Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(27)

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.