10. 10 Nathan
10: Nathan
T he flash of a camera makes me cringe, so I pull the brim of my cap further down to help cover my face, shielding myself from the array of desperate reporters in front of us who are keen to get a money-worthy shot.
We’re at a press conference to discuss our thoughts on our upcoming game, but nobody really wants to talk about that. All these frenzied reporters want is the gossip in our personal lives.
Who we’re dating. What cars we drive. Celebrities we’ve partied with. Family issues we have.
It’s what makes them the big bucks.
I hate these things, but Peter says they’re compulsory. He wants to keep the team relevant. That way, he can make as much money as possible. It doesn’t matter to him that we get eaten alive every single time.
“Evan, is the rumour that Ella Baxter is the mother of your child true?” a reporter asks, and I glower, opening my mouth to defend my friend. But Evan gets there before me.
“Does anyone here actually want to talk about football? Why does my son concern you?” He looks fed up. People are always making ridiculous assumptions about who Leo's mother is, and Evan has made it abundantly clear that he will never reveal her identity.
He doesn’t want the drama. Or the lawsuit she threatened him with if he were to sell her out.
“Is that a yes?” the reporter presses, and Evan glares at him—eyes so piercing you’d think the reporter would shrivel up and make a run for it, but he stays put, a slight smirk on his lips. He knows if Evan doesn’t actively deny it, then he can sell a story on the pop singer, Ella Baxter, being the possible mother of Leo.
Coach Darrell shoots Evan a look from down the conference table, silently telling him to deny it if he wants to avoid another story.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes. “No, Ella Baxter is not Leo’s mother. I’ve never even met the woman, so I don’t know where you’re getting that from. But unless anyone actually has a question about football—which is what we’re here to talk about—I won’t be wasting my time.”
The tidal wave of news reporters erupts into low hums, scribbling down in their notebooks and flashing their cameras.
The heat of the overhead lamps sizzle my skin, and I squint my eyes as they pulse, wishing I’d brought my glasses with me.
I hate wearing them, though.
Whenever I do, news reporters focus on me, latching onto the fact that women love it. Their photos sell for more.
I dislike being the reason these assholes make money. They have zero respect for us.
“I think what Evan is trying to say here is that we all have a passion for football,” Bennet begins, clearly having taken notes on the media training I’d assigned him, “and we’re excited about our next game. We want everyone else to look forward to it just as much as we are, so why don’t we discuss that instead?”
Darrell pats him on the back, agreeing, offering him a proud smile.
The response is clearly practised and polished, but it doesn't matter if it makes the team look professional.
A reporter cackles. His stick-thin body looks like it’s about to crumble under the camera's weight hanging from his neck. He takes the microphone being held out to him, clutching at it with his lanky fingers. “Unfortunately, boys, stories about football don’t sell, and we have a living to make.”
I stop myself from criticising the man. I get it. I do. They have families to feed, but exploiting us is not an ethical way to earn a living.
“Nathan.” I mentally roll my eyes as he points at me. “What do you have to say to the people who view your team as a bunch of thirsty players, only interested in satisfying themselves with the cheerleaders as if they’re toys? Don’t you think they deserve more respect than that?”
I huff. I’m tired of this question. It’s the same every time, but they just word it differently, trying to catch me out and get me to say something less than favourable about our cheerleaders—to paint me as a sexist pig.
Nobody on my current team has touched one of the cheerleaders. The people who did last season were let go by Peter for creating too much drama, and Renee did the same with the women.
“I believe we’ve been over this, but I’ll reiterate it for you. The relationships and interactions you saw between players in my team and our cheerleaders last season were consensual. I can assure you we treat women with the utmost respect, and if I discover anyone on my team to be doing any less than that, then I’m not afraid to call them out on the behaviour.” I grind my teeth together. “We’re here to play football, though. That is our main focus.”
More humming. More scribbling. More flashing of cameras.
It bores me.
My mind wanders back to that moment with Mae in Darrell’s shed. Even though a monstrous, furry spider was on her back, I wasn’t focused on that. I was looking at the curve of her lumbar. The way her palms lay flat against the shed wall as she bent over for me. How her legs parted, shaking slightly. It had made me immediately go hard, so thank fuck it was dark in there.
I can’t get a fucking boner over Mae Bexley.
Another question aimed at Bennett through the microphone brings me back to reality.
The reporters leave me alone after my professional answer, realising they can’t get anything juicy out of me today. They look at me with their stupid faces, though—as if they’re begging me to open up and tell them about what’s happening in my personal life.
What personal life? I don’t have time for anything else.
Mae’s comment about me messing with women at the animal shelter bothered me. I was grouchy with her, and maybe I shouldn’t have been, but hearing that she felt that way intensified the irritation flourishing in my chest.
She and that mouth of hers get on my nerves.
Have I slept with women? Of course. But do I see myself as someone who toys around with their emotions and drops them once they’ve given me what I want?
Absolutely not.
That’s something I would never do.
I have more respect for them than that.
I usually don’t care much about what people think of me. I ignore it because I know it’s not the truth. Sure, it’s frustrating at times, but it doesn’t keep me up at night.
But knowing Mae thinks the same… it doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t want her to see me that way. I want her to know I’m more than the headlines.
The conference is over quickly. Darrell cuts it short after a reporter asks one of my teammates why he looks like he’s gained a bit of weight, and I order the sleazy reporter to be banned from all future conferences.
The fucking nerve.
Evan leans up against the wall in the corridor, clamping his eyes shut and cursing under his breath.
“You okay?” I ask him, my mouth downturned. It was a shit show in there, and he received the brunt force of the hit.
He opens his eyes, looking drained—like all the life has been sucked out of him. “Yeah.”
“Evan, have you been getting any sleep?”
“Honestly… no. Leo caught a cold a few days ago, and I’ve been up every couple of hours trying to settle him.”
“What about his nanny?”
Evan scoffs. “ What nanny?”
His response causes me to tilt my head, a groan escaping. I press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, rubbing in frustration. “Look, I know you’re protective of Leo, but we’re in the middle of a season. You can’t go firing every nanny after one shift.”
“None of them give a shit about my kid, Nathan. They take the job because of who I am, and I’m fucking tired of having people use Leo as an excuse to wiggle their way into my life.”
“I can see that.” I nod to the bags hanging beneath his dead eyes. “You can’t play the way you are, though.”
Evan opens his mouth to speak, but I hold my hand up to stop him.
“I’m doing this because I care about you, West. You’re not playing Monday. You’re resting.”
His eyes expand to saucers. “What? You can’t do that.”
“I can. I’ll make the suggestion to Coach. You’re burning out, Evan, and there’s no way you can continue the rest of the season this way. I’ll babysit Leo tonight.”
My friend grunts, shaking his head, but deep down, I know he’s relieved. I’ve given him an out, which he so desperately needs. He’s a great father. He always puts his kid first, but he’s neglecting himself. He can’t take care of Leo the way he wants to if he carries on this way. And he knows that, which is why he doesn’t object.
“I’ll drop him off at six.”
“Make sure to bring more than one pack of diapers. Last time, he shit through them in an hour.”
Leo glares at me with pale grey eyes—just like his father. He’s sitting in his high chair, having thrown his entire plate of spaghetti and meatballs I’d prepared onto the floor.
“Well, this is a first for me,” I tell the salty kid. “No one’s ever turned their nose up at my cooking.”
Leo blows out a snot bubble, and I immediately wipe it away.
Bracing myself against the green plastic of his high chair, I gaze into his eyes challengingly. “Okay, Leo. What’s it gonna take for you to eat something?”
All I receive as a response is a loud “Yuck.”
“Your daddy said you love this,” I say, bending down and scraping the food off the floor before dropping it in the trash.
Leo’s still getting over his cold. He’s no longer running a fever, but Evan supplied me with medication just in case. I’m glad my friend is getting some well-needed rest, but I can’t help but feel out of my depth here. I love Leo. He’s a great kid, but because he’s comfortable with me, he tests me.
Swiping him from his high chair and placing him on the floor, I begin to mop, huffing to myself as I watch the small kid take hold of his favourite dinosaur toy and throw it to the other end of the kitchen. The plastic reptile hits my rack of spices, causing a jar of chives to plummet to the floor. Luckily, it doesn’t smash.
I curse—low enough so that Leo can’t hear—and turn to see he’s run into the living room and is now scaling the couch as if it’s Mount Everest, spaghetti sauce smeared around his mouth, staining the leather.
He’s acting up because he doesn’t feel well. He’s usually a good kid, and this kind of behaviour isn’t typical for him.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down in front of him. “How about we get you to bed? Are you sleepy?”
Leo shakes his head. “Not tired.”
“Of course you aren’t,” I groan, tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I sigh with relief. It’s been over an hour since I last received a text from Evan. He always worries when I take care of his son, and while I understand why, he needs to learn to trust people.
I laugh at the irony of my own thoughts.
The last thing I can tell anyone to do is trust someone.
Suddenly, Leo bursts into a sob, snot running from his nose, his cheeks flushed. He reaches out for me, and I scoop him up in my arms and rub circles on his back, gently shushing him.
It only makes him cry harder, though, mumbling about missing his daddy.
Calling Evan isn’t an option right now, though. He looked like a zombie at the press conference. I was surprised he didn’t collapse onto the table.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” I keep my voice quiet. “You’ll see your daddy tomorrow. Do you want some warm milk? That always makes me feel better.”
I’m lying. Who the fuck likes drinking an entire glass of milk? But I’ll say anything to calm Leo down.
He shakes his head, his words muffled as he sobs into my chest. I can’t make heads or tails of what he’s saying.
We need to try and find Leo a nanny who he connects with. That way, Evan will feel more comfortable, but he has his guard up. When you first meet him, he’s a stone-cold wall, and no doubt, it scares everyone who tries to work for him off.
Darrell has even taken one for the team before and got his wife, Hazel, to babysit Leo during a few games, but he expressed that it was a one-time thing and Evan shouldn’t get used to it.
After thirty minutes of continuous crying from Leo—the tiny human showing no sign of stopping anytime soon—I pull out my phone and call the one person I know who can advise me in this situation.
They pick up on the first ring.
“Poppy, I need your help.”