Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(76)

“Tina,” he says it again as he looks me in the eye. “Austin-” he shakes his head, his eyes wide. “This shit just went nuclear.”

Oh, shit.



Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My phone is still blowing up with shit from teammates, from the management team, from my coach, from Kyle, and of course from my mom, but I’m ignoring all of it as I roar through downtown LA.

I don’t know how the hell Tina’s found the balls to come out with fucking “DNA proof” considering I have literally never touched her, but I’m not even really thinking about that facet of the whole thing right now.

Because I know she’s seen it.

I’ve called Natalie about four dozen times since leaving Damon in the lurch back on that field, all right to voicemail.

Yeah, she’s seen it.

I can’t even imagine what’s going through her head right now - can’t even imagine how much she probably hates me for it. It’s bullshit, of course, but what the hell do you say to “proof” like that? And hell, even if I can prove to her it’s a lie, what then? She’s still just been humiliated across the front cover of a fucking nationally syndicated gossip magazine.

It’s playing out exactly how she said she never wanted it to - with her being left and burned by one of my “dalliances”.

I swore to her it’d never be like this, and yet here we are - another guy in a long history of fathers and fiancés and now husbands royally screwing her over.

I brake sharply at the brake-lights in front of me, swerving into the breakdown lane of the 405 and roaring illegally past the traffic.

Fuck it.

Because nothing matters but getting to Natalie right now. Nothing matters but getting home and making this right, and showing her that I am capable of being the man she needs.

Because I’m done lying to myself. I’m done with the “but why should I care” bullshit, because this is so far past a paper-napkin arrangement now.

I gun the engine as I swerve to dodge a road cone, blasting down the off-ramp.

We’ve moved way past that into something bigger, and more real, than either of us saw coming, and I damn well know it.

I just have to make sure she does too.



My house is empty.

“Nat!”

I’m storming through every room in the house, shouting her name, but she’s not answering.

Because she’s gone.

I can feel the blood pumping in my veins, my head spinning as all the fear and all the worst case scenarios from my drive over here all come to fruition. I make a last pass upstairs, as if somehow I’ve missed her, before stumbling back down to the kitchen.

And that’s when I see it, and my heart just fucking sinks.

It’s the ring. The ring I don’t even remember buying, or putting on her finger. But damn if it still isn’t the biggest slug to the gut I’ve ever even imagined.

I hold it up the light, feeling the color drain from my face as I slowly shake my head, not wanting to believe. I look down and see the note, scrawled across the paper towel, and my heard just breaks.

Thanks for everything - you don’t owe me anything. Please keep the ring, and tear up the ice cream napkin. Congratulations.





I’m barely aware of the doorbell ringing. I’m only half conscious of stumbling to the door, the ring still in my hand as I open the door to the man in the suit with a briefcase.

“Mr. Taylor?”

I’m blinking as he passes me the manila envelope with a cold, neutral look on his face.

“Have a good evening.”

No…

Divorce papers. The thing is full of fucking divorce papers - real ones to dissolve our very real marriage.

This is real. This is the end of all of it, sitting right there in front of me. There’s even little post it notes showing the places to sign our names, and she’s already signed her parts.

Jesus Christ.

It’s worse than any game I’ve ever lost, and hurts more than any sack or hit I’ve ever taken. I lost, hard. I played a game, and I got my damn ass handed to me.

Numb, I stumble into the living room, absently grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the bar cart and slumping into a chair. I hold the ring up again and slowly shake my head.

Fuck.

This is what losing the war feels like. And its knowing too late how I really feel that hurts the worst.

I take a swig right from the bottle, allowing the burn to creep down my throat before I raise it up in the air - a toast to no one.

To the time I was married.

Buckley looks up from the couch across the room, whimpering weakly before turning to look towards the front door.

“She’s not here, pal,” I mutter. “She’s gone.”

He whines as he puts his head back on the couch, his tail wagging once before going still.