2. Ryan
TWO
Ryan
Holy fucking shit. I may not know her name, but I sure as hell know her. Those dark-brown eyes, laced with recognition, those long legs concealed by an unfortunate pantsuit. And those fucking luscious lips of hers—lips that felt like heaven as they fluttered across my body.
“Princess. Is that you?” I take a step toward her and then another while she stares at me, her mouth opening and closing, but no words come out.
It’s been a few years, and maybe I’m wrong, maybe she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe our night together meant way more to me than it ever did to her. But there’s not a chance this isn’t the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.
Pathetic, I know. Trust me, I’ve kept myself buried with football. I’ve tried to purge her from my soul, but then sometimes late at night, when I’m all alone, the memories come rushing back, burning into me like a brand.
And here she is, finally standing before me, shaking like a leaf as she stares at my football uniform .
Probably should have shared some personal details after rocking her world for hours.
Yeah, but you still know how she looks when she comes .
“Big football fan?” My bad attempt at a joke falls flat as she continues to stare at me, her eyes wide, tension growing around us, between us.
I’m usually good at breaking the ice, at starting casual conversation, but I’m floundering.
Of course she’s not a fan. It was one of the biggest perks of being with her. She had absolutely no idea who I was, which meant she didn’t watch football. If she had, she would have recognized me right away. No question.
She shifts on her feet, moving a child from one hip to the other—wait. A child? “I was dropping something off for Silas. I?—”
Silas? Fucking Silas Brooks.
In the two seconds it took to say his name, my blood began simmering with an unharnessed rage I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. My hands curl into tight fists as I glance in his direction. That sleazy fuck is already hitting on a group of college-age girls. How dare he even look at another woman if he’s with her. How dare he be with her in the first place. He’s still technically married, let’s not forget that. I may not know this woman’s name, but I know she doesn’t belong to him.
Yeah, so who does she belong to, jackass? You? Fucking Silas probably knows her name. Do you?
I force my fingers to relax and take a deep breath. Punching my teammate in the mouth over a woman I have no business claiming isn’t going to do me any favors. Jesus. Could this be his kid?
If it is, I’m definitely punching him in the face .
For me. For his wife. For this woman who is way too good for him.
No—there’s no way.
This kid is way too old. He’s got to be at least three or four.
My blood cools, quickly turning to ice as the gears in my brain turn toward an assumption I don’t want to make. I’m completely frozen in place, staring at this woman and her son like I’ve had one too many concussions. But he’s three or four.
Three or four .
Holy fuck. Holy fuck .
Could it be?
No, that couldn’t be a possibility, right?
But he’s freaking three or four.
I’ve never considered myself a mathematician, but I’m counting back the months and—it might be possible. But it was only one night. What are the odds? She was supposed to be getting married the day we met, and I know she wasn’t a virgin. Plus, we used a condom every single time. Condoms I bought myself, so I know they weren’t tampered with.
I was safe. We were safe.
But he’s got to be three or four. If he’s older, it’s good. I’m clear. If he’s closer to three ... If he’s?—
Of course the kid takes that moment to extend his arm, showing me the football that, sure enough, Silas signed, and it pisses me off all over again.
My heart jumps in my throat, and I force myself to swallow, leaning down to meet his eyes. Eyes that I see every fucking day when I look in the mirror. They’re bright blue, but my mom used to say they were the color of the Caribbean Sea on a bright summer day. “You like football? ”
He shakes his head, studying me, and I stare at him. I keep my mouth shut for several seconds because if I ask the next question, if he gives me a certain answer, it changes everything.
It may be selfish of me, but I’m not ready for things to change. I’ve worked hard and sacrificed to get to where I am.
Football is my life.
I don’t have time for anything else. Not if I want to be the best, if I want to be better than ... well, him.
But then the kid blinks and I blink. The one girl I can’t seem to forget takes a sharp breath. Is this really happening?
“How old are you, kid?” Time slows down and I can’t move. I can’t do anything until he gives me an answer.
“My name is Oliber.”
I can hear every single beat of my heart, echoing in my ears. “How old are you, Oliver?”
He tucks the football between him and his mom, and holds up three fingers. “Free.”
I force myself to swallow down the emotional storm brewing inside me, trailing my gaze up to her face. Her dark-brown eyes are full of remorse as they meet mine before they tilt down toward the ground.
“I’m sorry. I tried to find you, but I didn’t know how.” Her voice quivers as she clutches Oliver tighter to her. “I went to the bar. A lot. You never came back.”
I hang my head, blowing out a breath. No. I never went back.
I couldn’t imagine going there and not finding the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen in a wedding dress, sitting in my fucking chair. I wanted her body, and more than that, I wanted her smart mouth. She wasn’t like all the women who threw themselves at my feet. They were easy. She was a challenge, a conquest I wanted to make over and over. There was something about her that drew me in, that captured me under her spell, and there was no way I could go back to the bar where we met and pick up another woman.
A woman who wasn’t her.
So I stopped going out. If I wasn’t watching football or hockey, I was working out at home or the stadium. Football was there for me, and it didn’t take long for me to start making headlines. They compared me to the greats, said I had potential, and their words kept me from looking back and lingering in the past, in the things I couldn’t change. I needed to prove them right. I threw myself into the sport, the one thing that’s given me everything, and I tried so hard to move past the girl I knew I couldn’t find.
A woman who might have had my kid. Who’s been raising him for three years by herself because I agreed it was a great idea not to exchange names, not to tell her who I was or what I did. Because I wanted to feel like an ordinary fucking guy for one night.
One fucking mind-blowing night where I wasn’t a famous football player, where I didn’t have the fate of the season resting on my shoulders.
Look where it got me—us.
Fuck.
“Is he—” He’s mine, deep down in my gut I know he is, but I can’t get the words out. Not when a few fans gather around us, inching closer, intruding on a moment I really don’t want splashed across social media. Yeah, it’ll have to come out eventually, and I’m sure the press will have a field day. But not yet. Not right now. A few of them already have phones out, and I can’t be sure if they’re randomly texting or discreetly trying to get some footage. “Can we go somewhere a little more private to talk? Is that okay?”
Her eyes widen, looking back and forth, and as she edges away from the crowd gathering around us, she nods. “You wanna change? I don’t think you’re going to blend in anywhere in that uniform.”
Right. Shit. Totally forgot I was wearing this.
But she didn’t. Her eyes track up and down my body, snagging on the jersey pulled tight across my chest. I try to ignore the goose bumps that break out across my skin and the flutter in my chest. Try, but fail. What is it about this girl that makes me react like a teenage boy who just felt his first boob?
She’s not unaffected either. A pretty pink hue creeps up her neck and across her cheeks, her gaze falling to the ground between us.
“Actually ...” I point over my shoulder toward the field somewhere behind me. “If you want, I can probably hijack the coach’s office.”
“Well, um.” She drags her bottom lip through her teeth. Slow. Too slow. And I should absolutely not be noticing, not at a time like this. “I actually need to feed this little guy.” She pauses, studying my face, and I hope whatever she finds isn’t lacking. “Do you want to meet me at my place?”
“Yes.” My answer is quick, probably too quick, but I can’t find it in me to care.
The pink coloring her cheeks deepens. “It’s not much. Probably a lot smaller than what you’re used to.”
“I’m sure it’s perfect.”
She nods, rubbing a hand up and down Oliver’s back while he turns the football over in his hands, studying it like it’s a rare treasure, and since it’s signed by Silas, I know it’s not .
We stand in silence for a few seconds and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from Oliver and how tiny his hands are. Would they be soft? Would they wrap around my finger and hold on tight? Or would he be afraid to lay his small hand in mine? He may have half my genetics, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a stranger.
“Do you want to give me your number and I’ll text the address?” Damn, I was so distracted by Oliver—by my potential son—I don’t see the phone until it’s practically shoved in my hands.
It’s already open, her address typed in, just waiting for my number. How did I miss all that? I pride myself for my awareness, for knowing everything going on around me on and off the field. But this? Her? Oliver? None of it was in the playbook, and I’m completely thrown off my game.
My fingers shake as I type in my number, delete the last four when I realize two of them are incorrect, and redo. Four. That’s the number of times I verify my phone number is correct before I hit the send button and hand her back her phone.
She slides it in her back pocket and turns away from me, but as she does Oliver’s eyes swing to mine. He’s wary, looking at me like he doesn’t quite know what to think.
That makes two of us.
She takes a step away from me, and I lay a hand on her shoulder. I can’t let her walk away this time, not without knowing who she is.
“What’s your name? I hardly think I can keep calling you ‘Princess.’”
She turns, her brows raised, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. “June. My name is June Morgan. ”
“June Morgan.” I say her name slowly, letting it roll over my tongue. It suits her. Beautiful. Strong. Perfect for the mother of my child. Of my?—
Fuck.