Baller’s Baby(17)

“Get your filthy fucking hands off me,” I grit through my teeth. The tone must surprise him, because he releases me and spins me around to face him. I stare into the face of the man I wanted to share my life with, and all I feel is pain. My heart shatters at the forlorn look on his face.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks me, seeming confused, and I scoff.

“What’s wrong? Did you think I would be ok with it?” I ask, my voice rising, my chest heaving. I want to scream and curse him, but I remind myself of the baby and force myself to calm down.

“Okay with what, baby? I just had a few shots, love. Really,” he explains, and I laugh.

It’s dry, humorless. I couldn’t care less how much he drank. Of course, I would have liked for him to call me and let me know he was going out, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. No, I’m crushed because of the blonde bimbo downstairs. The one he brought home to our house.

I stop myself there. It's not our house, it’s his. I was just a welcomed visitor for a time. It’s time to wake up and smell the roses. Kiptyn clearly isn’t the man I thought he was, and I was a fool to think we had a future. I’ll still allow him to be a part of the baby’s life. I’m not going to be one of those petty bitches that shut people out of their child's life just because I don’t like them.

“And what about the blonde bitch who brought you home, Kip? Who the fuck is that?”

“Sky? Baby . . . seriously? I was drunk as fuck trying to leave the club, and she walked up on me trying to open the car door like a fucking idiot. She offered to drive me here so I didn’t kill myself. That’s all. I swear, baby. Nothing at all has happened or will ever happen with me and another woman. You’re it for me. Period.”

“Kip, I just can’t deal with this right now. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to process all of this. You say I’m it, and yet you shut me out. You make me leave the hospital and come home, and then you don’t call or show up here for hours, and when you do, it’s with another woman, and I’m supposed to be okay with this? No. I’m not. You need to think about what you really want, Kiptyn, and how you plan on achieving that. Because this,” I say, waving my hand through the air, “isn’t the way to do it.”

Dropping my bag on the floor at my feet, I flee the room. I can't stand to be around him anymore. Just the sight of him sickens me and makes me feel like I'm about to lose my dinner.

Halfway down the stairs, I realize the blonde is still here. She's standing on the front porch, staring at the stars. When I open the door, she jumps and swivels around. Her eyes round and bulge at the sight coming for her, but I sidestep and brush past her.

“Are you okay?” she calls after me, but I don’t bother stopping or answering her. How the hell would I be okay? Is she serious? If I wasn’t pregnant and barefoot at the moment, I'd be tempted to snatch handfuls of her silky platinum strands and drag her down the drive, kicking and screaming all the while. Am I okay? Ha.

Thankfully, my car is still parked in the circular drive. I climb in just as Kiptyn makes his drunken way out the front door, stumbling and looking as dumbfounded as the blonde at his side. Slamming the car into drive, I peel out, fishtailing just a tad before the car rights itself and I clear his driveway.

I should have known better. No one as amazing as Kiptyn could ever be happy with just one woman, and if the tabloids are any indication to the man he is, then he isn’t even close to settling down. I thought it was different with us. Stupid, I know, but the way he was with me was totally different from his usual one-night stands with random women at bars and clubs. It was more.

The hope that had been building in my chest is crushed, stamped out by the four-inch heels and tanned legs of a blonde bimbo. Never again. I refuse to let myself go through this chaos ever again. Not one, but now two Price brothers had used me, and when done, tossed me to the trash like last night's takeout.

Tears stream down my face, collecting at the base of my throat and settling there, an itchy reminder of the painful truth. Taking a deep breath, I slow my car until I'm driving closer to the speed limit, and then I crank up the radio, praying there’s something good on. Adele’s beautiful voice greets me, and I sob louder. I can't even bear to change the station. It's like she’s singing for the both of us right now. I clench my hands on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white under the pressure, and sing my heart out to Hello.

When I pull into the parking garage at Lisa’s, I pull down the mirror and attempt to make myself look more normal. It's no use. My eyes are swollen and puffy from all the tears I've shed in the twenty-minute ride over, and my nose is so stuffed up that I probably sound more like Daffy Duck than a human being. I rub my hands against my face once more and then climb from my Civic.

I don’t even know if Lisa is home. I can’t call or text her and find out since I stormed out of Kiptyn’s house with just the clothes on my back. People eye me warily when I enter, noting my lack of shoes and the disheveled look of the rest of me. I don’t care. Stare all you want, people. You don’t mean shit to me. No one does, least of all Kiptyn Price.

Oh God, how I wish that were true.





Chapter Twenty- Four

Kiptyn



I wake with a pounding in my head and a sick, nauseated feeling in my stomach. I’m barely able to peel my eyelids open, and when I do, I immediately slam them back shut.

Fuck, it's bright out there.

I attempt to roll from my laid back position and then think better of it. My shoulder is throbbing in tune with the beating of my heart until I sit up, and then the throbbing, pulsating pain increases. How could I forget? Some ass-wipe plowed into me last night at the beginning of the third quarter, and now, thanks to him, I'm out for the rest of the season.

Hell, I don’t know if I'll ever be able to play again. I'm determined, though, and with the help of the country's finest physical therapist, I'm sure I’ll make a swift recovery. If I don’t . . . shit. I can't even think about that. My life revolves around the game, and without it . . . no.

I'll recover, period. Next season, I’ll start, just like this one.

I swallow rapidly as the tart, acidic flavor of alcohol bubbles up into my throat. It doesn't help much. Grabbing a bottle of water from the bedside table, I take a small sip, trying to keep from losing the contents of my stomach all over my fresh, clean comforter and five hundred-count sheets. Skila just bought these, and I’d hate to ruin them.

Skila.

Where is she? Normally, when she gets up before me, she just goes to the small window seat and gazes out into the beautiful sky while she reads, but she isn’t there this morning.

“Skila,” I call out.

She doesn't answer, so I call out again as a deep, regretful worry settles deep inside of me. I can feel it. The house seems hollow and empty. It's just an empty shell without her here. She breathes life into this space, into me, making everything better.

I don’t know when or how, but sometime over the last two and a half months, she has become an integral part of my life. Every day I wake, my first thought is of her and what she’s doing, how she slept the night before, and how many times I can make her scream my name before we both have to climb in the shower and get ready for work.

During the day, when I’m not texting her or writing her on Messenger, we Snapchat back and forth. If something exciting happens during my day, I can’t wait for my chance to tell her. I miss her every second of every day, and sometimes it's a battle with myself to not walk out of practice and rush to her side, just so I can steal a kiss from her sweet red lips.

The evenings are my favorite time of the day. I swing by and pick her up from work, and on the way home, we decide on dinner. Some nights, we just pick up something quick, but my favorite is when we come home and, after changing into comfortable sweats and tees, we make our way to the kitchen. While cooking the evening meal together, I tease her relentlessly with soft kisses to the back of the neck and gentle strokes of my fingers along her arm, her jaw, and her lips. I drive her wild with desire, and then after dinner, I take her upstairs and show her how much she means to me.

I haven’t told her I love her yet. I'm trying to wait for the perfect timing. The ring I ordered and customized for her beautiful third finger came in last week. I had Jordan go pick it up for me just in case the tabloids were buzzing around. I don’t want them to ruin the surprise for her. God, I can't wait to make her my wife and spend every day of the rest of my life making her the happiest woman on earth, but first, I have to find her.

“Babe,” I call out as I reach for my phone on the bedside table, but it isn’t there. What the hell? I always put it on charge before going to bed at night, but it isn’t here. I rack my mind.

Something happened last night. The memory dances along the edge of my grasp, teasing me. Did we fight? I look around the room, finding her bag on the floor, filled with clothes and shoes.

Shit.

“Sky,” I call out again, hoping against hope that she’s just downstairs and didn’t hear me the first two times, but it soon becomes obvious that she isn’t here. I sit on the edge of the bed and lay my head in my hands, rubbing at my temples, trying my best to recall something . . . anything.