19. Ryan
NINETEEN
Ryan
By the time I walk back into my apartment, I’ve secured all the walls around myself and put on my mask of indifference.
What happened—or rather what almost happened out there—was a mistake. This hold June seems to have over me is only getting stronger, and if I don’t figure out how to shake it loose, I’m going to find myself across the country all alone, playing for a team, a city, that isn’t home.
I’ve never been weak, but I am around June.
“Dad!” Oliver comes running at me full speed, and I snatch him up, tossing him in the air before settling him against my chest for a hug.
He’s the number-one reason I can’t be weak. I need to stay here, to be here for him while he’s growing up. I don’t want to be the kind of father content to miss out on his son’s life.
I won’t be my dad.
“Hey, Oli. I’ve missed you. I heard you watched my game yesterday.” I set him on the ground, running my hand through his hair .
“It was so cool.” Oliver grabs my hand and leads me to the front door. I’m assuming this is June’s father standing in my doorway, watching me, likely judging me. “You hab to meet my gramps. He knows who you are.”
I’m not sure if him knowing me is a good thing or not. It could go either way. He’s an imposing man, that’s for sure.
Where I’m in workout clothes, he’s perfectly pressed in dress pants and a polo. His salt-and-pepper hair is styled perfectly, while I’m sure mine is a mess. I expect him to remain impassive as I approach, but he’s quick to put out his hand, greeting me with a large smile.
“David Morgan, nice to meet you.” His handshake is firm, but he’s not actively trying to crush my hand, and I appreciate that. You’d be surprised how many guys see a football player and want to squeeze my hand as hard as they can. Not sure if they’re hoping I shit out money or what, but it always hurts their feelings when I squeeze back.
“Ryan—”
“Please, I know who you are.” He waves me off with a snort. “My daughter may not know a lick about football, but I don’t miss a Sunday during season. Pleased it was you who knocked her up and not one of those rowdy linemen.”
As soon as he finishes the last sentence, the spit I was swallowing goes down the wrong pipe and lodges in my throat. My eyes water and I double over, coughing my ass off. This is a great first impression. He may wish for a lineman when I collapse on the floor, killed by my own saliva.
“Oh my God, Dad.” June rushes to my side, patting my back like I did a good job. While it makes me feel accomplished, it’s shit at actually dislodging anything.
I cough a few more times, clear my throat, cough again, and ... I think I’m fine. I will live to embarrass myself in front of June’s father once again.
“Sorry, son, didn’t realize you had such a weak windpipe.” Mr. Morgan chuckles, slapping my shoulder. “My little June bug doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humor either.”
“You can stop talking now,” June says through gritted teeth. “Don’t you have things to do?”
“Come on, June bug.” I give her a light nudge, a smile spreading across my face as hers disappears. “It’s just a joke.”
“You know this place is fancy when there are only two apartments on the whole floor,” a female voice calls out from just outside the door, and June groans, her entire body deflating.
Must be more family. One of her sisters, perhaps? She has three, but I remember her mentioning only one currently living in Nashville.
“Please, why don’t you all come in and make yourself at home,” June deadpans, a sigh to rival all sighs leaving her lips.
Oliver grabs my hand, tugging on my fingers and pointing to the currently empty hallway. “Aunt Poppy broughted Mom a gift. She said she was crashing our dinner but nofing ever broke.”
June takes a step back, muttering something under her breath, and I’m pretty sure I just heard her say fuck . I think that’s a first. Now I want to make her scream it. Wait. No. Bad. That’s not what we’re doing here.
Today is not a day that’s going down in the win column. Not by a long shot. I nearly got killed at practice, popped a fucking boner like a teenage boy during a recorded yoga session, almost kissed the mother of my child, and now all I want to do is fuck her senseless despite all the rules I’ve put in place. Oh, and I almost keeled over in front of her dad.
I really should call it a day and head to bed. The only silver lining on this shit-tastic day is that my leg is no longer sore. In fact, I feel great. Let me specify—the backs of my thighs feel great. The rest of me? Don’t ask.
“Hello,” a young redhead calls out in a singsong voice, sweeping past Mr. Morgan and inviting herself right into my penthouse. Sure enough she has a nice bright-pink gift bag with polka-dot paper sticking out the top. “Sorry, I forgot June’s present in the car and had to run down and grab it. Nice place you got here, Devlin.”
“Thank you?” I didn’t intend for it to come out as a question, yet here we are.
The redhead takes it in stride, though, winking my way before thrusting the bag at June. “Here ya go, sis. Just like I promised, except I figured you’d appreciate a hand delivery.”
June’s eyes get so wide it’s almost comical, her face turning a bright shade of red. I can’t wait to see what’s in the bag. It has to be good, since her face is practically glowing. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m generous like that.” Her sister shrugs, turning to me, assessing me with her shrewd gaze. “I’m Poppy, by the way. What are your intentions with my sister?”
June makes a noise I’m not sure how to describe. Maybe like a dying animal. Something between a squirrel and a moose. It’s not sexy. Exactly the kind of noises I need her to be making.
Poppy continues to stare at me, her eyes narrowing, but the corner of her lips twitches. She’s barely holding her act together. Mr. Morgan doesn’t seem at all surprised or deterred, leaning around her to smack my shoulder again .
“How do you feel about playing Chicago at the opener on Thursday? They only lost one preseason game, and I mean, I’m no expert, but Anderson seems?—”
“Seems irrelevant for this conversation,” June says, cutting him off and putting her pink bag on the floor to push her father and sister toward the door. “Dad, Poppy, I hate to kick you out, but I’m going to. Thanks for taking Oliver to lunch. If you guys want to harass Ryan, you’ll have plenty of time at the cookout Mom is insisting we have at the end of next week.”
“Oh, good. Satan is having a barbecue.” Mr. Morgan scoffs. “I’ll bring the fun. And the ribs.”
Poppy gives us both a little wave, blowing a kiss to Oliver. “Bye, Oliver. Nice meeting you, Devlin. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“That’s so nice. I can’t wait for you all to get to know each other more.” June smacks Poppy’s hands away, closing the door behind them and promptly locking it. She sags against the door, sending an apologetic look my way. “Sorry about that. My family can be a lot.”
I nod, a smile playing on my lips. “It sounds like meeting your mom will be a blast.”
“Gramps calls her Satan but says I should neber tell her.” Oliver shrugs, beelining for the bag, and pulls out a few pieces of the polka-dot paper. “What did you get? Is it your birfday?”
“No!” June lunges toward the bag, her legs moving a lot faster than I thought they could in those tight pants. She lets out a war cry, and I’m pretty sure she leapfrogged over our son to get to this bag. Only she doesn’t open it or simply take it away. No. She throws that shit like it’s a shot put and the Olympic gold medal is on the line .
The bag soars across the room in slow motion, the gift paper flying out and then slowly sailing to the floor.
Oliver’s eyes are wide, and he looks excited to see what’s going to happen next. June is currently motionless, her hands pressed into her cheeks as she watches in horror as whatever is in the fucking bag hits the wall with a thud, the contents spilling out to the floor.
June spins to Oliver, a fake smile plastered on her face. “How about you go get ready for a bath? I’ve got you some new Bluey bubble bath.”
“I want you and Dad to give me a baf.”
And he’s off like a shot, pulling June along with him. Not sure that was her intention, but as I take a step toward her gift, she calls out, “Don’t worry about the mess on the floor. I’ll clean it up after bathtime. Can you grab us a few towels?”
Yeah, I’ll grab some towels. As soon as I find out what the fuck was in that bag.
They’re around the corner and trudging up the stairs seconds later, and I’m edging into the living room. Why I’m walking like I’m a world-class spy, I have no idea, but I don’t know how to stop. Neither one of them are here. And once I get a glimpse of one of the two packages, it’s a good thing.
My throat dries up, yet a little drool slips out from between my lips. Make that make sense.
It can’t. Nothing does right now.
Fuck.
Lying on the floor of my living room is a massaging wand about the length of my hand and a thrusting, vibrating dildo that’s a lot bigger.
I have so many regrets, number one being having her damn room ready for her to sleep in tonight. There’s no way I can go up there and pretend to be normal, help her give Oliver a bath, because the entire time I’m going to be picturing her fastening the bonus suction cup to the bottom of that thing and riding that fake dick like it’s a bull at the rodeo.
How can I look her in the face?
How can I be normal?
How can I go to sleep tonight knowing she’s bouncing on a dick that isn’t mine?
Yeah, this day is the worst. Might as well rebag my competition and hand deliver it to her new room. I guess a fake dick is better than a stranger’s.
Fuck.