The Secret Play (Pucking Daddies #3)

18. Gemma

Chapter 18

Gemma

M y editor’s email had been sitting in my inbox for hours, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

“We need coverage on the Casey McConnell illegitimate child rumors. Given your access to the team, you’re the best person to write this piece. Let me know if you need additional resources.”

Each time I read it, my stomach turned. It wasn’t just an assignment. It was a direct hit to everything I’d been carefully balancing. Not only that—this would be a hit piece on Casey, which went against everything in my heart.

How could I write this? How could I possibly report on rumors that were, in some twisted way, tied to me?

The professional answer was simple. I couldn’t. No journalist could—or should—write about their own life disguised as someone else’s story. But I couldn’t exactly walk into my editor’s office and tell him, “Hey, I might actually be the mother of the rumored illegitimate child in question. So, as you can see, this might be a little awkward.”

No. I’d need to handle this myself before my boss ever found out. Before anyone found out. And that meant I had to talk to Casey.

The rest of the day felt surreal. I went through the motions of my job—reviewing notes, emailing sources, typing up drafts—but it all felt meaningless. The real task loomed ahead, and it made everything else seem small.

When I picked up Winnie from daycare, her joyful chatter barely registered. Normally, I’d hang on her every word, asking questions about her day and marveling at the way she saw the world. But this time, all I could manage was a few distracted nods.

“Mommy, are you okay?” she asked from the backseat, her voice small.

I forced a smile, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I was tired—bone-tired, emotionally drained, and mentally running in circles. But how could I explain to a four-year-old that her entire world might be about to change?

When we got home, I focused on Winnie’s bedtime routine, desperate for the comfort of structure. Dinner, bath, bedtime story. Each step helped calm the whirlwind in my mind, but only slightly.

By the time she was tucked in and snoring softly, I’d made my decision. I grabbed my phone, my hands trembling as I typed out the message.

Want to come over for dinner tomorrow? Just the two of us.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. My heart pounded as I stared at the screen, waiting for his reply. It came almost instantly.

Sure. What time?

I exhaled shakily, typing out a quick response and setting my phone down. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’d tell him everything.

But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, doubt crept in. How could I say it? How could I sit across from Casey and admit that I’d been keeping the truth from him? I didn’t know how he’d react, and the fear of losing him—of losing whatever fragile connection we’d built—was almost paralyzing.

The next day was a blur. I avoided my boss’ email, ignored the gnawing sense of urgency at the back of my mind, and threw myself into preparing for dinner.

Cooking had never been my strong suit. I knew a few dishes well enough not to starve, but I was no culinary genius. My hands moved on autopilot, chopping vegetables and marinating chicken while my mind replayed every possible scenario for the night ahead.

If I told him and he laughed in my face, I’d send him packing.

If I told him and he broke down crying, I’d be there for him and choke on his anger at me while begging him not to take it out on Winnie.

If I told him and he stormed out…I had no idea what to do then.

When the time came, I set the table with a precision that bordered on obsession. Two plates, two glasses, and a carefully folded napkin at each place. Everything looked perfect. Weirdly perfect. I moved a fork askew so I didn’t seem any more psychotic than I was feeling at this panicked moment.

I glanced at the clock. Any minute now.

When Casey knocked on the door, I thought I might vomit. I took a deep breath, smoothed my hands down the front of my sweater, and opened the door.

“Hey,” he said, giving me a warm, easy smile. The smile that I couldn’t get enough of.

“Hey,” I replied, stepping aside to let him in.

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, and the gesture was so casual, so normal, that it made my whole body ache.

The scent of him—earthy like a forest—filled the room, unraveling me. I wished we could skip the next part of things. The arguments, the bickering, the truth. I wanted to go straight to the bed with my sins forgiven. Wasn’t that what makeup sex was for?

But we couldn’t get to the makeup sex without the other stuff first, so I’d take my lumps. I could do this. I had raised my baby girl on my own. I could do anything, right?

Right?

We sat down to eat, and Casey said, “Well, I have something to tell you.”

He hates me. I know he does. “By all means.”

“There’s a rumor going around at work that I have an illegitimate child, and I abandoned her mother.”

My fork clattered onto my plate. “What?”

“Obviously, it’s just a rumor, but some of the players are convinced it’s true. I’ve got your brother and the other veterans running defense for me, and Whitney. I’m doing what I can to handle it, keeping a tight leash on the guys while they figure out what’s what.” He sighed. “It’s a headache, but nothing more.”

I felt sick. “Glad to hear it’s under control.”

“Whitney’s a miracle worker,” he said with a chuckle, swirling the wine in his glass. “I don’t know how she does it.”

“Whitney’s amazing,” I parroted.

“What about you?” he asked, his blue eyes steady on mine. “How’s work?”

“Busy.”

“Anything interesting?”

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my fork. “Just deadlines. You know how it is.”

He nodded, but the way his gaze lingered told me he wasn’t buying my deflection. “Glad you’re making time for this tonight. Winnie around?”

I shook my head. “Megan’s got her for the night.”

“I’m glad you have that kind of support so close.”

Numbly, I nodded. “One of the benefits of being in Atlanta.” I rambled on about other things, but I knew better. Casey was too perceptive to miss the fact that something was wrong, and the longer I stayed silent, the harder it became to find the right moment to speak.

When dinner was over, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with a curious expression. “All right,” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “What’s actually going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You invited me over,” he said, gesturing around the room. “Just the two of us. No Winnie, no distractions. Feels like you’ve got something on your mind.”

I considered lying with a, “Can’t a girl ask her boyfriend over for a romantic dinner?” kind of line, but that was disingenuous, and Casey was too smart to fall for it. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, my heart pounding.

“I just…” I hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. “I wanted to apologize. For the other day. For how I reacted when you brought up Winnie.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Gemma. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“No, you were right to ask. We’re involved. You’re bound to have questions,” I said quickly, my throat tightening. “It’s just…it’s a hard topic for me. I’ve spent so many years being a single mom, and people judge. They judge everything. Not just me, but who the father is, why he’s not around…I’ve gotten used to keeping it to myself.”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “I get that.”

“Not to play the woe-is-me card, but I don’t think you do. Society judges women on everything we do. Our hair, our bodies, our clothes, the way we sit?—”

“The way you sit?”

A nervous laugh escaped me. “When I was twelve, a friend’s mom told me to cross my legs, or I’d look like a whore with my legs open for men.”

His eyes bulged. “Well, damn. That’s messed up.”

“Exactly. And when it comes to child-rearing, it gets worse. If we don’t want kids, we’re selfish. If we have a child out of wedlock, we’re harlots. If we have a child, when are we having another one, and on and on and on.”

“That’s exhausting.”

I nodded. “It really is. So, I’m sensitive when it comes to this topic, and I reacted poorly. I’m sorry for that.”

“Understood.” He drew a deep breath as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me.”

My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. I knew what he was going to ask, and I still wasn’t ready. “What?”

“Am I Winnie’s father?” he asked, his voice calm but firm. “No deflecting, no dodging. Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is.”

The walls closed in around me as his words lingered in my heart. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“Look,” he said, his voice softening. “If I’m not, you don’t have to tell me who her father is. But if I am—if there’s even a slight chance—then I deserve to know, don’t I?”

I stared at him, my hands trembling in my lap. My mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each one louder than the last.

“Gemma,” he said again, his voice quieter this time. “Please.”

Fight, flight, or freeze. Those are the common human reactions to fear. I’d always been a fighter, save for the two times in my past when I was in a bad situation. The first had been when a boy who was bigger than me cornered me in the school hallway and tried to forcibly feel me up. I slipped between the lockers and him and ran.

The other time was when the principal had caught Megan and me smoking behind the gym. It was the one time I had ever tried cigarettes, and of course, I got caught. I had apologized, said we would never do this again, that we never smoked, ever. Instead of three days of out-of-school suspension, we got one day of detention, helping clean the cafeteria.

The thought of Casey breaking up with me or not wanting anything to do with Winnie was too much for my brain to bear. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words were trapped, tangled in the sea of emotions swirling inside me. I couldn’t force them out. For the first time in my life, I froze.