“Okay,” I said. “But you know what this will look like, right?”
“What?”
“You can’t be seen with other women. You can’t go out and party. You can’t get into trouble, especially if Ainsley is watching. We have to look like…like a real couple.”
“And what do we look like now?”
His hands twisted over the wheel. Mine folded in my lap. I couldn’t breathe.
I didn’t know.
Did he even know?
Did he know what he did to me? How he made me feel?
It was stupid to surrender to a man who couldn’t go one night without getting into trouble. He had no self-control, no desire to be responsible. Our fling was fun now, while I was in shape and before a screaming baby invaded his bachelor pad, but who knew what would happen in the future?
I read enough articles. Witnessed enough of Ainsley’s reports. I couldn’t imagine Jack changing diapers and dealing with colic if something more tempting captured his interest.
So did we look like together?
Easy. I was Leah. Kiss.
I couldn’t be any more.
“I’m your pregnant ex-publicist,” I said. “And we look like a perfectly content couple.”
“Is that it?” Jack pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. He’d fight anyone now, including me.
“I’m also the mother of your child. We’ll be okay as long as you behave until the baby is born. Do that, and I’m sure you can convince the league you’ve changed.”
“And what do I have to do to convince you of that?”
I looked away, nibbling on my nail. Jack shook his head before I could speak. He turned off the highway, heading to the house.
His house.
Our house?
“Forget it,” he said. “There’s the answer.”
“Jack.”
“I can’t convince you that I’m anything but a fuck-up. You’re worse than Ainsley, you know that? You got me all figured out, like I’m another bullet point on your list to check off once I make that final mistake.”
“You’re more than a checkmark.”
“Bullshit. You have less faith in me than the league or my fucking team or the media.”
“That’s not—”
“Combined.”
I wished I could have said something, anything, but I didn’t have a response.
Not when he was right.
And not when I knew I hurt him that badly.
“Tell you what, Kiss.” Jack didn’t let the revelation steal his confidence. “I’m gonna prove myself. Not just to them, but to you and the baby. Then maybe one day you’ll see the man I really am.”
My heart fluttered.
I could see exactly the type of man he could become. It was the reason I shared his bed, agreed to have the baby.
But it wasn’t up to me to believe him.
He had to want to change.
And I really hoped he would.
Chapter Seventeen – Jack
The whistle blew, and I saw red.
I spent the morning in the weight room. Mid-morning running laps. Late morning scouring the playbook.
This afternoon was practice. Full pads and contact. People watching—media, coaches, fans.
Everyone in attendance to witness as I melted-down in pure, unbridled rage.
I don’t know who pissed me off more, but my temper snapped. Life decided to fuck me all at once.
First, the Rivets declined the contract renegotiation. Then an article appeared about my non-arrest and the league’s political fallout.
Worst of all? Leah went to the doctor without me for a checkup. She promised it was routine, that she wanted to get it over and done with. I knew the real reason.
She didn’t trust that I would remember we had an appointment.
How the hell was I supposed to prove my commitment to the baby? I built a nursery. I bought everything the kid would need until college. Leah even moved in. I kept her in my bed at night so I could be there when the morning sickness got bad. When she felt lousy, I was there with a bottle of water.
I was trying to change. What more did she want?
What did anyone want from me?
The ball pumped from my hands—a clean, tight spiral. The rookie receiver ran the route perfectly, but the ball bounced off his fingers.
And Coach Thompson yelled at me for it.
We lined up again. I called the count.
My guard, Orlando, moved before we snapped.
Coach Thompson blamed me.
God damn it. Was everything in the world my fault?
Apparently.
Fuck.
I pushed through, hitting my limit and then setting a new mark for my physical and emotional endurance. Training camp was grueling enough. Men dropped on the field with heat cramps. It wasn’t a real practice until a handful of our bigger guys threw up on the sidelines.
According to my coach, that was my fault too. I hadn’t called the trainers to deliver water while I practiced the hurry-up offense. But how was I supposed to run a quick offense if my guys were still guzzling water?
Coach Thompson didn’t care.
We lined up for a play. Insects buzzed our faces, and the sun scorched our backs. My head ached with dehydration even though I downed an entire bottle of water before kicking onto the field.
I called the play. The center snapped the ball. The coach blew the whistle.
“Carson!” Now he meant to get under my skin. “Your drop back isn’t clean.”
Like hell it wasn’t. I called the men to the line. He bitched at me again.
“Three steps, twinkle-toes. Quicker, or your ass is going to eat it next time we play Ashenville.”
Bullshit. My play was clean. My snap perfect. My drop back in perfect sync. He was trying to piss me off.
Why?
What did they stand to win if they got me mad? Mouthing off wouldn’t make anyone look good, especially with the media and the fans in attendance for the afternoon practices.
I took the snap again.
The whistle blew immediately. I resisted the urge to spike the ball in frustration. Bryon slapped my shoulder.
“He’s getting in your head, man,” he said. “Let it roll off.”
“Can’t.”
He smirked. “You need a drink and blow-job in no particular order.”
“No kidding.”
He pointed to the sidelines. “Have that little baby-momma of yours take care of you tonight.”
Of course Leah would be here now. I told her to come by and cheer me on. Figured it’d pump my ego if she stroked it as good as she stroked my cock.
It was a selfish request though. I shouldn’t have made her come out in this heat. I only hoped she’d see me at work. If she understood how hard I tried, how rigorously I trained, maybe she’d cut me a break. Let me in. Take me to the doctor’s appointments.
Maybe she’d trust me.
I shouldn’t have felt the things I did for the woman I knocked up for my own personal gain. And I didn’t understand the raging possession that coiled through me when I looked at her with that little bump. God, it made me proud.
I had a lot of pride in myself, but not much in anything else that I had done. Except that. Except her. And I wanted everyone to see that bump and know what I did. Maybe then they’d understand there was more to me than getting in trouble.
That goddamned whistle blew again.
He was lucky I didn’t force him to swallow it.
I swore and refused the water from the trainers. The defensive coach settled his men down, letting Coach Thompson stop the play for the fifth time in a row. I rubbed the sweat from my eyes with fingers itching to throw the damn ball.
It didn’t help that the play called was a simple run for Bryon. Straight up the middle, nothing complicated. Not even a play-action to give me a chance to do something besides hand the ball off.
Another whistle. Bryon caught me before I went nuclear. A hush fell over the crowd, loud enough to hear my frustrated profanity. I didn’t even bother looking at Leah. I knew what she’d say.
Stay positive. Imagine there’s a camera on you. Be more patient.
Well, I wasn’t patient. No sense hiding that from the crowd.
The coach called us to formation again. Bryon pushed me back to the line.
“Don’t let him fuck you over. He’ll kick you off the team the instant you pop.”
I’d like to see him try. Coach Thompson antagonized me for a reason. Every move I took, decision I made, and call I shouted was questioned, ridiculed, and denied.
So be it. I ignored him and counted to ten—Leah’s suggestion for when my temper got the best of me. Hell, she even moved closer to the sidelines, holding up her hand and counting one-two-three-four on her delicate fingers.
I heaved a breath.
It worked, but it wasn’t the counting that steadied me.
It was her.
Leah’s chocolate eyes studied me from across the field, and the tug of her smile chased the adrenaline from my veins. She gave me a cute little wave, as though she didn’t know what her place was or why she was there for me. She cupped her hands over her tummy and cheered me on.
And holy hell, I never saw anything greater.
I lined myself under center again. No whistle yet. I took it as a good sign and scouted the defense. They lined up to trick me, but I read through it. I grunted the snap-count to lure the line off-sides—a particular specialty of mine.
It worked.
The corner jumped, and he didn’t make it across the line before the snap.
I expected Coach Thompson to whistle and bitch him out. So did my center. He was slow to rise and even slower to block. But the play didn’t stop, and the defensive line roared over my men in a wave of testosterone—violent and angry and looking to prove how big their dicks were before the end of camp.