Chapter 28
“J erome Rice needs surgery,” I tell Joe Tuesday morning after being summoned to his office and trudging down here with as much enthusiasm as a troublemaker being called to the principal’s office.
“It’s possibly season-ending,” I continue when the man does little more than stare at me stoically from behind his desk.
“When he lacerated his hand on the other player’s cleats, he tore a ligament. ”
Joe curses. It’s the third player—including Asher—to have surgery this season, and they’re only heading into their fourth game on Monday night.
“When do you plan to operate?”
“I don’t. I’ve referred him to a hand specialist. I do mostly knees and shoulders. Hands are delicate.”
“Fine. You’re traveling with the team this weekend.”
I roll my eyes at him, loving how it makes his jaw tick. “No, I’m not. We’ve had this discussion already, Joe, and I told you then that I will not be traveling with the team. If you don’t like it, find someone else.”
The first game of the season was an away game, and he didn’t mention anything about traveling with the team that week. The last two weeks have been home games, so it wasn’t necessary. Now he’s back at this crap again apparently.
“And I already told you it’s part of your job requirement. What if a player is hurt when we’re on the road?”
“I feel as though we’re going around in circles. If a player is hurt while you’re traveling, he can be attended to by the team’s general physician, the training staff, or a local surgeon if need be. But I’m not traveling with the team,” I say firmly. “Fire me if you don’t like it.”
He sits forward, placing his folded hands on his desk. “I have no plans to fire you, Wynter, much to your dismay. How about you tell me why you won’t travel with us?”
Something in his tone gives me pause. “Hatred of football. Hatred of you. No desire to spend more of my time with a pack of meatheads.” I throw them out, ticking each one off on my fingers.
I’m stalling.
I can see it in his eyes. He knows about Mason. I don’t know how he knows, but he does.
“And what about your son? Does he enter into that decision at all?”
My breath hitches high in my chest, and I take an instinctive step forward, the mother in me needing to protect my son.
And if he knows about Mason, does he also know that Asher is the father?
It’s been more than six weeks since Mason and I moved in with him, and in all that time, we’ve been careful not to be seen together in public.
“How do you know about my son?” I grip the back of the empty chair facing him, half ready to strangle Joe yet again. He has a way of bringing out the worst side of me and reducing my patience and cool to nothing.
He doesn’t even blink or register any emotion. God, I hate this man.
“Limbick told me about him.”
Fucking Limpdick and his big mouth.
“What right did he have to tell you anything personal about me?”
“He assumed I already knew. Since he already knew I’m your father.”
“That’s simply DNA, Joe. You’re not my father. Gary is my father.”
His nostrils flaring is his only reaction.
“In any event,” he continues smoothly, “I told him I required you to travel with the team, and he told me he wouldn’t push that on you since you’re a single mother, and he can’t ask you to travel like that when you have an infant son to look after.”
Wow. Color me shocked that Limbick—now I feel a bit guilty for calling him Limpdick—stood up to Joe on my behalf.
“So I’m asking if that’s your reason for not wanting to travel with the team?” He finishes without missing a beat.
I grit my teeth. “Yes. My son is the reason I won’t travel with the team.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about him?”
“No,” I answer honestly, and that does something to him.
I’m not even sure what, but in a flash, he’s on his feet and pacing to the window behind him.
His hands meet his hips, and then he’s staring out at the field, and I can’t see his expression.
For reasons beyond my comprehension, I feel a twinge of guilt and regret, but I quickly push that away in favor of needing answers.
“Why am I here, Joe? Why did you bring me on? I’ve asked you before and you wouldn’t tell me. ”
He releases an audible breath, keeping his back to me as he speaks. “Similar to how you weren’t going to tell me about my grandson, I won’t explain my reasons for having you here beyond what I’ve already told you.”
I shake my head. It hurts to hear him call Mason his grandson. He has no right to make such a personal claim to him.
“Who’s the father?”
I laugh caustically. “None of your business.”
“Do you even know?”
“Fuck you, Joseph,” I snap. “You’re the last man to ever lecture about fathers or their presence in their children’s lives.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean I want that for you.”
There is an ornate cylindrical glass paperweight sitting heavy on his desk.
I bet it would shatter the window by his head if I chucked it.
“You don’t give a shit about me!” I yell, at my wits’ end, hating that he got me here with a few choice words.
“You never did! I was five when you left, and you didn’t give two shits about doing that to me or my mother.
She became a single mom thanks to you, or did you forget that? ”
He spins around in a flurry just as the door to his office bursts open and Asher is there. No knock, no, you wanted to see me . There is fire and protective resolve in his eyes. “I heard shouting. Is everything okay?”
His attention is on me. Not on Joe.
Asher needs to go. He needs to be careful. He needs to not insert himself into anything that happens between me and Joe. He needs to be Switzerland in order to protect himself and his career, but that’s not how Asher Reyes works.
Especially when it comes to me.
“Everything is fine. Just a disagreement between me and your coach. It’s over now.” I look back at Joe. “I’ll update you after the surgery on Mr. Rice. The matter of me traveling with the team is now closed.”
It’s not a question, but he gives me a firm nod all the same. Good.
I spin around and storm out—not waiting on Asher because I obviously can’t—heading for the freaking field because that’s where I’m supposed to be for the next five flipping hours that they hold their practice.
“Hey, everything good?” Dean exits the locker room and catches me in the middle of my march, my face no doubt a mask of anarchy and rage.
“Sure. Awesome.”
“Looks that way,” he deadpans.
I don’t respond, and he follows me out onto the field, where some of the players and assistant coaches are gathering. The cool bite of early autumn in New England hits my face, simmering some of my heat.
“Now’s a bad time to ask you out, right?”
I come to an abrupt halt and turn to look at Dean, who does the same only to have someone slam into his back. Hard. “Oh, sorry, Doctor. Didn’t mean to bump you like that.”
The look in Asher’s eyes tells me that’s exactly what he meant to do.
“No problem,” Dean remarks, not sparing Asher so much as a glance. He’s waiting me out, only Asher isn’t leaving.
“Good stuff. Dr. Hathaway, do you have a minute? I had a question about my shoulder.”
I blink up at Asher and then nod before turning back to Dean. “I’ll see you out there.”
“Great. We can talk more then.”
Dean saunters off, and then Asher is grabbing my arm and pulling me to the edge of the field on the opposite side from where the players and staff are congregating.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, looking around and then taking a step back away from him to create some distance.
“That’s my question to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I cut back, not liking his accusatory tone.
He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a heavy sigh. “Sorry. I just… I hate this. I hate that men ask you out because they don’t know you’re mine. I hate that I can’t protect you from Joe. I hate having to pretend and keep us a secret. I’m not good at it. It’s not the way I’m built.”
“He knows about Mason,” I tell him instead of addressing that because there is no answer or immediate solution to any of that.
Asher’s back stiffens, and he glances over his shoulder at where Joe is now starting practice. Asher should be over there. He should not be standing here with me, and we should not be talking like this.
He turns back to me. “How?”
“My boss mentioned it without knowing he shouldn’t. Joe doesn’t know about you. He thinks I’m a completely single mother with no father in the picture.”
“Wynter, I don’t like this.”
“What’s he going to do, Asher? Kidnap him? He may be a selfish, self-serving asshole, but he’s not a psycho, and he’s not dangerous.”
He huffs out a breath, his hands on his lean hips, and he nods. “You better say no to Dr. Horowitz.”
“You think?”
His eyes narrow. “I know.”
I smirk. “But he’s a neurologist.”
Asher growls, but he can’t fight his grin either. “You’re dangerous for my heart, Doctor. You make it beat in all kinds of new, unfamiliar ways.”
“Right back atcha, player. Now go get out there before this becomes obvious.”
“I love you,” he mouths, and then jogs away, heading straight onto the field with the other players. A queasiness flutters over me as I walk in Dean’s direction, already dreading this conversation.
“Reyes certainly requires a lot of your time and attention,” he drawls casually when I fall in beside him. Only I know the male species enough after living with Asher to understand nothing is casual when they’re asking about another man.
“Football players seem to be needier than hockey and basketball players are after they’re injured.”
He chuckles at my brush-off, liking that answer.
“What do you think though? About dinner?”
“It’s a nice offer, and if I weren’t seeing someone right now, I’d consider it.”
He taps his fingers on his khaki-clad thigh, but I can hear the surprise in his voice since I’ve never mentioned anyone in all the times we’ve chatted. “You’re seeing someone? Is that new?”
“It’s new but serious.”
He bobs his head. “I get it. No worries. I just thought I’d try.”
I offer him a wan smile, and we both let it go.
Practice drags and drags, but we fall back into friendly chit-chat, which is a relief.
We tell stories about med school and residency until my phone rings in my pocket.
I give him a sheepish look and then slip it out, walking away in a hurry for privacy when I see it’s the daycare.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Hathaway?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but Mason doesn’t seem to be feeling well. He’s been fussy for most of the morning, and he just threw up. When we checked his temperature, it shows he has a fever.”
“Oh my gosh.” My hand covers my mouth and I spin around, facing the field. “How high is his temperature?”
“It’s 103.8.”
My heart picks up a few extra beats. That’s not a crazy high fever for a child. I know this. But still, it’s the first time he’s ever been sick or had a fever, and it being high like that makes me nervous. The medical part of my brain implodes when it comes to my son.
“I’m on my way to get him now.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”
She disconnects the call, and I shove my phone back in my pocket and race over to Dean. “I have to go. My son is sick. Can you let them know?” I don’t even know why I’m asking or who I want him to let know. Certainly not Joe, and it’s not like he can go over and tell Asher.
“Of course. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just a fever, and he threw up.” I give him a goodbye wave, and then start to run off the field, all the while I throw quick, darting glances at Asher, hoping to catch his eye.
On my third try, right before I reach the tunnel, he glances at me with worry creasing his brow.
I don’t know what to do, so I pull out my phone and wave it back and forth by my hip so he can see it.
Then I shoot him a text telling him about Mason and leave.
I doubt he can do anything right now. His phone is in the locker room, and he’s stuck on the field with the team.
What a morning this has been.
On my way over to the hospital, I call Fallon, who’s his pediatrician. She’s seeing patients but tells me she’ll pop over to Asher’s place after her shift to take a look at Mason. Gotta love doctor friends who will make house calls.
I reach the hospital, park in my spot, and then fly through the building up to the daycare.
My poor baby is tucked into his teacher’s chest, his cheeks bright and rosy.
“Mason,” I call gently as I approach, running my hand over his hair.
He lets out a whiny cry when I pick him up.
I kiss his forehead. “Yikes. He’s burning up. ”
“Yes, he is,” his teacher agrees. “We can’t give him anything here to bring it down.”
“That’s okay. I’ll bring him home and give him something there.” I pull him into my arms and hug him tightly against me. “Let’s get you home, baby boy.”