15. Chapter 15
Chapter 15
LANE
Iremove the freshly laundered uniforms from the massive drum of the dryer, placing them in the basket before hanging them in preparation for tomorrow’s game as Teagan props a hip against the counter, watching me.
When he came to apologize yesterday for mistaking Sophie as my sister, I thought his helping me was a one-time thing, so imagine my surprise when he showed up today, too. “Will you be at the game tomorrow?” he asks.
I try to go to home games if I can make them, but I hadn’t planned on going tomorrow. Since taking on the student manager job, I have so much stuff at home to catch up on, but something about the pleading look in his eye when he asks, makes me want to try.
“I might be able to catch at least the first half of the game,” I say, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
His face splits into a wide smile, which turns my stomach into a whirlpool of quickly moving water and conflicting currents.
I keep my head down and focus on hanging the football jerseys until the feeling passes. Every time I’m around Teagan, he has the ability to make me feel torn up inside. My mind says one thing while my body tells me another.
“What are your plans for tonight?” He steps closer so he can help, and our fingers brush.
The jolt of energy shoots straight to my chest but I ignore it.
I inhale sharply, somehow forcing my words. “Not much. Just hanging out at the house. I’ll be solo tonight. My parents have plans.”
An extremely rare occurrence during football season. Not that it makes much of a difference. I’ll still be doing what I always do: Make Sophie dinner, play for a bit before bath and bedtime, and then sit alone on the couch catching up on laundry and schoolwork. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to read. And though a Friday night at twenty-one spent doing such mundane things sounds boring to most, after how busy my week’s been, I’m looking forward to it more than I’d like to admit.
God, I sound so boring.
Teagan’s brows rise to his hairline, and he blinks. “Wait. Your father is going out the night before a game?”
I chuckle. “I know. It’s unheard of. He misses holidays, weekends, barbecues, and basically anything not football related come fall, but my mother’s high school reunion is tonight, and he promised her he’d go with her, even if for a little bit. Of course, that was a year ago when Cumberland was ranked at the bottom of the NCAAs and he first started. Now that you’re climbing rank, he’s panicking about taking the night off.”
“Yeah . . .” Teagan laughs and shakes his head. “I can’t imagine Coach going out the night before a big game. Think he’ll actually follow through?”
I know all about tomorrow's game because I’ve heard about it all week at home. He and my mother went back and forth for hours over it. We play Alabama, who is currently ranked tenth. Securing a win will be really tough, but would also bolster our rankings, and my father thinks we can do it. Normally, he’d spend hours into the evening studying game tape and going over the playbook.
I smirk. “Oh, I’m not sure he has much of a choice if he wants to stay married.”
Teagan snorts. “Say no more. I know how that is. My parents have been married twenty-five years.”
I smile over at him and grab another jersey from the pile. “Yeah, mine were high school sweethearts and married right after college. There was a time I thought I might follow in their footsteps, but then . . .”
I discovered Chance Lockhart never really loved me.
I swallow, realizing how close I came to slipping up.
What the hell is wrong with me? I never do that.
His baby blues narrow as if he can see right through me.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, my mom has sacrificed a lot to support my dad’s dreams and his love for the game, so this was her one stipulation. She’s giving Thanksgiving to football and the rest of the holiday season, but not this. I wouldn’t say my mother outright gave him an ultimatum, but let’s just say it was highly implied.” I chuckle, imagining my father’s long face. “I have no doubt he’ll be chomping at the bit to get home.”
Teagan crosses his arms over his chest. If he noticed my diversion from what I almost shared, he doesn’t show it. “What time does it start?” he asks.
I peer up at him, brow knotted. “Seven. Why?”
He shrugs and goes back to hanging, but not before I catch a hint of a smile. “Just curious.”
After I finish washing the last of the dishes from dinner, I’m about to grab the novel I’ve been reading and settle in, when the doorbell rings.
With a frown, I hurry across the kitchen and through the open concept living room for the door, afraid the sound will wake Sophie, but one peek through the peephole has me raring back.
Teagan.
I inhale a sharp breath, unsure of what to make of his presence here on a Friday night just before a big game. Is this why he asked when my parents would be gone?
Before he can ring the doorbell again, I steady my hand on the knob and wrench it open. The sight of him sends a flurry of butterflies dancing in my chest.
He stands on the stoop in front of me, hair damp from the shower. He’s in a pair of athletic shorts and a navy-blue shirt that clings to his muscular chest, and my first thought is how good he smells. Like soap and citrus with a hint of spice.
“Teagan, what are you doing here?”
He glances behind me, craning his neck to peer inside as he whispers, “Is your father gone?”
“Yeah,” I drawl. “I told you, they’re at the reunion. What are you doing here?” I ask again, sure there must be some ulterior motive for visiting me when he knows they’ll be gone.
He shrugs and the corners of his lips curl. “I just wanted to see you, so I thought . . .”
I arch a brow. “You thought you’d come to my parents’ house while they’re gone, after my father explicitly warned the team I was off-limits?”
“Something like that.” He smirks and his dimples pop.
My skin rises to gooseflesh at the notion that this man, this beautiful, charming man, wants to see me, and is willing to risk himself to do it.
“You either have balls of steel or you’re really stupid,” I blurt.
His head cocks. “I’m partial to the balls of steel theory, but in truth, I might be a little bit of both.” He motions behind me. “So, are you going to invite me in or not?”
Not.
I should definitely not.
“I don’t know . . .” I stall because the idea of being with Teagan, alone, in my own home makes my stomach do weird things.
“Lane,” he scolds. “How are we supposed to be friends if you keep pushing me away? Friends hang out, don’t they?”
I know what he’s doing, and I want to call him out on it. He can call us friends all he wants, but we’re not. Aside from the fact we hardly know each other, we’re something in-between friends and more, some indefinable entity that doesn’t exist. Which is ridiculous when I think about it. But ridiculous or not, it’s the truth.
Or maybe I’m just so damn starved for male affection, I’m reading into things that don’t exist.
I frown at the thought, then clear my throat and step aside. “It’s your funeral,” I say, because my father coming home early is a very real possibility.
He tentatively steps inside, turning back to ask, “How long do we have?”
“He compromised at leaving around ten, but if I’m right, they’ll leave before that.”
“That gives us two hours, maybe less if I’m being cautious.” He grimaces. “Which I probably should be.”
I shake my head, shocked he’s really here, and I really let him in. We’re doing this. Hanging out at home on a Friday night. Alone.
God, I feel like a preschooler.
“Shouldn’t you be prepping for your game?” I ask, trying to get a reign on my nerves.
Teagan shrugs. “There’s more to life than football.”
His statement hits me like a load of bricks.
Now there’s a newsflash. I almost forgot someone who loved the game could even feel that way. Most of my life, I’ve had it drilled into me that football was the be-all and end-all, the only thing that mattered. Sometimes I wonder how my mother puts up with it when it seems she’s married to a game and not a man that’s flesh and blood. But then she gets her husband back in the off-season, and my father dotes on her. They take trips together and fill their weekends with date nights, making up for the time they lose the other half of the year. And if that works for them, who am I to judge?
But even if Chance hadn’t broken my heart and proved to me that someone like him will always put their love of the game first, I wouldn’t want that kind of life for myself. Day in and day out, I have to be present for my daughter, and I don’t want anyone who’s only half-in. I want someone all-in or nothing.
“Besides,” Teagan continues, breaking through my thoughts, “I’m ready. I did all my prepping this week, and the night before I like to take my mind off it. Otherwise, the pressure would eat me alive.”
I ingest what he’s saying as he kicks off his shoes, ignoring the way my nerves flutter with renewed life at the intimacy of him walking through our foyer in socked feet.
The hallway opens into the kitchen and living room and Teagan makes a beeline for the large island, which is when I notice the plastic grocery bag in his hand for the first time.
He stops in front of it and pulls two containers from the bag, placing them on the counter. “Where’s Sweet Sophie?” he asks, and my heart does a little flip at the nickname.
His blue eyes flicker over his surroundings but are left wanting when he glances back to me. “I brought dessert, a treat for her since we didn’t get to have any at Slice the other night.” He points to one of the boxes. “First, I got her this chocolate mousse cake, but then I realized I didn’t know if she had any allergies, so I picked up this one, too.” He shoves a pale, crumbling cake toward me as he reads the label, “It’s allergen friendly. No nuts, soy, wheat, eggs, or dairy.” His face twists, and I laugh. “I’m sure it’s delicious,” he deadpans.
I slowly shake my head, eyes wide as I stare at him like he’s one of the seven wonders of the world. “You bought two cakes?”
He shrugs, his gaze flickering back at me seriously. “I know peanuts are a pretty common allergy, but a lot of kids nowadays can’t have wheat, or dairy, and . . .” he trails off. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, dragging a hand over his face. “Is there something on me?”
“No. I just . . .” I swallow, and my heart twists. “You bought a special dessert for Sophie just in case she has an allergy?”
“Well . . . yeah,” he says like it’s no big deal when it’s actually a very, very big deal. At least, to me.
No one except my parents ever even thinks twice about Sophie. But here’s this man who’s spent time with her only twice, and he’s going out of his way to accommodate her. For me.
My eyes fill with tears, and I blink them back, sniffing as I glance away from him, mortified at the rare display of emotion.
Get it together, Lane.
When I turn back to him, he’s staring at me like I have a third head. “Um, is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head while I fight to speak over the lump in my throat. “No. No, everything is great. And Sophie can eat either cake. She doesn’t have any allergies. It’s just . . .” My throat constricts, and I purse my lips.
Damn you, Lane. He’s going to think you’re nuts, crying over something as simple as cake.
“It’s, uh, just not every day—” Or ever, “—that someone shows they care about Sophie.” Or me.
“Oh.” He exhales and the tension in his posture loosens. “Well, I guess you’ll have to get used to it. Best damn friend you’ve ever had, remember?” He grins, twin dimples beckoning me forward. I want to reach out and hug him, squeeze him, to make sure he’s real. “Anyway, you might wanna just toss this one,” he says, shoving the allergy friendly cake away from us with a grimace. “It looks like cardboard.”
I laugh but inside I’m screaming because, as ludicrous as it is, I want to save the cake. Remember it. Place it on my nightstand where I’ll see it every morning and night as a reminder that men like him exist. Ones that go the extra mile. Ones that care and actually give a damn.
I’m completely hopeless, a total freak, but he’s making it hard to care.
“There’s only one problem,” I say with regret. “Sophie’s already asleep.”
“Damn it, seriously?” Teagan’s shoulders slump forward as he glances down at the cake so forlornly, I can’t help my responding chuckle.
“Are you more upset that you missed her or that you feel like you can’t eat cake now?”
His mouth drops and he scoffs. “Of course I’m upset that I don’t get to see her.” Then he tilts his head and adds, “And, okay, maybe I’m a little sad I can’t have cake.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile, but it’s impossible. “Pizza several times a week and cake. It’s a miracle you have the body you do,” I say without thinking.
Teagan’s brows rise at my statement, and my cheeks burn.
“You checking out my body, Turner?” His eyes glitter with mischief as he comes around the island and steps closer. “You like what you see?”
I swallow, glancing down at the marble countertop as I open my mouth, trying to find something clever to say in response, some way I can shrug this off, but with his close proximity, I draw a blank. Instead, all I can focus on is the memory of his toned chest that day in the park and the glimpse of his six-pack when he lifted his shirt inside Slice.
God, even now the outline of his muscles and contour of his biceps are visible through the soft material of his shirt.
He steps closer, and the heady scent of citrus and spice hits me in the nose.
My mouth goes dry, like it’s filled with cotton. “I . . . uh . . .” I press my lips together and reach toward the cake. “You can have a piece. Sophie won’t care. She’ll still be thrilled in the morning.”
She can have cake for breakfast, and I’ll win mom of the year.
Teagan’s low chuckle rumbles through my chest as I step away from him, needing the space to breathe. I busy myself with grabbing a plate and utensils, then cut him a slice, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my hand shakes.
What the heck is wrong with me?
Teagan wants to be friends. Period. Do I not remember how friendship works?
You don’t ogle your friends and tell them they have a hot bod. Ugh.
I cringe.
He watches me with predatory eyes as I slide the slice of cake toward him. “You’re not having any?” he asks.
“Maybe later?” When he frowns, I add, “I’ll have some with Sophie tomorrow.”
I couldn’t choke anything down right now if I tried.
Thankfully, my explanation seems to appease him because he grabs the plate and takes a bite at the same time he notices the video monitor on the counter. “Is this Soph?”
“Yeah. I know she’s four, but sometimes she still wakes during the night, so . . .” I shrug off the rest of my sentence because “and I’m paranoid” doesn’t seem particularly attractive.
Not that I care about being attractive.
He swallows a bite of cake and grins at the black-and-white screen, then chuckles. “The only thing you can see is a lump and all that wild hair.”
My heart thrums at the affection in his voice, a warning to change the conversation to something a little more innocuous and less . . . heartwarming.
I clear my throat and pick the monitor up, motioning for Teagan to follow as I make my way into the living room. He follows me while I remind myself how to breathe and pretend I know how normal humans in this situation behave.
I sit down on the sofa and turn on the television, unsure of what to do with myself as Teagan joins me on the couch, his tone chipper. “What we watchin’?”
I glance over, gaze trailing the length of him from his broad muscular shoulders to his socked feet propped up on the coffee table. He’s completely made himself at home, and I can’t help but wonder if his easy confidence comes naturally or if he’s every bit as nervous as I am.
“Uh, just Grey’s Anatomy reruns,” I say, but when I glance over at him again, he’s not even looking at the screen. Instead, his gaze is focused solely on the smooth, wooden surface of the coffee table. Before I can even process what he finds so interesting about it, he bends forward and scoops up the stack of scrapbooks perched in its center.
“Oh, no. No!” I practically shout. “You don’t wanna look at those.”
“What? Why?” He yanks back, away from my grabby hands.
“Because they’re . . . they’re . . .”
A wolfish grin spreads his perfect mouth. “Are they embarrassing photos or something? Now I have to look.” He turns, already cracking the top one open.
I make a play to grab it from him, but he easily shifts his giant body further so they’re out of reach.
“They’re not embarrassing.” Per se. “They’re just—” He hesitates in his perusal, glancing at me over his shoulder. “—I don’t know, boring, and okay, maybe there are a few pictures I don’t want you to see.”
“Not making me wanna look any less.” He chuckles, turning his attention to the photobooks in his hands, then: “Oh shit. Are these from when you had Sophie?”
I sigh and drop my arm, knowing I’ve likely lost this battle. His broad shoulders and muscular back might as well be a brick wall. Even if I got the scrapbooks off him, he’d easily overpower me and grab them back. I’m starting to realize in Teagan’s presence, I’m not in control of anything—my body, my emotions, my reactions, or my train of thought.
As if in agreement, a ball of fire unfurls inside my chest as I watch him turn the page, the muscles in his forearm twitching with the movement.
I blush, willing the fire to recede at the exact moment he shifts and peers over his shoulder. His left dimple appears. “You’re so damn cute when you blush.” He says it like he’s reciting the weather, like it’s nothing, just a fact he’s pointing out.
He reaches for me and brushes a thumb over the warmth in my cheeks I imagine are now candy-apple red.
Swallowing, I remind myself to breathe when he pulls his hand away just as quickly, focusing back on the book again. “Wow. She was so tiny,” he says, staring down at the very first picture which is an enlarged photo of Sophie seconds after she was born. “And look at all that hair!”
I blink, slightly whiplashed from his touch as I scoot a little closer so I can see and focus on the present. “She did have a lot of hair. After she was born, everyone was amazed I didn’t have heartburn while I was pregnant.”
He glances at me, a furrow in his brow, and I laugh, explaining, “They say that’s a sign your baby has a lot of hair.”
He nods and returns to the photo. “Did you have morning sickness?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Maybe a little bit of queasiness at first, but nothing major.”
“I remember my mom’s pregnancy with my sisters well because I was older, and she was sick as a dog for a while. Fucking sucked for her. I felt so bad.”
I bite my lip and stare at his profile like he’s a riddle I’m trying to solve. He’s so fucking perfect; I wonder if he could possibly be real. Then again, my experience with men is limited. All I’ve ever known are the immature guys from high school: Chance and the boys my father coached. It’s not like I’ve had much time in the last four years to date or form any friendships with members of the opposite sex.
Maybe this is what the majority of men my age are like, though I doubt it. Something tells me guys like Teagan don’t come along too often.
Which is why you should grab him and hold on tight.
I shove the errant thought aside. I’m not in a position to even entertain a relationship, but that doesn’t stop me from slyly taking in his masculine features. The thick, long lashes and the bump in the middle of his nose that makes me wonder if he broke it at one time. His angular jaw below chiseled cheekbones. The tiny freckle right above the corner of his full lips. The mess of loose, blond curls, ones I want to run my hands through but know I shouldn’t.
My gaze shifts again and our eyes lock, only for mortification to set in.
He caught me staring.
Oh shit.
I should be embarrassed and look away, but somehow, I can’t. I’m transfixed. Under his spell.
His blue orbs deepen to midnight, and my pulse wallops in my ears like the steady beat of a drum.
As if he can hear it, his gaze shifts to my neck, then north where he homes in on my mouth, and my lungs freeze.
All the air is sucked out of the room. I’m in a vacuum and I can’t breathe.
As if to emphasize this point, my heart rages behind my ribs, racing like a jack rabbit on speed.
Am I having a heart attack?
He shifts forward, leaning toward me, and he licks his lips.
Bump-ba-bump-ba-bump.
Yep. I’m definitely having a heart attack.
His focus narrows further, and everything inside me tightens. My throat. My chest. My thighs.
My hand flies to my chest, clutching at my shirt, afraid it might beat straight through my skin as I try and orient myself.
In an act of self-preservation, my gaze falls to the page he’s on and I cringe.
He notices.
But then, he seems to notice everything about me, doesn’t he? I’m starting to wonder if he’s intuitive.
He brushes a finger against the photo. “You were beautiful.” He says it like a prayer, and I stare down at the photo to see what he sees. It’s me in a hospital gown, pulled down low enough for Sophie to rest on my chest, but not so much it’s indecent. It was taken shortly after I gave birth, before they whisked her away for a bath and testing and the millions of things they do to tiny humans once they enter the world.
I can still remember how protective I felt, how much I wanted to tell them no and keep her in my arms.
It might’ve been an incredible moment—one of the most incredible ones of my life—but an incredible photo of me, it is not.
I choke out a laugh, and it’s like breaking the seal on a soda bottle. The pressure from moments ago dissipates. “You're kidding, right? This was three a.m. in the morning, and I was exhausted after fourteen hours of labor. I was swollen and red-faced and sweaty and miserable.”
“And the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I open my mouth to protest.
He’s just being kind, saying what I want to hear. But a seething glance from him tells me otherwise. It’s a warning not to argue because he’ll win, so I snap my mouth shut.
“What was it like? After you had her? Were you scared?” he asks.
I stare down at the album, transporting myself back to the day I went into labor with Sophie. I had yet to turn eighteen, and I was only a couple months away from graduating high school. I’d been in class when the first contractions started.
“Scared out of my mind is a good way to describe it,” I say, watching as he turns the page, listening. “And I guess, embarrassed, too. I had to tell my teacher I didn’t feel well to get excused from class, and then I went to the school nurse where I had the joy of informing her I thought I was going into labor. I suppose I should be grateful my water didn’t break. That would have been much worse. By then, it’s not like my pregnancy was a secret, but it didn’t matter much. The disapproving glances, the whispers in the hall, the shame, they were still there, along with all their judgments.
“My dad was already at the school since he was the high school coach. He rushed me to the hospital where my mother stayed by my side in the delivery room. Honestly, she was amazing.” So amazing, I barely missed Chance’s presence, hardly gave him a second thought.
If either of my parents ever felt embarrassed by me, they never showed it, and for that, I’ll be eternally grateful. Still, when I look back on that period in my life, I can’t help but wonder.
It makes me wish I could repay them; show my gratitude for all they’ve done.
Which is why moving out is so important to me.
It’s time to give them their lives back.
“What specifically scared you?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Honestly? Everything.” I shake my head and lift my gaze to the ceiling, remembering. “Getting an epidural. Something going wrong and needing a C-section. Something being wrong with the baby. The pain. All of it.” I swallow. “I was so young. How could I care for a baby when I still felt like a child myself? I wasn’t ready. I wanted more time. More money. More wisdom. It took me a while to come to terms with what having a baby at my age would mean. All the things I would have to give up. Things I might miss out on, and even though I chose this, I was terrified that I might resent her. That when she was born, I’d feel nothing at all. Or worse, that I’d be angry with her. But I didn’t. I wasn’t.”
A vise grips my throat, and I clear it to speak. “When I heard her cry, everything changed.” I meet his eyes. “In one single second, everything changed. It was like someone turning the chapter in a book or flipping a switch. They laid her in my arms and sleepy, unfocused blue eyes blinked up at me and the world stopped. I knew, even if any of my fears were valid and I would have to sacrifice everything, she was worth it. It was all worth it. Like someone cleaved my chest open and filled all the empty spaces with love for this tiny human I had only known for seconds.”
I inhale, feeling a little shy and wondering if I said too much. “There’s no other way to describe it,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know if that’s what it’s like for everyone, but it’s what it was like for me.”
Teagan swallows and brushes a lock of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear in a move so tender, it makes my chest ache. “Did you have any help other than your parents?”
I shake my head. I know what he’s asking. Did I have help from the father? Was he ever involved?
“No. Just them, and I’ll admit, they were my rock. I leaned on them, especially emotionally, but I also made it my goal in life not to rely on them too much. They both have full-time jobs and their own responsibilities. Sophie was my choice. She’s mine, and I didn’t want to put them out.”
“Does he know anything about her? Like how amazing she is?”
We’re skirting around the topic of who the father is, and Teagan knows it. He turns his attention back to the scrapbooks and flips a page, focusing on the photos—taking in Sophie’s first outfit and my first time strapping her in the car seat before I brought her home. I can practically feel the unspoken question he wants to ask the most radiating off him: Who is he? Why isn’t he here? The only questions I told him to never ask, and the only ones I won’t answer.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I say because Chance has seen Sophie throughout the years, he just chooses to ignore her. “But probably not. He knows of her, and he’s seen her—”
“Through photos?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur a noncommittal response and push away the guilt accompanying it. “He’s just too focused on himself to care much, I guess.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, and we sit in silence for a few minutes while he finishes flipping through the album. He flips past photos of her first bath and first bottle after I had to stop breastfeeding when I started college because pumping and nursing and going to class was too damn much. He turns over another page to reveal her first taste of carrots, crawling, and those miraculous first steps just before she turned one. All of my memories, each one special.
Gabby and my parents are the only people who have ever seen these photos. Not necessarily by design, but they’re the only ones who have ever cared enough. And as Teagan finishes, I realize just how intimate this feels, sharing these moments in time with him. To anyone on the outside looking in, they’re just photographs, but to me, they’re more than that. They’re the struggle. They’re all the sacrifices it took to get here. They’re pure love and joy and maybe even a little bit of pain, too.
Motherhood summed up in a nutshell is a Tootsie Pop. You have to get through the hard outer shell to get to the good part.
Once he’s finished, he closes the scrapbook and sinks back into the cushions, lifting the arm closest to me to rest across the back of the couch and behind my shoulders. I turn toward him expectantly, but the intensity in his expression makes me squirm.
He stares at me like I’m a new discovery under a microscope he wants to study. Like he wants to pick my brain until he’s memorized every nook and cranny, every thought. “Do you know how incredible you are?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I keep my tone light, shifting attention to my peeling nail polish. “I just did what anyone else would do.”
“No.” He shakes his head, his tone firm. “Not everyone would make the choice you did, and even if they did, it doesn’t mean they’d be the person you are, the mother you are. Do you ever give yourself any credit?”
I glance up at him, mouth gaping.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Reaching between us he takes my hand in his and threads our fingers together.
My stomach plunges like a diving swan. I contemplate his long fingers, the strong masculine hand wrapped in mine, and the rough feel of calluses sends my heart racing all over again.
“Lane, look at me,” he says, and there’s no arguing his tone. It’s a deep baritone, a command.
I glance up at him and hold my breath, afraid for reasons I can’t comprehend.
“You’re an amazing woman.” He draws tiny circles on the back of my hand in a dizzying rhythm. “And an amazing fucking mother. What you’ve done with your life, with Sophie, is nothing short of incredible. What you did was brave and hard, and you should be fucking proud. Don’t dim your light just so you can be at everyone else’s level.”
I swallow. Breathe. “Okay.”
His eyes narrow. “No. Not just okay. I want to hear you say it like you fucking mean it. Repeat after me: I, Lane Turner, am fucking proud.”
“Teagan—”
He cuts me off with a glare so sharp, I inhale and mutter, “I, Lane, Turner am fucking proud.”
“Good. Now say, ‘I am a fucking amazing mother.’”
“I am an amazing mother.”
“No.” He shakes his head and his whole body vibrates. “Fucking amazing.”
My lips quirk. “I am a fucking amazing mother!” I yell, and a laugh bursts out of my chest.
Teagan grins. “Good.”
His gaze dips to my mouth. “I’m sexy.”
“Are you making a statement or—”
When he glares, I snap my mouth closed, but I can’t hide the smile lifting my lips as I drawl, “I’m sexy.”
“Fuck, yes, you are.” Our eyes lock and my smile fades. “And smart.”
“And smart,” I repeat, heart pounding as his thumb continues its dizzying rhythm over my skin.
“A hard-ass worker, worthy in every single way, and I deserve every fucking amazing thing this world has to offer.”
I swallow. “A hard-ass worker, worthy in every single way, and I deserve every fucking amazing thing this world has to offer.”
Like you.
He holds my gaze for several tense moments before he finally smiles. “Good. After I leave, write that down, and then repeat it to yourself every night before you go to bed, and every morning when you wake up. And if for one fucking second, you start to doubt yourself or question how completely and utterly fucking perfect you are, you say it some more. It’s your new mantra, Turner. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I say because it’s the only words my mouth is capable of forming.
“And don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.” He glances down at the watch strapped to his wrist while I stare, lost in him and his words and the way they make me feel.
“Shit. I should go.”
The statement deflates the hot air ballooning in my chest, and I nod.
To think I hesitated to even invite him in, and now, I don’t want to let him go.
I rise to my feet, and he follows. His departure is a good reminder that though Teagan Nichols might make me feel desirable, at the end of the day, it changes nothing between us. I’m still a twenty-one-year-old mother to a four-year-old with a world of responsibility, while he’s barely nineteen and completely unattached with years of oat-sowing ahead of him. Not to mention, he’s a college athlete and one of my father’s players. His dedication to his football career comes first.
Bottom line: it would never work out.
Yet he was here on a Friday night before an important game.
I shake the thought away as I walk him to the door.
The whole reason he’s hurrying off is so he doesn’t get caught by my father.
Football is his priority.
We’re at opposite junctures in our lives, and a little—okay, a lot—of attraction can’t change that.
I’m off-limits, and even if I weren’t, I’m more hassle than I’m worth.
It’s best if I remember that.
He might be my friend, but that’s all we’ll ever be. His allegiance lies with football and mine is with Sophie.