Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The reception passed in a blur. For the first time, Decker’s ability to screen out distractions and focus on the game failed him.
He remembered making a speech. He remembered dancing—well, shuffling with the damn boot on—with Willa, Ava, and Finlay.
But he couldn’t stop watching the little girl play with his nephew.
Say her name.
Birdie.
After their conversation, Cady called the doctor. It turned out she was experiencing something called “Braxton Hicks” contractions. So, they’d made her comfortable on a chaise longue and brought her a plate of food.
Now the reception was over, and they were all heading to Willa’s family inn, with Cady and Birdie following in their own rental car.
“Birdie’s such a cute name,” Willa said. “I wonder what it’s short for.”
He couldn’t believe this was happening. Banging a woman in a bathroom hallway and forgetting all about her?
Had one careless, meaningless act resulted in a child?
“Roberta? Beatrice?” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “Bridget?”
“None of those makes sense. Beatrice would be Bee. Roberta…” He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. “Bert.”
“Fine. Birdtholomew?” She grinned. “Birdjamin.” When he didn’t respond, she added one more. “Birdemiah.”
He had to tell her the truth, even if he came out looking like an asshole. “She’s named after the Lynyrd Skynyrd song that was playing when she was conceived.”
Her smile faded. “Which one is that?”
“‘Free Bird.’”
“Oh.” She seemed to give it some thought. “I guess she was trying to connect her daughter to you in some way.”
“First of all, we don’t know if she’s mine. And second…” Well, there was nothing else.
She touched his knee. “I know this is a lot to take in. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” His mind was spinning. “Sure.”
“I’m going to throw your words right back in your face, so brace yourself. ‘Don’t pretend with me. You’re upset. Talk.’” She made a circular motion. “This is our safe space, remember?”
Yeah, he remembered. Thing is, there is no safe place. None at all. “I talked to my manager. He’s arranged for someone to meet me at the inn and take the samples. They should get back to me by tomorrow morning at the latest.” In fifteen hours, he’d have an answer.
“On a Sunday?”
“It’s a concierge service.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh.
“You can say it, you know. It’s okay to be mean and selfish and scared right now. I won’t hold anything you say against you.”
He was scared shitless. Because he could tell himself the kid wasn’t his, but it didn’t mean squat.
She might be mine.
The odds were low, but they weren’t zero. And as determined as he was to use protection, to take no chances, accidents still happened.
“Training camp’s in five days.” Just saying it steadied him a little.
Willa didn’t interrupt. She just watched him, listening the way she always did. Calm and steady.
“Preseason starts a few weeks later. Then the real season.”
“It’s all coming up fast,” she said quietly.
“Yeah. And I’ve got an important goal. My eighty-second game.” She wouldn’t get it, but he’d say it anyway. “That’s my shot to break the record.”
“What record?”
“Fastest quarterback to twenty-five thousand passing yards.” He tugged on his tie, loosening it. “Masterson holds it at eighty-three games. So, if I hit it before then, it’s mine.”
“What else?” she asked, eyes on the road.
“In order to get there, I have to work. Rehab twice a day. Conditioning. Film. There’s no room for setbacks. No distractions.”
She could’ve said something like, “Well, a kid’s a big distraction.” She wouldn’t be wrong. She had to be thinking it.
But she stayed quiet. Gave him room to process.
“I want to beat that record.” He looked down at his ankle, flexed it once. “That’s what I do. That’s why I stay at this level, because I’ve always got a new goalpost to work towards. So as soon as the season starts, games eighty-one and two, those matter.”
“And where does Birdie fall on this calendar of yours?”
He glanced out the window, away from the numbers lining up in his mind. “That’s the problem,” he says quietly. “She doesn’t.”
Decker iced his ankle in the guest bedroom of the inn’s family apartment.
His heart pounded, and he wiped his clammy hands on his jeans.
Most of the time, he could keep the memories out of reach. But for some reason, he was back in that dark room. He’d only been six. Maybe seven. There was a fight in the clubhouse—nothing unusual—but this time, Wyatt was caught in it.
Without thinking, Decker had gone after him, and just when he’d grabbed hold of the hem of his brother’s jeans, thinking he could save him, a big hand had fisted in his shirt and yanked him off his feet.
He’d never forgotten the feel of the denim sliding through his fingers.
As the man carried him away, he’d kicked, twisted, and fought to get out of his hold, but he was helpless against the big, rough biker.
Next thing he knew, he was tossed into a dark room, and the door slammed shut.
Decker couldn’t reach the light switch, but he’d beat on that door until his hands ached. It was locked.
Scared witless, he’d shouted himself hoarse, certain his older brother or dad would rescue him.
They hadn’t.
No one came.
Finally, he’d fallen asleep on the cold, hard floor.
Decker gave himself a shake.
Why the fuck am I back in that closet now?
It had nothing to do with this situation.
Or maybe it did. Because the injury was enough to rock his world, but a child? A three-year-old daughter? It brought back that same sense of helplessness, of life being out of control.
He worked his ass off to control every variable—what he ate, how he trained, who he trusted.
He didn’t leave things to chance.
Now, his goals—his career—were threatened.
Lying on his back, foot elevated above his heart, he stared at the ceiling. Thoughts raced around his mind, and he couldn’t catch a single one.
You’re panicking, and you know just what to do.
He did his box breathing. In for a count of four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four.
He did it again but gained no relief.
Next, he tried the sensory game.
He heard the faint rumble of an engine in the parking lot behind the inn. The rush of water from the adjoining bathroom faucet.
He smelled the lavender on the sheets.
He tasted mint toothpaste.
Nothing. It didn’t work. Finally, he had no other choice but to look the monsters in the eyes.
Face them. Name them.
All right, let’s go.
I’m worried about my ankle.
Ligaments never fully recovered. The joint became more vulnerable to rotational stress. Still, he’d rehabbed the first one. He’d gotten it back to nearly full mobility.
But a second sprain? It wasn’t just harder to heal. It was the lost momentum. He needed to be in his best shape. He needed his team to be bonded, unified. He needed to hit game eighty-one strong and ready.
Three hundred and fifty yards.
He could do it. He just needed his body to cooperate.
But while he was worried about his ankle, he was scared shitless about the girl.
Birdie.
If she didn’t have blue eyes and that dip in her upper lip, he wouldn’t even be thinking about the possibility.
Come on, a one-night stand from four years ago passes away, and her former best friend delivers the child to Jude’s wedding?
His skepticism couldn’t hold up to the truth, though. His manager had investigated Cady, and her credentials checked out. They’d run a search on Zoe, too. No red flags.
The story sure seemed real.
And then… There was a moment during the reception that had rocked him. After catching up with his family, he’d sat at a table to ice his ankle. Enjoying the chatter, the sunshine, the scents of warm bread and roasting meat in the air, he’d caught movement at the table next to him.
But no one was seated there. The guests were either dancing or clustered in small groups, chatting. And then, right before he’d looked away, a little hand rose up and snatched a roll. Both disappeared under the table.
A memory had risen fast and sharp. A backyard barbecue at the club—the roar of motorcycles, the smells of lighter fluid and spilled beer, the blaring heavy metal. Starving, he’d hidden under one of the picnic tables, hoping to grab a bun, some cookies. Anything.
His dad didn’t let the boys participate in club activities—made them stay in their room. But he’d been so fucking hungry, he’d snuck out.
It had all come roaring back when he’d watched the pull of that tablecloth. Careful with his ankle, he’d lifted the white linen and peered underneath.
Birdie stared at him, those blue eyes wide with uncertainty. She froze with the roll halfway to her mouth. She looked caught.
“Hungry?”
To his surprise, she broke into the most adorable grin he’d ever seen. Her eyes glittered as she held the roll out to him as if it were a game ball. “Pissa.”
He had no idea what she said. “That’s a roll.” He made sure to enunciate clearly.
She nodded joyfully. “Pissa.”
Was she saying “pizza?” He didn’t know. But seeing her sneak food, hiding under the table, had stirred up a resolve.
If she’s my kid, she’s not going hungry a day in her life.
And those clothes? They looked like hand-me-downs. Whoever had been taking care of her clearly didn’t know how brutal classmates could be.
But Decker knew.
Even if she weren’t his kid, he’d send Cady home with enough money to make sure the little girl’s needs were met for the rest of her life.
Well, he couldn’t just lie in bed chased by memories and fear. And since there was only one form of therapy guaranteed to work, he swung his legs off the bed and reached for his phone.
Keeping it simple so he wouldn’t bother anyone in the kitchen, he placed his grocery order and headed across the living area, careful not to wake up Willa, her dad, Cady, or the little girl. Now, he just had to hope he could find some empty space of his own.