Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(20)

Gotta turn that sun off.

I’m aware of the nonsensical phrasing of the thought in my head, but it’s the one thing I can think of that might help in that horrible nightmare of champagne and tequila hangover.

My lips part in silent agony, wishing for water that isn’t there as I slowly push the sheets from my body and move to-

Oh God.

And that’s when I’m aware of the second thing.

I’m completely naked.

More than that, I’m completely naked, in a bed, next to Austin.

I freeze, the roaring pain in my head almost forgotten as I cringe and turn towards him. I wince as I slowly lift the sheet from his sleeping body and peek under-

Oh, yep, yeah, he’s definitely naked too.

I flush red, feeling the panic shooting through me like an electric current.

Oh my God, what did I DO last night?

I can’t breathe.

There’s the feeling of weight pressing down on my chest, and I’m trying to suck in air as I bring my hands to my face to try and fan myself when-

Oh. My. God.

Because that’s when realization number three hits me, like a slap in the face. Or rather, like the glare from the gigantic rock sitting on a gleaming, gaudy ring on my finger.

And very quickly, I am wide awake.

I sit bolt upright in bed, staring at the diamond ring on my finger and trying to grasp for answers in the blank memory of my night.

Holy shit.

It comes back in vague flashes - a chapel, a bottle of tequila, a limo ride I think, with more tequila.

Good fucking God, what did I do last night?

My eyes slowly move from the ring on my hand to the carnage of the hotel room around us - the empty bottles of champagne leaking the last of their contents across a chair in the corner, both of our clothes strewn across the floor.

I need to get out of here.

I wince when the pain comes rushing back as I slide my leg out of the bed and stumble for the robe hanging off the back of the duvet by the window. I swallow thickly, tasting tequila and forcing myself not to vomit as I lurch on my feet and clutch at the side table next to me for support.

I look down, and it’s then that the last of my grasp on keeping calm drops out the damn window.

Please no.

I want it not to be real. I want the very vague fracture of memory to be a nightmare, and I want the piece of paper sitting on the table to be a figment of my imagination.

But the very real, very legal looking, very official looking document sitting there with both our names signed across the bottom says this is anything but a dream.

In fact, it says one Austin Taylor and one Natalie Ames are legally married in the state of Nevada.

The marriage license falls from my hands as my head swirls and my feet move on autopilot. I’m grabbing my dress from the night before from the floor, along with one of my shoes, and stumbling for the door.

I clutch the bathrobe around myself as I yank the door to the room open.

I have to get out of here, I have to go home, I have to-

My eyes land on the complimentary morning paper, sitting there outside the hotel room door. And right there on the front page of the Los Angeles Daily Times is a picture of the man I just woke up naked next to.

The entire world goes still as I pick it up, my eyes flitting over the “NFL’s Hottest Bachelor Wed?” headline to the byline beneath it: “Wild man party-boy Austin Taylor rumored to be on vacation with mystery new bride - who says you can’t tie them down!”

It clicks right then, because very suddenly, I know exactly how I know the cocky Texan with the body made for sin.

The guy on the news from time-to-time.

The guy who was with that girl who was too young or something.

The guy who crashed his car into a coffee shop.

…The guy who’s naked and asleep in the bed I just crawled out of.

The paper drops from my hands, and my eyes suddenly drop in slow motion to the giant, flashing rock on my finger.

Oh, God.

Because this may have been fake yesterday, but I think I just actually married the biggest and most infamous man-whore in professional football.

I’m so screwed.





10





Austin




Jesus fucking Christ.

My head feels like I just got sacked by the biggest linebacker in the NFL, without wearing a damn helmet. I groan, rolling onto my side in the bed and clenching my jaw at the rolling waves of bile and nausea that boil up inside.

Holy fuck, mistakes were made.

Mistakes like that fourth bottle of Dom, or the who-the-fuck-knows how many shots of tequila strewn between them. I’ve also got a vague memory of smoking a joint somewhere - in a limousine I think - and judging from the acrid taste in my mouth, that’s probably not that far off from the truth.

I was in a damn limo last night?

The memory is extremely vague, which makes sense given what parts of the night I can actually remember. I grimace again at the thought of what I consumed last night, feeling my stomach turn at the mere thought of the word “tequila.”