; “You spent them?!”

  “I gave them back; donated them to charities the first chance I had.”

  Benson roars, yanking his arm tight against Bryce’s neck; “You fucking idiot!” He’s raging now, his eyes wild and spit flying from his lips; “You stupid, stupid fucking idiot!”

  The dull roar in my head begins to grow louder and louder, until it begins to drown me; burying me under the force of it and dragging me under. Because suddenly, I’m seeing Bill all over again. The world starts to dim around me, going into slow motion, and suddenly it’s him standing in front of me.

  “The fuck have you been?”

  Only this time, it’s worse, because this time, it’s not just me. This time, I have a family, and he’s hurt them, again and again. This time, I’m watching him inflict the hurt onto someone I love.

  “Don't you dare talk back to me you fuckin whore!”

  And I’m done watching.

  It’s a fluid move as I turn and grab the gun tucked into Logan’s waist. It’s heavier in my hand than I expected, the metal cold as my fingers wrap around the stock. But then I’m turning, the whole scene playing out in slow motion around me as I whirl back to Benson, raising the barrel in my hand, and leveling it at him.

  “Oh, knock it off,” Benson says, rolling his eyes; “You’re not gonna shoot me, sweet cheeks.”

  I’m trembling, my eyes locked on Bryce’s - locked onto the man I love as Benson presses a gun to his head.

  “Run along home, little girl, before you make me do something to mess up that pretty little face of yours,” Benson says with a snarl.

  “I swear to fucking God I'm gonna put some respect into you if I gotta burn it into yer skin!”

  “Besides,” He says, winking at me; “We both know you don’t have it in you to kill anyone, right?”

  The sizzling smell of my own skin, the bright, blinding pain that sears itself into my heart. And I’m screaming…still screaming.

  And suddenly, everything just clicks. The sirens in my head go silent, the gun grows light in my hand, and the world drops away around me as my eyes lock onto Benson; “Wrong.”

  The gun thunders with the sudden explosive release, the recoil thudding through my body with one deafening, defining moment. Benson falls back, and it’s almost like slow motion as I watch him tip backwards, as if falling through water, before he crumples to the ground.

  And suddenly the world snaps back to normal speed as the whole scene goes silent.

  I let the gun drop from my hand, letting it clatter to the floor. I’m falling, the world spinning around me before suddenly Bryce is there, catching me and wrapping me in his arms; “Hey, I’m here,” He murmurs, and I press my face into his chest, squeezing my eyes shut and letting the moment flow through me; “I’m here.”

  And suddenly, for the first time in forever, the roaring inside of me is gone, and I feel something new entirely.

  Peace.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to look up into my brother’s face as he nods at me slowly; “You OK?”

  I grin and grip Bryce’s hand even tighter; “I’m-” I take a shaky breath, finding my center, and breathing in the silence inside; “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s all going to be OK.”

  And I know it is.

  “Let’s go home.”

  31

  Peyton

  E P I L O G U E

  Every person has a story to tell, and try as you might, it’s never one you write alone.

  Believe me, I’ve tried.

  It’s also never just about one person, either. You don’t get to pick the characters in your story, because they just happen, and the ones that are meant to be there are going to be there no matter what; even if you pretend to ignore them for a year.

  I squeeze Bryce’s hand harder as we watch Logan all but leap down the stairs from the plane and run across the tarmac towards Quinn. And right there behind them is the rest of their- I stop and shake my head; no, right there behind them is the rest of my family, the only one I’ve got and the best one I could have ever hoped for. Hudson and Reagan, with Christine clinging to her dad’s good shoulder are grinnin
g as they close in to wrap their arms around Logan, and then there’s Javier, actually crying as he grabs the man he once wanted to kill into a big bear hug as Chelsea grins away behind them.

  And then we’re watching the introductions as Logan beckons a suddenly shy-looking Sasha over to their little group; one more new face to the crowd.

  “You ready?”

  I turn and grin at Bryce, threading my fingers into his. Am I ready to finally take the step we meant to take a year ago? Ready to finally join a family and stop pretending I’m the only one writing this story?

  Hell yes.

  “So, I guess this means I’m in the cool Archer club now?”

  He rolls his eyes, knowing I’m teasing him; “Yeah, I’ll make sure to get you that membership card and the jacket with your name on it pronto.”

  “Guess this means we need get married or something, huh?” I grin at him, seeing him arch an eyebrow at me; “Probably have some kids, something normal like that?”

  Bryce laughs; “Well well, is stone-cold Peyton Rivers ready to settle down?” He makes an overly dramatic shocked face at me; “So I guess this means you’re ready to be my good little housewife? Get all domesticated? Cook my dinners, bring me my slipper-”

  I slug him in the arm; “I’d like to fucking see you try!”

  He laughs; “There it is.” He kisses me; “How about you stay exactly the same,” he murmurs; “I like you wild.”

  “Only if you stay crazy,” I say with a grin.

  “Deal.”

  But of course, there’s never a “final chapter” to anyone’s story, because the story is always moving forward. Every day is an empty page, and it’s our job to fill them with life; with laughter, with tears, with struggles, and with triumphs. We may stumble and fall, and we may bend and break under the winds and tides of the fates that move us, but no matter what, the story will always find it’s way through.

  Because that’s life.

  Also by Aubrey Irons

  Standalone Stepbrother Romance:

  Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

  Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance

  Cockney: A British Stepbrother Romance

  Crude: A Stepbrother Romance

  Soldiers of Fortune Series:

  Heat

  Burn

  Scorch

  Roar

  Join the mailing list for ARC opportunities, author giveaways, and new release news. Zero spam.

  http://eepurl.com/bu3-3P

  About the Author

  Aubrey Irons enjoys writing about bold, sassy, and intelligent women and the dominant, cocky, and quite typically forbidden alpha males who love and lust for them; gripping stories, happy endings, and enough heat to keep things extra steamy!

  In the real world, Aubrey is kept plenty entertained by her own tattooed Marine husband, their precocious and adorable three year old, and one very ill-behaved puppy.

  To find more of Aubrey’s books on Amazon,

  Click here!

  Always FREE with your Kindle Unlimited subscription!

  I love hearing from readers!

  Email: AubreyIronsAuthor@gmail.com

  Website: www.AubreyIrons.com

  Facebook

  Goodreads

  Newsletter

  Instagram: @AubreyIrons

  Twitter: @AubreyIrons

  Sneak Peak: “Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance”

  1

  Hailey

  Oh my God, is that his dick?

  He’s knee-deep in the pool, too busy with the two giggling, topless coeds squirming in his arms to notice us as we step out the backdoor of the house. Or to notice the look of shock on stunned faces.

  My eyes go wide, at the nearly naked man with the chiseled muscles and the cavalier half-cocked grin on his face standing there in the shallow end of the pool in just a pair of dripping wet white briefs. I quickly force myself to look away from the very noticeable something, bulging at the front of those jockeys.

  “Dalton!” His mother shouts again, this time snapping his attention to the three of us standing there. The two nearly-naked girls hanging off his muscled biceps suddenly shriek, trying to cover themselves as they duck behind him.

  But Dalton Cole doesn’t bat an eye.

  Dalton Cole doesn’t flinch, or turn red, or even do anything much to cover the fact that he’s all but naked.

  Dalton Cole only shrugs and brings the bottle of tequila in his hand up to his lips to take a swig. His crystal blue eyes sparkle, and that strong, chiseled, cowboy-looking jaw that graces magazine covers, and ESPN headline interviews, and a major underwear ad campaign pulls back in that trademarked cocky grin. His eyes move over his mother, and my dad, until they land on me.

  And he winks.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  The notorious, the infamous, the disgustingly arrogant Dalton “Ten” Cole. “Ten” for “Tennessee”, his middle name, “Ten” for the number he wears on the back of his jersey, and “Ten” for-

  Well, no, that part is I’m sure just a gross tabloid rumor.

  Dalton Cole - the biggest thing to hit the Georgia college football scene since, well, ever. Apparently. Statewide MVP back in high school, media darling, a damn underwear model, and an NFL shoe-in in a few years.

  It’s not like I pay attention to football, at all, even with my dad being the famous high school coach he is. But you’d have to be living under a rock to not know who Dalton Cole is. And living under a rock when it comes to Georgia football is not an easy task when your dad just accepted the head football coach position at the state university.

  I’ve managed to avoid meeting Heather’s headline-making, party-boy of a son so far, even though she and my dad have been together for a little over six months now. That is, until this “important” dinner tonight, two weeks before classes start.

  All good things must come to an end.

  I grimace at the walking frat-boy cliché standing almost naked in front of us - complete with the bottle of booze and the skanky girls.

  “Ladies?” Heather’s voice is sharp as she crosses her arms and glares at the two half-naked college girls somehow trying to hide behind her son.

  “Sorry, Dean Cole!” They’re scampering out of the pool and grabbing towels, and bikini tops, and flip flops before they tear around the side of the large house back towards the driveway.

  Heather narrows her eyes as she turns back to her son. “Dalton Cole you put that bottle down this instant!” she says, shaking her head.

  That arrogant smirk drops from his lips as he hangs his head and shakes it, the picture of remorse. “I’m sorry, mama,” his voice drawls and drips that southern charm and he looks up and smiles that lopsided, chiseled grin as he steps from the pool.

  Goodness.

  I’ve of course seen him without a shirt on before - I mean half of the country has seen him in just his underwear after that ad campaign. But seeing a glossed magazine ad, or a billboard just isn’t the same thing as watching him pull himself out of the pool here in the flesh.

  The very perfect, very sculpted-from-marble, very muscled flesh.

  I can feel my cheeks burn as I quickly avert my eyes.

  He casually grabs a towel, still in no great hurry to cover up his almost naked form as he pats himself dry.

  “I’m real sorry, Coach,” he says in that Georgia accent. “That was disrespectful of me, sir.” He shakes his head and puts his hand out towards my dad.

  Oh, he’s good.

  My dad just chuckles and shakes his head. “Hey, boys will be boys.” He puts his hand out to shake Dalton’s outstretched hand. “You just bring that energy to the field this season, son.”

  Dalton grins - that shark-like smile that says he’s won over another one. “You bet, Coach.”

  Suddenly, he’s turning to me, those big blue eyes landing right on me.

  And he grins.

  “Hi,” he drawls out, his voice smooth and honeyed.

  I swal
low quickly, pushing down my skirt and feeling the heat in my face as he looks at me with that lopsided, easy farm-boy smile.

  No, stop that.

  I will not be charmed by this boy. I will not be taken up in his wake like every other girl, or recruiter, or coach he’s ever met. I can see right through his “yes mama” and “that was disrespectful of me sir” bull-crap to the cocky prick behind it all. I’ve met this type before, with my dad being who he is. The cocky, arrogant, sports-type - the type that thinks just because he can throw or catch a dumb ball, he’s somehow better than anyone else, or that he’s God’s gift to women.

  I can’t stand the type.

  Dalton grins at me despite the vaguely sour look on my face and my arms crossed over my chest. “I don’t know how we managed to not meet yet, but I guess we’re gonna be getting pretty close this year.”

  I flash a fake smile right back at him. “Oh, I’m not sure we’re in much of the same classes.”

  Because, you know, I can read, and write, and talk in sentences that don’t end in “bro”.

  He laughs. “And I’m not sure you’re cut out for college ball, darlin,” he throws back easily with a grin. “But that ain’t what I mean.”

  I don’t care what he means. I get that this dinner tonight is important - after all, we’re celebrating my dad’s new position and all. And I like Heather, but eating at her house tonight doesn’t mean I need to make nice with her douchebag of a son.

  I’ll sit here at this dinner and I’ll be polite. I’ll avoid or ignore the arrogant jerk with the legendary track record, and the billboard-model face, and the infamous package, and then he and I will never, ever have to see each other ever again.

  “I mean what with our parents getting-”

  “Dalton-” Heather suddenly cuts him off with a worried look to me and then my dad.