20. Rhett
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rhett
The coals crackle in the grill, heat rising into the humid Miami evening. I shift another skewer into place, brush sauce over the meat, and let the smoke rise around me.
The sun is low, the faint pink edge of dusk cutting across the buildings, and I glance toward the balcony door without meaning to.
“She should be back by now,” Hunter mutters.
I look over at him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug inside with Chloe balanced against his thigh. She’s drooping against him, head heavy with sleep. Her tiny fists keep opening and closing as she fights it, but she’s already losing.
Hunter’s cheeks are pink, his arms and shoulders a little red from the hours we all spent at the beach. He looks relaxed, softer than I usually see him, running a hand through Chloe’s curls while Storm lies stretched out at their feet, still damp from the rinse we gave him after the salt water.
Hunter yawns and pats Chloe’s back lightly. “Seriously, man. It’s past seven. She left this morning to meet him. Either she and Landon worked it out, or…”
He doesn’t finish, but the tilt of his brow says enough.
“Or,” I echo quietly, checking the grill. I’m not sure what I expected when she left this morning. Not this silence stretching into evening. Not this uncertainty.
I flip the last set of ribs, trying to focus on the sizzle, but my ears strain for the sound of her key in the door.
And then it comes. A soft click. The knob turning.
Hunter’s head snaps up.
The door opens, and Ivy steps inside.
For a second, I don’t recognize her. Not like this. Her hair is loose, a little messy, strands sticking to the sweat at her temples. Her lips are swollen.
Her neck… her neck is marked up, bruises blooming faint purple and red like he wanted everyone to know exactly what he’d done to her. She looks wrecked, spent, like sex clings to her skin.
I freeze with the tongs still in my hand.
Hunter doesn’t. He lets out a sharp laugh, almost disbelieving, and shakes his head. “What the hell did that son of a bitch do to you?”
Ivy sighs and presses her palms to her cheeks. She doesn’t answer right away, just groans softly, embarrassed.
“It was… it was a one-time thing.” She looks between us quickly, almost defensively. “I think it’s out of our system.”
Hunter raises his brows but only nods, still chuckling. He bounces Chloe once on his knee, making her sigh against his chest.
Ivy crosses the room, leans down, and kisses Hunter’s cheek first. Then mine. Her lips linger a little longer than I expect, soft and tired. She smells different—his cologne mixed with her shampoo, the faint tang of sweat and heat that isn’t ours.
“Landon’s coming for dinner in an hour,” she says softly, brushing her hair back. “I’m going to shower and take a nap first. Chloe’s coming with me.”
Hunter helps her lift the baby, and Ivy tucks Chloe against her chest, humming low as she heads toward the hallway. The bedroom door clicks shut behind her.
For a long moment, the apartment is quiet again. Only the hum of the grill, the low pant of Storm as he stretches his paws.
Then Hunter glances over at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So do you think it was a one-time thing?”
I stab the tongs into the ribs, flip them harder than necessary, and snort. “No fucking way.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, didn’t think so. So how do you feel about it?”
I stare at the meat, watch the juices bubble and hiss. My chest should feel tight. My throat should burn. I should feel jealous. But I don’t.
“Surprisingly… okay,” I admit. The truth settles in my gut, steady. “Not jealous the way I thought I would be.”
Hunter stretches out, running a hand through his damp hair. “Guess that means we’ll just have to mark her up even more before she sees him again.”
His grin is crooked, teasing, but his eyes glint with something darker.
“It’s not a competition,” I tell him, shaking my head as I brush sauce over the ribs again.
“Maybe not,” he says, still smirking. But when I glance back at him, I can’t help it. I laugh too, low in my throat.
Because as much as I want to believe it isn’t, there’s something about the way she came in tonight—neck bruised, lips swollen—that has me thinking about the next time I’ll have her under me.
About the marks I’ll leave, the ones that will remind her exactly who she belongs to, no matter what happens at dinner.
The coals flare, and I let the heat rise up into my face, steadying myself with the thought.
Dinner first. Then we’ll see.
The smell of grilled ribs still lingers in the air when we all settle around the table. The plates are full, and the baby monitor sits between the glasses, a faint hiss of static filling the pauses.
Ivy takes the head of the table. She’s showered, her hair damp and curling against her shoulders.
She’s wearing a loose cream blouse tucked into soft navy shorts, the kind that ride up when she shifts in her seat. Simple and casual, but she looks luminous.
The glow of steam from the bathroom still clings to her skin, her cheeks flushed pink. My stomach knots at the thought that not all of that color is because of the shower.
Landon sits across from me, still in a dark shirt and tailored slacks, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair. His tie is gone, collar open, but he still looks sharp as a blade.
Controlled. Watching everything.
He lifts his fork and nods once. “The food’s excellent.”
I glance at Ivy. She smiles faintly, embarrassed.
“That was all Rhett,” she says. “He manned the grill.”
Landon turns his gaze to me, steady. “Well done.”
I give a short nod, take a sip of my drink. The weight of his attention sits heavy, but it’s not hostile. Just measuring.
For a while, the conversation stays light—Hunter teasing about Chloe trying to chew on his sunglasses earlier, Ivy laughing as she reaches for the salad, Landon asking a few careful questions about practice schedules.
The kind of talk that skims the surface.
Then Hunter leans back in his chair, resting his forearm against the table. His voice cuts through the calm. “So… the baby.”
My pulse tightens. Ivy freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth.
Landon’s brow furrows. “Chloe,” he says, like he’s checking the name.
Hunter nods. “Yeah. Chloe.”
Landon sets his fork down slowly, glances between the three of us. I explain how she was dropped off at my doorstep and how Coach is insistent that we determine the paternity.
“She’s not…?” Landon stops, clears his throat. “I assumed she was Ivy’s.”
Ivy shakes her head.
The silence sharpens. Landon’s eyes darken as the realization sets in. He leans forward slightly, his voice calm but firm.
“Then the first step is obvious. You’ll need to establish paternity.”
The word hangs there like smoke. Hunter blinks, shifting uneasily. I press my palms flat against my thighs.
Ivy doesn’t flinch. Her chin lifts.
“What we need,” she says evenly, “is a nondisclosure drafted. One that binds the physician performing the test. Ironclad. Personally liable if there’s even a whisper of information leaking.”
Landon’s gaze cuts to her. I can feel the shift in the room, like two lawyers scenting the start of a fight.
“That’s unnecessary,” he says. “Confidentiality is implied in medical ethics.”
“Implied isn’t enough,” Ivy fires back, her voice precise. “Medical ethics don’t stop someone from running to the tabloids if the money’s right. And you know as well as I do that personal liability clauses have teeth.”
Hunter leans back slowly, eyes darting between them. I can see his surprise. He’s never seen this side of her—sharp, legal, relentless. Neither have I.
Landon clasps his hands together, elbows on the table. “If you push liability that far, most physicians will refuse to take the case.”
“Then we find one who won’t,” Ivy counters smoothly. “This isn’t negotiable. Not when careers are on the line. There’s already talk of trades next season. You know how paranoid the higher-ups are about another so-called scandal. We can’t risk management hearing about this before we’re ready.”
The air vibrates between them. It’s not anger—it’s force meeting force, neither willing to yield.
Finally, Landon exhales slowly, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “You want discretion. Fine. I can draft something that will hold. But you’re playing a dangerous game, tying liability this tightly.”
Ivy doesn’t back down. “Better dangerous on paper than disastrous in the press.”
Hunter lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Remind me never to argue with you.”
Ivy shoots him a quick look, cheeks pink, but she doesn’t lose her composure.
Landon clears his throat, turning back to the two of us. “You’ll both need to be tested. Once paternity is determined, I’d strongly advise pursuing custody. Given what you’ve told me about Chloe’s mother, volatility could become grounds for awarding primary care to the father.”
Hunter frowns. “Would that even work? We’re gone half the year. On the road. Practicing. Playing. How the hell does a judge see that as stable?”
“Custody isn’t a one-size-fits-all,” Landon replies. “Judges weigh best interest. If the mother is unstable, and you can demonstrate a network of reliable care”—his eyes flick briefly to Ivy—“then yes, it’s entirely possible.”
Ivy nods slowly. “He’s right. Judges want stability, but they want safety first. And Chloe’s safety would be prioritized if her environment with you is healthier.”
Hunter rubs his jaw, thoughtful now, still shaken but listening.
Landon leans back, his voice quieter. “I can have the NDA drafted tomorrow. You’ll need to choose a physician. Someone with no ties to the team. No ties to the media.”
Ivy nods once. “I’ll help vet.”
The tension softens slightly, the conversation shifting back to the clink of cutlery, the scrape of forks against plates.
The heavier subjects give way to smaller talk again—Hunter teasing Landon about his complete lack of tan despite living in Miami, Ivy rolling her eyes when Landon insists he actually prefers the gym to the beach.
When the plates are mostly cleared, Landon sets down his glass, thanks us for dinner, and slips his jacket back on. His expression is unreadable again, that precise lawyer mask sliding into place.
At the door, he pauses, looks back at us. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow with drafts.”
Then he leaves.
The silence he leaves behind feels heavy.
Hunter exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “Well. That was… something.”
I push back my chair, stand, and stretch out my shoulders. “He’s right, though. We need to do the test.”
Hunter nods reluctantly. “Yeah. For sure.”
I glance toward the closed bedroom door, where Chloe sleeps on, unaware of all of it. My chest tightens. Whatever the results, we’ll face it. Together.