Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  Wait, what?

  “People,” I finish, raising a brow at Buckley, who’s now on his back, belly presented for rubs, and wagging his tail - happy as a fucking clam as Natalie lavishes him with love.

  She turns, shrugging. “Well he seems like a sweetheart to me.” She crouches down to scratch Buckley’s ears. “Yes you are! Aren’t you Buckley!”

  The little traitor licks her hand.

  What the fuck. This dog hates anyone coming too near me - women especially for some reason. Buckley’s cock-blocked me more than literally anything else ever, because he can’t stand when I bring a girl home and ignore him for her.

  And he’s loving Natalie.

  Man’s best friend, huh?

  Natalie stands and steps into the house, and Buckley trots over, as if suddenly remembering he should say hi to me too.

  “So much for loyalty, huh pal?” I mutter, giving him a quick ear scratch before I head in after Nat.

  “Jesus Christ, where the fuck have you- oh.”

  Kyle - my best friend and the only person in the world I’d be okay with being in my house when I wasn’t home - comes to a halt as he storms around the corner from my kitchen. He blinks quickly behind his glasses as he notices Natalie.

  “Well hey,” he grins, pushing hair out of his eyes and adjusting his glasses as he squares his shoulders a little more.

  Yeah, it’s a little eye-rolling, but at the same time, I’m proud of Kyle. Six years ago when we met as freshmen roommates, the kid hadn’t ever even seen a pair of tits that weren’t on the internet. He had the confidence of a damn kitten, and the social skills of the Unabomber.

  I’d like to think I changed that.

  Because for some reason, despite being the most opposite people in the world, we clicked. He kept me grounded, reminded me I was a person and not some campus deity, and more importantly, he was there when shit with my dad started to get rough again back home. I got him out, got him laid, and helped him find the pair I knew he had.

  Loyalty means a lot to me.

  He’s grinning at Natalie, looking downright cocky now.

  Watch it, pal.

  I can’t take all the credit, of course. The guy turned his life around. Started playing a tad less video games, started getting out more, started working out and eating right, and started actually talking to girls.

  This recent boost of cockiness comes from him being a goddamn genius and selling some facial recognition software thing to the Army. A little multi-million-dollar government check never hurts in the confidence or pulling-tail game, I’ll say that.

  I cough, yanking his attention away from Natalie, and he raises an eyebrow at me as he darts his eyes between the two of us.

  “Right, yeah. Nat, meet Kyle, my butler.”

  “Dick.”

  I grin. “Kyle, meet Natalie-”

  “Hey Natalie, nice to-”

  “-My wife.”

  Kyle stops in his tracks and jerks his head back to me. “Uh, what?”

  I frown, bringing a hand up to rub my still sore temples.

  “It’s a long story,” Natalie mutters.

  “Yeah, no, it sounds…”

  Kyle scratches his head as he slowly nods, raising a brow at me. “Well, what happens in Vegas, huh?”

  Natalie groans.

  * * *

  “So, it’s all a sham?” Kyle gives me a look as he leans against my fridge, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or are you actually married?” He shakes his head. “I’m confused.”

  We’re all sitting around the island range in my kitchen - Natalie and I sucking down Gatorade to chase the lingering demons of our post-wedding hangover.

  “How have you not heard about this yet?” I hold up the cell phone I’ve just been dumb enough to turn back on, the screen flashing with something like four-hundred text messages and probably triple that in emails.

  Kyle shrugs. “Hey, I’ve been coding here at your place all day while they finish the flooring at my place. Been on media blackout.”

  “Well, surprise.”

  “So much for that whole ‘keeping it a secret’ thing,” Natalie says flatly.

  I shrug. “It’s Kyle, we know all each other’s dirty little secrets. I mean I was there when he punched his v-card.”

  “Dude!” Kyle glares at me and I grin.

  Natalie arches a brow at the two of us. “Oh, that’s, uh-”

  “No, not like, there there, just, you know, I helped.”

  “Will you stop talking?” Kyle groans. “He means he fed me enough alcohol to sleep with Erica Hopewell, the campus…uh, you know.”

  Natalie snorts into her Gatorade and Kyle gives me the finger. “Anyways, we can move on from this conversation, you know, whenever,” he mutters. He turns back to Natalie. “So, you’re married, for real.”

  “The real deal,” she says, taking another swig of Gatorade and pushing her hair out of her face. Her hand drops down from her hair, and I notice her eyes drop to linger on the ring there on her finger.

  “This part of that whole image thing Derek’s been all about?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  Kyle grins and shakes his head, pulling at the beer in his hand as Natalie and I stand there slumped against the counter sipping our electrolytes. He turns to her. “And how the hell did you let him talk you into this?”

  “I’m paying her five-hundred-grand.”

  Natalie glares at me. “Do you think you could you not tell people that?”

  I grin. “What, seller’s remorse?”

  “No it just makes me sound like a prostitute.”

  We glare at each other for a full three seconds before Kyle claps his hands together.

  “Well, this is already looking like my parents, and seeing as you guys are on your honeymoon right now and all, I’m going to get out of your hair.”

  He turns and shakes his head sympathetically at Natalie. “Honestly,” he grins, “you should’ve asked for a lot more.”

  “Goodbye, Kyle,” I growl as he winks and then gives her a quick hug.

  “Welcome aboard the Austin-train,” he says with a conspiratorial roll of the eyes that manages to pull a small grin to her face.

  “Buckle up.”

  14

  Natalie

  Holy hell, yes.

  I let the air exhale slowly as I ease myself down into the scalding hot water, feeling the tension ooze out of me as I sink into it. I close my, letting the water soak the toxins from my skin, and letting myself feel truly alone in my head for the first time in two days.

  The huge, sunken tub in the en suite bathroom off my new room is huge - huge, steaming, and full of bubbles, and it feels incredible. I realize, as I let my head ease back against the edge and close my eyes, that I’ve basically been in varying degrees of drunk or hungover from being drunk for the last two days straight.

  Gross.

  But my new quarters are incredible, I’ll say that much. And yes, Austin’s Spanish-style sprawling mansion in the Hollywood Hills does in fact have quarters.

  “You married well, princess.”

  I roll my eyes as I sit there soaking in the tub. Well, there’s one thing my mother won’t be able to complain about when she hears about this debacle - if she hasn’t somehow already. In spite all my hang-ups and grumblings about being some rich guy’s arm candy like with Vince, here I went and married a different rich guy. Granted, I can already tell the world of difference between Austin and my ex, even only knowing him for two days, but still.

  Same game, different players.

  I shake my head and bring my hand out of the water, letting the bubbles trail over my fingers and over the glinting of the diamond on my hand - the huge, flashy, screaming lie wrapped around my finger.

  Because whatever a marriage ring is supposed to mean - whatever it’s supposed to signify - this one isn’t any of those things. This one is a joke - a publicity stunt, a facade.

  Then why are you wearing it?


  I’m alone, there aren’t any cameras or media here - no one watching and scrutinizing and wanting to know how my new “husband” and I met and “fell in love.”

  Ugh.

  I haven’t even actually faced any of that yet, and I’m already feeling ill at the idea of sitting up there and smiling while I lie through my teeth about our “relationship.”

  “Well, Oprah, it was really quite magical. You see, Austin and I met at a bar, where we were both wasted, after which I proceeded to kiss him like a crazy person. And from there - well, gee - from there we found ourselves drawing up an arranged marriage contract on an ice cream napkin, driving to Vegas, getting blackout drunk, and waking up naked and married!”

  I snort at the thought of actually saying something like that on national television, visualizing my mother’s jaw dropping to the floor.

  I twist the ring around on my finger, but in the end, I leave it on as I ease back into the sudsy water. I close my eyes again, trying to make sense of the last forty-eight hours or so, and how I managed to go from Vince Capra’s accessory to a pro NFL quarterback’s actual wife in the span of twenty-four hours.

  I mean, remind me why I did this?

  Well, for the money, obviously, but I’m not blind enough to think that’s the only reason. I know that somewhere under the surface, really this was about more than just that. I’m not an idiot. I know that “getting money” for a girl like me with my upbringing, and my polish, and my ties to a certain level of society isn’t hard. But this was about craving something more - an escape from Vince and that whole “upper tier” life.

  Something new, something crazy, something to break the mold and the predestined path I’ve been walking on in glass slippers since I was twelve.

  Of course, that “escape” was never meant to be a real, binding marriage.

  I blow air out through my lips as I lean back in the tub.

  Yeah, that happened.

  Somehow, this whole thing went from a wild and reckless experiment in letting go to waking up naked in his bed with a ring on my finger.

  I blush scarlet at the memory of waking up this morning next to the biggest man-whore in professional sports.

  Yeah, married or not, that is the last time I will be sharing a bed with that man.

  It’s only six months.

  Six months I can do - six months I can rationalize and explain. Hell, my own mother was remarried and then divorced again in a shorter period of time - she’ll get it.

  I close my eyes for another ten minutes or so, until the water starts to cool. Reluctantly, I stand and reach for a towel.

  I should shave my legs.

  I immediately roll my eyes at myself: for who? Who exactly am I trying to impress here? Austin?

  I snort, shaking my head. Yeah, right.

  Of course, I’m still shaking my head as I sit back on the edge of the tub and reach for the razor.

  * * *

  In the whirlwind of the last forty-eight hours, there’s one small, teeny little detail I’ve somehow managed to not think about until the very moment I step out of the bathroom.

  And by “little”, I of course mean huge and somewhat glaring.

  That would be the fact that I’m now living in a stranger’s house with a grand total of two cocktail dresses as my entire wardrobe.

  This is going to be a problem.

  I’ve had exactly one change of clothes since fleeing the Chateau Marmont with Austin - hell, since getting ready to go to that stupid gala event with Vince - the one I obviously never actually made it to. I think longingly about the two walk-in closets full of great clothes sitting back at that house.

  Something tells me I’m going to need more than two cocktail dresses and a huge diamond ring if I’m going to be living here for the next six months. I need clothes, and clothes are going to obviously require money. And seeing as Vince canceled my credit card, this presents a problem.

  I groan at the prospect of doing anything at the moment but falling into the huge four-post bed and falling asleep. But I’m grabbing one of the soft terrycloth robes hanging from the back of the bathroom door and wrapping it around myself. I step out through the double doors of my room to the wraparound terrace to try and find my new “husband.”

  I let my fingers trail over the wrought iron railing of the Spanish-moss adorned terrace that seems to wrap all the way around the corner to the back of the house. I follow it, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sage, and actually marveling at how freaking peaceful it is up here in the hills.

  I glance down at the lush, tree-lined backyard of the huge house, complete with the custom pool and palm trees.

  Yeah, six months at this place? Totally doable.

  And then of course there’s the matter of the man I’ll be sharing the house with.

  My husband.

  My - if nothing else - insanely attractive, bedroom-eyed, cowboy-smiling husband.

  The thought brings a flush to my cheeks and a small smile across my lips that I quickly hide.

  Stop that, he is not.

  Austin Taylor is not a man I’d ever find myself actually interested in. Physical perfection aside, he’s an arrogant, rich, cocky jock, who’s paying me to be married to him.

  That’s it.

  This “relationship” is employer-employee and nothing else, no matter what the State of Nevada says.

  …Like I should give a single crap about what the State that married me in the state I was in says about it.

  In-between Kyle leaving and me getting into my bath, I spent the afternoon in my new room familiarizing myself with Austin via the internet - every gory detail.

  Sure there’s plenty of articles and interviews out there about how great he is at throwing a ball, or how many records he’s broken even before signing with a pro team. But there might be double that in scandalous stories of his off the field antics - the girls, the partying, and something nose-wrinkling about an eighteen-year-old and a DUI.

  Yeah, gross.

  I have zero interest in being another statistic or another casualty of hurricane Austin. And I won’t be, that much I am very certain of.

  No matter how alluring that smile is.

  No, the next six months living with Austin will be fine. I’ll do my thing, he’ll do his. We’ll smile for the cameras, I’ll do the job - and it is a job - I signed up for, and there will be nothing else between us but business.

  This is going to be fine.

  I’m in the middle of convincing myself of that when I walk around the corner of the terrace and right into Austin, and I freeze in my steps.

  He’s shirtless, wearing just a pair of loose, dangerously low-slung pajama pants and a damn cowboy hat, and lounging in a deck chair with his hands laced behind his head.

  I swallow quickly, my eyes following the lines of his ink across his sculpted chest and torso.

  And then he smiles at me - that damn smile, the one I’ve just been convincing myself I’m utterly and completely immune to.

  Lies.

  This won’t be fine at all.

  15

  Natalie

  My entire internal argument from seconds ago blows away like dust with the ridiculously put-together man stretched out in the patio chair in front of me. My eyes immediately drop from his smirking face to his absurdly perfect tattooed physique - to the hard, chiseled lines of his chest and the washboard grooves of his abs, to the tantalizing lines of his hips curving into the waist of his pajama pants.

  I swallow quickly and drag my eyes back up to his face, only to see him smirking at me. I blush, tightening the tie around my waist and reaching up with a hand to close it at the neck.

  “Drink?” he nods at the bottle of red wine sitting on the patio table by his feet, and I grimace.

  “Yeah, hard pass. I think I finally just soaked the last of last night out of my system.”

  “Little hair of the dog,” he says with a shrug, taking a sip of the wine. “It’s actually helping believe it or not.�
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  I make a cringe face.

  He grins. “Better than fucking Gatorade, I’ll tell you-”

  “We need to talk about my payment schedule.”

  He arches a brow, as his mouth closes into a grin, putting down the glass of wine in his hand. “Yeah, I thought I’d just cut you a check or something?” he frowns. “Do you take checks?”

  I raise a single brow and give him a look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t realize how hooker-ish that would sound before you said it.”

  Austin chuckles.

  “And yes, I take checks, I’m not a stripper.”

  “Well I hope not.” He grins as his eyes drop to my robe. “Because if you are, I think I’m getting ripped off.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Look, I’m bringing it up because I need to buy clothes if I’m going to be living here.”

  “I mean, if you’re worried about offending Buckley and me, he and I have a pretty loose rule when it comes to pants in this house anyways.”

  “That’s really helpful, thanks,” I deadpan.

  He flashes that cowboy smile at me. “I’ll set you up tomorrow so you can get some stuff. Cool?”

  “Thanks.”

  He nods with his chin at the chair next to him. “You want to pull up a stool and sit a spell?” That honeyed Texan twang oozes from his lips, only magnified by the ten gallon hat on his head.

  No, you don’t want to do that. You want to go to bed, the voice in my head screams.

  I’m wearing a thigh-length robe with nothing underneath it. And the man I drunkenly kissed in an elevator, and then drunkenly made out with in a club, and then blackout drunk married in Vegas before waking up naked next to is sitting there in sinfully low-slung pajama pants and no shirt.

  Offering me a drink.

  Such a terrible idea. Such a very, very very terrible-

  “Sure.”

  You’re an idiot.

  I cram the voice inside of me into a corner as I pull my robe tight and sit back in the chair next to Austin.

  He sighs as he takes another sip of wine. “I’m a cheap beer kinda guy, but the house actually came with a cellar-full of this stuff, and let me tell you, it’s fucking delicious.”