4. Ryan
FOUR
Ryan
I stare up at the apartment building for what feels like hours instead of the few minutes that have actually passed. I should get out of my car and go to her place. I should apologize for not being there for the birth of a boy I’m pretty positive is my son. I should do so many things, but I can’t seem to make myself move.
Not when stepping out of this vehicle means facing a reality I’m not sure I’m ready for. Why? The answer is simple. I’m a coward.
Fear keeps me anchored to this car seat, just like fear keeps my eyes moving between her apartment and the road. It would take only a second. One tiny second and I could outrun this for a short time, at least, but it would eventually catch up to me.
Things like this always do.
With a sigh, I hang my head, gripping the steering wheel of my ’67 Shelby Mustang so hard the ridges bite into my fingers.
I’m not ready for my life to change, to have my entire world turned upside down. My life is dedicated to football, my routine regimented. I get up, run a few miles, have a protein shake, spend most of the day at the stadium either running plays or working out, and watch tape while having a healthy dinner. It’s boring as fuck, but it keeps me playing in Nashville, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be one of the top tight ends in the league this season.
Having a kid, being a dad, will take my regimen and flush it down the toilet. Kids are unpredictable. They make things messy, complicated.
Not to mention, if I’m not focused, I may not be playing here next year, and I don’t want to play anywhere else. I was born in Nashville, and I want to retire in Nashville. The only family I have are here, or rather the only family I acknowledge and give a fuck about. The other half is ... well, that’s not important now.
What’s important is getting out of this car and finding out the truth. Even though I’m terrified of what she’ll say to me, I need to face it head-on.
Whether we’re on or off the field, I don’t shy away from difficult situations, and I’m not going to start today. If I can’t change or adapt, I’m no better than he is, and I refuse to be that guy.
I let out another sigh—this one longer, heavier—and force myself to peel my fingers from the steering wheel. I swing my gaze back to June’s apartment, and after verifying her building and apartment number for the hundredth time, I tuck my phone in my back pocket, and in no time I’m standing right outside her door.
Ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut and my pounding heart, I knock.
What if Oliver doesn’t like me? And more importantly, how do I make up for missing three years of his life when I have no idea what I’m doing?
He’s known me for all of five seconds, and I don’t know the first thing about being a dad. My own was barely a step above a sperm donor. We had a terse conversation once, and while I’ve seen him in passing, I’ve never said another word to him. He pretends I don’t exist, and I’m more than happy to comply, especially if I can beat his stats, if I can chip away at the legend people think he is.
My mom and I were problems he threw money at because he felt obligated—no, because he wanted to keep us quiet, keeping us from destroying his perfectly crafted life.
He had the all-American family, including his oldest son who also plays football, and we were nothing but his dirty little secrets.
I won’t be like him.
June opens the door, and I push all thoughts of my father from my mind. He doesn’t deserve a place here. He doesn’t deserve any-fucking-thing. Not from me and certainly not right now.
Her smile is wobbly, her gaze timid as it slowly raises to meet mine. She’s still wearing her dress pants, but the top few buttons of her gray-and-white-patterned blouse are open, and she’s barefoot. She looks comfortable. I like seeing her like this, which I know is ridiculous considering I’ve only just learned her name, but I can’t help the pleased hum that rumbles in the back of my throat.
She takes a step back, gesturing for me to come inside, but then hesitates. “Wait. I don’t know your name. I, uh, forgot to ask earlier.”
“You didn’t look up the team?” I shut and lock the door behind me, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth .
A pink blush spreads across her cheeks, a blush I know paints her chest when she’s close to orgasm. Fuck. Not the time. “No, although I really should have looked up the roster before I went to the football field. I was there to give Silas his divorce papers—my mom is his lawyer—and I had no idea what he even looked like. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
Thank fuck. I’d almost forgotten about her showing up for Silas, and it didn’t seem like a good time to bring it up. I don’t know what I would have done if I found out the mother of my child was dating Silas Brooks.
That’s a lie. I’d have punched him in the face.
“I’m Ryan Devlin. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself sooner.” Yeah, like way sooner .
She snorts a laugh, leading me into the kitchen, and offers me a seat at the table. “That would have made finding you a little easier.”
“Yeah. Wish I had gone back to the bar after that night.” I wish a lot of things, but trying to change the past isn’t going to help the present.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I went back to North Carolina to finish school before I had Oliver. I was only back in Nashville sporadically until the end of the school year.”
“It doesn’t.” I huff a quick laugh. “But thanks.”
We both fall into silence, neither one of us making a move to sit, the heavy weight of our situation, of the unknown, settling around us. Oliver is in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crayons as he studiously colors a page in his book. From here it looks like he’s coloring mostly outside the lines, but with the way he’s concentrating, you’d think he was replicating a Picasso.
He glances up briefly, studying me, his eyes narrowing and his lips twisting to the side. There’s a dark-green crayon in his hand, a crayon he’s tapping against the book as he assesses me. His brows go up. Tap. He looks between his mom and me. Tap. He blinks. Tap.
And then he shrugs, turning back to his page and ignoring us completely.
“He’s yours,” June says quietly, pulling my attention back to her. “There was no one else at the time.”
I nod, sitting down at the table, my eyes quickly bouncing back to Oliver. I need a minute to tamp down the fluttering in my chest and the hope those eight words bring. Hope is dangerous and won’t do me any favors, not when I sleep tonight, and certainly not now.
June may not belong to Silas, but she sure as hell doesn’t belong to me either. No one else at the time doesn’t mean no one else now. I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean she’s single.
She was promised a good time and I delivered.
End. Of. Story.
And just like that night, we can’t afford any more strings or complications, and despite what my heart is telling me, this isn’t a ready-made family I can just step into. I had my shot once—the perfect wife, the home—and I can still feel the gut-wrenching agony when it was all ripped away. Despite my attraction to June, nothing can ever happen between us again. She’s the mother of my child, nothing more, nothing less.
Mother of my child .
A child I never thought I’d have. Not after—it wasn’t in the cards for me after that.
“Obviously we can do a paternity test and whatever else you need. I’m sure you have people who will want all the proper documentation.” She takes a deep breath, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. “If you want to be involved in his life, we’ll figure out what that looks like. But I have to let you know, there’s no way I’m letting you take custody from me. My mom practices family law, and when it comes to my son, I’m not afraid to call in the cavalry.”
My lips twitch, and it’s a struggle to keep the smile from my face, but I manage. Barely.
God help me but I like this side of June, the protective mama bear who isn’t afraid to ride into battle, anything to protect our son. Our son . Shit. Shit. Shit. I have a son, and this woman thinks there’s a possibility I’m going to take him from her.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to take your son. Our son. Sorry, I just ...” I shake my head, words failing me. I’m already messing this up. I haven’t been a dad more than ten minutes, and I already have zero fucking clue.
Is this what parenting feels like?
“Yeah.” She gives me a small smile, glancing quickly to Oliver. “It’s a lot, I know. I had nine months to deal with the fact my life was going to change, and you’ve had less than an hour.”
“I’ll do the paternity test, not that I don’t trust you, but I’m sure my agent would freak if I didn’t.” Which isn’t a lie. There’s a good chance Nick is going to flip out anyway. And then I have to tell my mom, my older half-brother Dean, the whole freaking team. Hell, not to be dramatic, but the whole damn world. It’ll be worth it, though. I know it will. I look back over at Oliver, watching him turn the page and pick a different color—this time it’s a bright red. “He has my eyes.”
“He likes dinosaurs too.” Her smile widens. “The velociraptors are his favorite.”
“Oliver Morgan?”
“Oliver Patrick Morgan. He was born June eighteenth, seven pounds and eleven ounces. He also has your taste in music. He loves country music despite my influence.”
I huff a laugh, but it dies quickly on my lips. “Does he know who I am? Who his dad is?”
“Not yet.” She shakes her head, her eyes on the table between us. “I told him a friend was coming over to talk. I didn’t want to get his hopes up if you didn’t want to be involved. He hasn’t asked about his dad yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time before he noticed he didn’t have a father like the other kids at day care.”
My breath stutters, and there’s a sharp pain in my chest. I think I was four or five when I asked my mom about my father. She told me he loved me but couldn’t be with us. I didn’t understand. If he loved me, why wouldn’t he be there to take care of me? Why wouldn’t he read me bedtime stories? Why wouldn’t he pick me up from day care and take me to the park, push me on the swings like all the other dads? It didn’t make sense, and I convinced myself I’d done something wrong. I’d somehow made him mad.
For years I tried to be better. I tried to be good.
But every time I thought that day might be different, that he might show up for me, another piece of me died.
He never came.
I refuse to be like him. My father wasn’t there for me or for Dean. He was never there to dust us off when we fell down, to teach us how to ride a bike or catch a ball. He never gave us birthday presents. Or told us he was proud.
He never gave a single flying fuck about either of us.
And as I grew older, I didn’t care anymore.
My dad was a paycheck, a means to an end until the money he gave my mom could be replaced. I don’t want to be anything like him .
She’s worried I don’t want to be involved in my son’s life, but I’ll be involved as much as my time allows. He will know he has a dad, that there’s someone looking out for him, caring for him.
He won’t have a life of disappointment and resentment like I did.
“I do.” I lower my voice and lean toward her. “I want to be involved. I just ... I don’t know ... I have no idea how to be a dad.”
It’s the truth, but I want to try.