Yeah, I wouldn’t trade her in for a real recovery for the world.
We’re strolling the neighborhood, Lily’s arms spreading out as if she’s on the Titanic, gurgling and babbling the entire way.
I’m meandering, stopping near storefronts and making faces at Lily in our reflections, but I have a certain destination in mind and the closer we get, the more nervous I become.
Fucking ridiculous. I don’t get nervous. With scouts from NFL watching my games, I’d been desperate to blow off steam, bouncing from foot to foot, breathing heavy out of my nose, but that wasn’t nerves. That was the high of competition and getting noticed. And winning.
Championship games in UF, same thing. Gunning for success, I channeled every fiber into ramming through all obstacles, including other dudes, until I got to the end zone. All that adrenaline made my jumps higher, my dodges wider, my slamming of that football into the ground all the more earth shattering.
I’ve been under pressure. I’m the definition of stress, what with one single hit, coupled with a simple disc of cartilage, ruining all I fought for.
Five seconds. That’s all it took for fate to swipe out my legs from underneath. Literally.
“Oh, my gosh, who is this cutie? Hi, sweetheart! Hi!”
I tear my focus from the horizon of buildings and see a woman bending in front of Lily’s stroller, fluttering her fingers.
Mainly, I redirect my attention to her tits.
They’re full, wide, and almost spilling out of her sundress, if it weren’t for her lace bra keeping them contained. Her skin’s tanned the right shade of golden, and her eyes are a pretty blue when they stray up to mine and linger there.
“Hi,” she says to me, but she doesn’t straighten. Lily’s beelined for the rings on her finger.
“Hey.” I nod.
She’s hot, no question. Gorgeous long, blonde hair, her face enhanced by makeup she knows how to use, lips and a mouth that could give a quick, satisfying blowie that a guy may or may not jerk off to the memory of later.
But right now, all I’m thinking about is how annoyed I am she’s touching my kid without asking first.
“What’s her name?” she asks.
I low-key roll the stroller closer to me so Lily can’t reach this woman’s hand that easily.
“Lily,” I say.
With the space between them, the woman’s queued to rise, so she does, but not without an obvious glance at my left hand. “She’s adorable.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you giving Mom a much-needed break, taking her out?”
I can’t help but smile at the not-hint. I could really nail it home right now, answering something like, no, because her mother’s dead, but this woman doesn’t deserve that. She’s flirting, and normally I’d happily flirt back, maybe even get her number for a fuck later, but something’s holding me back.
“It’s just me,” I say instead, except I pull my brows in. It’s not just me. It’s Carter and me, but how do I label her? Roommate? Friend? Adoptive mom?
Carter means more than all of those labels put together.
“Oh,” this woman says, a hand fluttering to her chest. Her nails are a bright, bright yellow. “That’s amazing. Single dads are so…” She rests her tongue against her top row of teeth. “You’re a wonderful man to do that.”
Again, so easy. But I refrain. “It takes a village to raise a kid.”
“I’m Samantha.” She offers her hand.
“I have to go.”
What the fuck am I doing? This chick is giving all the right signals for beneficial, no-commitment sex, and here I am scampering away from it faster than this stroller’s wheels can roll.
“I…okay,” she says, and any remaining come hither dies out. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
And I’m off, never to see that woman again.
Because it seems I can’t stop figuring out what to call Carter.
Lily’s stroller gets stuck in the doorway.
“I gotcha, there ya go.” Coach Becks holds the double doors open wider, and I navigate the stroller through.
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, and he claps me on the shoulder.
The barrel of a man, more shine than hair, adjusts his glasses and fists his hands to his hips. “I’m very glad you came by, Locke. We could use more men like you.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to entertain a cold call.” I peer down sheepishly. “With a baby in tow.”
Coach Becks chuckles. “This is a family neighborhood. I don’t expect any less. She’s a great one, though. I didn’t expect her to be so good throughout the interview.”
“The power of a shoelace,” I say, and Lily’s still playing with the lace I pulled out of my Converse, in desperation to keep her happy when she threw her bunny rabbit across the room and denied any form of a teething cracker. The undignified shriek that followed rattled all of Becks’ trophies in his office.
I’ve learned that babies are mainly happy with toys that are not toys.
And with supervision, I doubt even Carter could yell at me for giving Lily a shoelace to dangle around. No need to mention the multiple times she put it in her mouth and chewed on it. I could leave that out of our daily download when I next see Carter.
“I’m gonna have a talk with the principal, take a second look at the resume you handed over.” Coach scratches under his chin. “But I expect to give you a call in a few days, let you know our decision.”
“Sure thing,” I say. “And whenever you want me to come by, see how I do with the boys on the field, I’m happy to.”
“Absolutely, son.” Another pat on the back. “We’ll be seeing you.”
“Thanks again, Coach.”
“Thank you, son, for coming by. I saw that video. What a shame.” He shakes his head, and I ignore the longing churn in my gut to rewind my life as easily as the millions who saw my injury rewound to the second my body went crack, over and over.
“I’m glad to see you wanting to stay in the game, though,” Coach continues. “A sign of a true sportsman.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Bye-bye, honey.” Coach waves at Lily, but as low and gruff as his voice is, he’s incapable of baby talk. I doubt he ever wants to master baby talk.
I give another salute, then push Lily out to the sidewalk, my right foot making a loose scuffing sound every time I step, considering what ties my shoe down is currently reserved indefinitely by my baby.
My baby.
I wonder if, had I not sustained such an insane injury, I would’ve received news of a daughter while still a top athlete. Would I have accepted it as easily? Wanted to father so quickly? I remember facing Carter at that gimmicky fish restaurant, determined to do right. But I’d had nothing. I’d been stripped and was willing to do a whole lot more to acquire some semblance of self again.
If I’d been as successful, so focused on the game and knee-deep—no pun intended—in pigskin and women the pro-baller life brings to all of us like gods, would I have wanted her? This baby girl that’s uplifted my mind and spirit in more ways than I ever thought I deserved?
I don’t want to think about it too hard. What the Lachlan Hayes of the past would’ve done.
Breathing out hard, I turn Lily home, with plans for a bottle of milk, some food, and a nap, much in line with my girl.
The trip to the high school was more taxing than anticipated but well worth it. I find myself excited to tell Carter about my impromptu interview for the part-time coaching slot, see that lively face light up even more, and it would be directed straight at me.
She’s the reason for this, I know. Carter’s the reason for a lot of things happening in my life right now. The closer we get to her departure, the more I want to ask her to stay, but she’s a vault. I have no idea what she’s thinking or what she wants out of this. It’s clear it’s going to destroy her to leave Lily, but what’ll it do to her to leave me? Will she even consider it?
> I grip the stroller’s handles tighter. I don’t like this…uncertainty…I’m dealing with. It’s never been a factor in my choices. This weird tide swelling in my gut, the quickening of my breaths, it feels more like a heart attack than indecision.
I rub at my chest, feeling a weird pain in that spot where my heart is, but I dismiss it in passing. I haven’t walked this far in a while. By no means is it heartache. I can’t even come up with the definition of that word.
After another few minutes where I’m really beginning to feel it in my knee, I see the door to our apartment approaching. I quicken the pace, much to Lily’s glee, and this time, when I shoulder the front door open, I’m going to leave the stroller in the foyer. I’m too stiff, in too much growing, threatening pain, to attempt both the baby and this contraption up a flight of stairs.
I spin the stroller. Lily claps her hands together upon seeing me, and I swear, fatherhood should always feel this good.
“C’mere, darlin’,” I say, and lift her up, buckling a tiny amount when I can’t help but lift her over my head for a second and hear that delighted squeal. “Ready for some lunch?”
“Ayuh!”
“Say it again, sweetie,” I say, turning to the stairs. “Say that word that gets me all mushed up inside.”
“Adah.”
“Close.” I take the first couple of steps, taking my time.
“Dada!”
“Yeah!” I lift my hand, and instead of high-fiving, she finds my middle finger and shoves it into her mouth. I laugh, then laugh harder when I feel the sharp stub of a tooth.
“A tooth!” I say with a comical, wide-eyed expression she loves. “You have a toof coming in!”
I take another step up, weirdly out of breath. “Wait until Carter hears about this, huh? She’s gonna go nuts. Nuts, I say. I…”
Oh, shit.
My vision scrambles for a minute, and I grab the bannister. Lily’s clapping her hands near my chest, her body small and warm in my arms.
“Hang on, honey, I gotta…” I shake off the dizziness, and my knee screams when I lift it. But I have two more stairs left to go. I gotta make it, then put Lily down, and maybe call Carter because I feel…
I don’t feel…
I’m gonna…
I’m…
29
Carter
“You nailed it, Princess. You sold your first piece.”
Pierce is grinning at me on the other side of the cafe’s counter. I’m casually leaning my forearms on the pastry display, pretending that a stranger displaying my art in his living room isn’t giving me all the feels in the fucking world.
“The power of the QR code, am I right?” I say to him.
Pierce laughs. “Don’t you be turning my advice into a snippy bitchy. Yes, you sold via the old ways of yore, a lone ranger coming into this joint, laying his eyes on perfection and then booming, give me that painting! A rare gift in these technological times.”
“One I’ll be sure to frame.” The check’s laying on the glass countertop between my hands.
“Stop smudging my pastry display.”
“Sorry.” I bounce up, clutching the check. “I can’t believe someone paid two hundred dollars. I can’t believe this is mine.”
Pierce gives me the side-eye. “A steal, in my opinion. You should charge more for the amount of effort you put in.”
I glance around at the remaining pieces framing his cafe walls. “These are something like five years of work. I haven’t lifted a paintbrush in…gosh…too long. This”—I raise the check—“this makes me want to find a set of paintbrushes immediately and begin again.”
“Ah, this city. So many of us begin again in the very spot you’re standing. So why not you, huh?”
I smile at him as he slides a mug over to me that Cameron has quietly crafted beside him. It’s a rare gesture, I’ve learned, from Pierce’s husband. He doesn’t say much, but his affection is obvious in his actions. Such as this one, where the foam is crafted into smiling lips with teeth.
“Thank you, Cam,” I say.
He doesn’t lift his head from the espresso machine, because with the ambulance driving by, he didn’t hear what I said.
“And also a place where so many of us do stupid things,” Pierce says, clucking his tongue as he stares out front. “Another one bites the dust.”
I lift the mug to go sit down but check my phone first. Locke should’ve been here by now. He said he was running late about an hour ago, but it’s hard to tell what he’s up to because he’s one of those guys who views texting as the exact amount of space one needs to get the point across. Most of his responses consist of k, bye, no prob, and yep.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I say to Pierce and Cameron.
Pierce nods and throws a dish towel over one shoulder, readying to assist a few people who drift into the coffee shop. Cameron, as expected, doesn’t stray from his foam art.
I take a seat at a two-top near the wall, under a painting Locke would probably like. It’s a building, an old, Parisian one I found online, and I sketched a masculine face within the concrete. A lot like an athlete’s expression, young and determined, racing to the finish line, lips peeled for one last breath before tasting success.
Maybe I’ll give it to Locke. My cheeks warm at the thought. It’s so personal, giving him a piece of my art. And he might not even like it, or worse, think it’s cute and stupid. Like I’m a tiny, besotted puppy dropping a dug-up bone at his feet.
My phone buzzes and I look over the rim of my coffee, Locke’s contact flashing.
Weird.
Locke never calls.
“Hey,” I say when I put the phone to my ear, setting down my mug.
“Is this…Carter Jameson?”
My back goes straight. I don’t recognize the male tone. “Yes. Who’s this? Why do you have Locke’s phone?”
“Your number was the top listed in his recents. Are you related to him? Or to the baby that’s with him?”
“Wha…” I choke on nothing. My rib cage calcifies, and I don’t have a reason yet. But the dread…some kind of dread is beginning to choke me. “I’m-I’m Lily’s, the baby’s—”
“Mother?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been an accident.”
I jump up, the chair toppling to the ground behind me. “What kind of accident?”
“Carter, you okay, honey?” Pierce is rushing out from behind the counter, but I barely see him through the watery film in my eyes.
“Your husband took a fall while carrying the baby. A downstairs neighbor called 9-1-1. You need to meet us at Brooklyn Hospital Emergency.”
My breathing changes. Going in and out, but harsher. And with a squeaking, quaking afterbite.
“Can you do that, Mrs. Jameson?”
“Y-Yes,” I manage to breathe out shakily. “Yes.”
“Okay. What’s the name of your husband? We can’t find his ID.”
“Is he okay?” I say. “Locke—I mean, Lachlan Hayes. Is my baby—Lily Tobias—okay?”
“You need to meet us at the hospital.”
“I—”
Pierce’s arm comes around me, and he’s murmuring something, but the phone drops from my ear as I stare outside.
Fuck this.
The downstairs neighbor called 9-1-1. The accident happened at home.
I can run to the fucking ambulance.
Peeling out of Pierce’s embrace, I nearly topple over tables with my departure. The check flutters from my hands.
All I can think of, all I can get to, is my tiny, wonderful family, and what could have happened to break them.
I missed the fucking ambulance.
When I reach the block, I see it’s flashing lights departing, siren blaring.
“Wait!” I scream, my voice going raw on the single syllable. “Wait!”
But they don’t. And it’s probably a good thing, because wh
y should they wait for me when something could be dangerously wrong with the people inside?
“Oh, my g…” I can’t finish the sentence. I’m gulping as I pull my phone back out, tap into a car service. I need to get to the hospital.
If something’s happened—if they’re hurt, or worse—oh, my God, what happened? What could’ve occurred in the three hours I’ve been gone?
“I saw them,” I said to the app. “I just saw them, and they were fine. Totally okay. Nothing was…nothing was…” I lift my gaze from the phone, vision dancing with tears. I sniffle, my nose feeling hot, my mouth feeling swollen, with growing hysteria.
“Carter?”
Whirling to the voice, the not-so-logical part of me hears Locke. But it’s not him. It’s his friend, the band guy, named after a compass direction.
Why can’t I remember his name?
“I…” I say as greeting.
He rushes over, in the leather jacket I remember, his hair blowing loose across his face. “Hey, you okay? What’s happened?”
“An-an accident.”
His gaze strikes alert. “Is Locke hurt? The baby?”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for a car to take me to the hospital. The ambulance left without me.”
Because the ambulance was meant to wait for me. I need to see, I have to make sure.
“Come on.”
He grabs my arm, not gently but not too hard, and pulls me to a motorcycle parked around the corner from Locke’s apartment.
“You ever ride one of these before?” He asks as he throws one leg over and offers me a helmet.
“No, and I don’t care.” I shimmy behind him, strapping on a helmet that resembles the ones worn during WWII.
“All right,” he says. “Hang onto my waist. Don’t let go. And watch your leg on the exhaust. It’ll burn your skin right off.”
“Fine,” I say as if I care what happens to my exposed thigh. “Go. Ride.”
His answer is to twist the throttle, a vibrating roar coursing through both our bodies. We fly out of the parking spot and onto the road, and we can’t get to Locke and Lily fast enough.
Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Page 24
