Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(83)

Her eyes dart side to side as she bites her lip. “Look, I’ll be quick. I need it for pictures, after all!”

I groan, dropping my face to my hands. “Of THIS debacle? I’d rather you didn’t.”

And now here we are, two freaking hours later, minutes away from my walk to the gallows, and my one pillar of support is missing in action.

Fuck you, Vivian.

I glance at the wall clock again, feeling my pulse skip another beat as I see the time.

I swear to God, if she leaves me to do this myself I will NEVER forgive-

There’s a succinct knock on the door, and before I can even answer, it opens as my mother steps in. She beams, clasping her hands together as she sighs happily.

“Oh Natalie, you look just wonderful, darling!”

I hate this dress. It’s gaudy and overly-sequined, and nothing like the one Bernadette helped me picked out. I purse my lips together in silence, giving my mother a withering look.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she says, her voice suddenly back to the flippantly cold and bored tone I’m familiar with. “Vincent is a perfectly suitable first husb-”

Her frown furrows as she shakes her head.

“Well, second.”

This isn’t happening.

I mean it is, in about ten minutes actually by the sound of the string quartet out in the church. And in a way, I’ve resigned myself to this. Like the five stages of grief, I’m on to “acceptance” of my fate as Mrs. Capra.

Austin was my escape. He was my last shot, my walk on the wild side and my experience in breaking free of the part I’d been born to play.

And that couldn’t last.

I look away from my mother then, trying to subtly fan my face as I feel the tears start to brim at the corners of my eyes.

“Oh, honey.”

And suddenly my mother’s arms are around me, bringing me into her and squeezing me tight. “Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’ll smudge your makeup.”

She pulls way from me, a look on her face that actually looks close to tender - like she actually cares. She smiles weakly as she dabs at my eyes with a tissue, and it’s maybe the most motherly thing she’s done in years.

“You make yourself happy, Natalie,” she says quietly. “Happiness isn’t about someone else, or being with someone else.”

“Mom, I don’t love Vince,” my voice all but breaks as I suck in a lungful of air, trying to steady myself.

“Marriage, love,” she waves her hand flippantly as she shakes her had. “It’s all a means, honey.”

“Do you love Monty?”

She gives me a sharp look, her lips pursed.

“Did you love Dad?”

She looks away. “We saw what happened there,” she says, her voice edged.

“I just wanted something different, Mom.”

She turns, slowly shaking her head as if mulling something over. “What we want and what life gives us aren’t always the same thing, honey.”

“I can’t do this.” I hate how small my voice is as the words come out, like I’m a little girl all over again with my mother telling me that I do in fact have to go to my etiquette class.

She smiles as her hands slide up my arms to squeeze my shoulders. “You can. You’re a smart, confident young woman, Natalie. Believe me, you will make yourself happy in this world, no matter who’s standing by your side.

There’s a quick knock on the door, and my mother frowns as she turns.

“Yes?”

It opens, and one of the ushers pokes his head inside.

“Ms. Ames?”

Oh, God.

“It’s time.”



The grip on my arm is firm, unyielding - a shackle reminding me that there’s no escape from this more than the comforting touch it should be before I walk down the aisle at my own wedding.

In lieu of my father, it’s somehow been deemed appropriate for Vince’s father, Lorenzo, to give me away.

“I’m pleased you came to your senses concerning my son, Natalie,” Lorenzo says icily.

I nod, saying nothing.

“We all make mistakes, Natalie,” he lectures on. “The important thing is that you atone for those mistakes.” He turns and smiles coldly at me as he pats my hand. “I believe a grandson for me would move things in the right direction. Don’t you agree?”

I nod again, my mouth still tight as the blood pounds in my ears.

My pulse spikes with dread as the string quartet inside the church begins to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D - the wedding march that might as well be a funeral dirge at this point. The doors open, and the crowd turns to look at me.

One foot in front of the other, you can do this.

I close my eyes for a second, taking a thin breath.

You HAVE to do this.