PARIS
THIRTY-TWO
“Let’s go, Uncle Memphis!” Rhys shouts, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet.
We’re at the bottom of the sixth, and the Gladiators are up by one run with the bases loaded.
It’s a full count, so a walk or a decent hit that drops in the outfield ties it up.
Anything beyond that could put the team in a position to lose the lead, so this next pitch has to be a strike.
My brother has been throwing heat all game, but my emotions from earlier are so up and down that I’ve barely been able to enjoy it.
Thankfully, a quick but exciting visit with the team mascot had Rhys forgetting about Braxton’s brush-off.
We settled into our seats with heaping helmets full of nachos in tow, right before the players started funneling out to the field for warm-ups, where Memphis and his teammates showered all three kids with attention.
Austin took the opportunity to check in and make sure I was okay, to which I gave a dismissive wave of my hand in an attempt to look unaffected.
But the more I sit here stewing, the angrier I become that Braxton couldn’t even be bothered to wave back at his own son after months of being absent.
Memphis waits for the signal, nodding the moment he sees it.
He winds up, firing off a pitch that, from here, looks way too far outside.
But the batter bites, swinging and missing right before the ball hits the catcher’s mitt with a sharp thwack.
The crowd cheers loudly, whistles and claps echoing through the air as the inning comes to a close and the defense returns to the dugout for their turn at bat.
Taking the opportunity to pee when I know it’ll be a minute before my brother is back on the field, I turn to Austin. “I have to use the restroom. Do you want me to take them with me?”
He shakes his head, smirking at the boys, who are comparing their newly signed ball caps. “We’ll be fine right here, Baby Girl. Take your time.”
I smile, grateful for his help. “You sure? I can at least take Lennon. I bet you could use a break.” She’s refused to leave her spot on his lap for the entire game, turning her head every time I’ve tried to coax her into mine like I don’t even exist. At this point, I could probably stay in the bathroom all night and not a single one of my children would miss me.
I can’t say I hate it, though. I’m just relieved that they like Austin as much as I do.
“Paris, I’ve got it,” he reassures me. “Go.”
I nod, my shoulders relaxing a bit. The urge to lean in for a quick kiss is strong, especially since the boys are distracted by everything that’s happening around them, but we’re surrounded by people who know who Austin is, so I refrain. The second I get this man alone, though?
I’m not stopping until he’s been made well aware of what he does to me.
“Thank you,” I say, my gaze full of gratitude before I rise from my seat and head up the stairs to the main level.
Thankfully, fans are too enthralled with the close game to step away, making my journey to the ladies’ room quick and easy.
I’m in and out of the stall in just a few minutes, washing my hands and heading back out to the concourse in hopes that I haven’t missed much.
But when I push through the door, I’m stopped in my tracks at the sight of Braxton leaning against the wall just yards away, completely unaware of my presence as he focuses on the screen of his phone.
Unlike before, he’s all by himself, his friends nowhere to be seen in the uncongested walkway.
My eyes roam up and down his frame, my stomach twisting with indignation as I take him in.
I can’t believe I ever found him attractive, even as a teenager.
He’s still as scrawny as he was back then, just taller now, his slicked-back, greasy hair looking like a tornado could whiz right past him and not move a single strand.
It’s not like Austin’s, so soft and thick, the lush curls wrapping around my fingers like they’re trying to keep me right there every time I touch them.
The two are polar opposites in every possible way, including how they treat others.
Braxton is entitled and expects something from everyone, where Austin has all the money and notoriety in the world and still puts others before himself.
Austin would never hurt or dismiss me or my kids the way Braxton does, because he actually gives a shit about making us feel wanted and secure.
I shouldn’t go up to my ex-husband in the middle of a very public baseball stadium.
I should wait, then call him privately and tell him what I think of the way he’s treated the kids, not just today, but since they were born.
I should write it all down and read it over before speaking out loud, preferably after I’ve had time to cool off. That’s the mature thing to do.
But fuck maturity.
This man has cast our children aside way too many times, and I’m tired of it.
Finding all the confidence I can muster, I lift my chin and head in his direction. He doesn’t so much as look away from his phone for a second as I eat up the space between us, coming to a halt about three feet from where he stands.
“Is there a reason you ignored your son earlier?” I blurt, garnering his attention.
The motherfucker actually has the audacity to look annoyed as he lifts his head, giving me the same not this again expression he always did when I asked him for the bare minimum.
An irritated sigh rushes from his lungs, and he locks the device, shoving it into the back pocket of his chino shorts.
“I didn’t see him.” His voice is monotone and unbothered as it wraps around the lie, causing a familiar silent storm to swirl in the pit of my stomach.
My first reaction is to back down—to act like that’s an acceptable answer, like I’ve been programmed to do.
But when Rhys’ sad eyes and the way Rowan immediately moved to placate him replay in my mind, I’m suddenly hit with another pang of boldness.
“Bullshit, Braxton,” I scoff. “You looked right at him and turned around. Why?” I’ve never spoken to him with such vitriol, but fuck.
It feels good. It’s like all those years of being afraid to step out of line or be seen as contentious have suddenly vanished into thin air, a new fire burning within me now that the venom-laced words have left my lips.
His head rears back as though he’s been slapped, his eyes wide with shock. “Don’t make a scene, Paris.”
I look around at the handful of Gladiators fans passing by, none of whom are even remotely interested in us. My brows furrow, rage bubbling to the surface at the fact that he’s more concerned about what complete strangers might think than he is about his own children.
“Fuck these people,” I spit, not caring who hears as my tone rises.
My fingers are locked into fists at my sides, my knuckles aching and drained of color.
“Rhys was so excited to see you, and you blatantly acted like you didn’t notice him.
I knew you were a shit father, Braxton, but this is a new low. ”
Anger blankets his expression. It’s honestly not something I’ve experienced much because I always yielded before it got to this point.
He’d tell me he was leaving for a work trip or to go away with the guys, and I’d ask a few questions, hoping he’d see that I wasn’t thrilled, but I rarely pushed back after that.
And even on the few occasions where I did, I remained calm and tried to reason with him before quickly accepting my fate.
In fact, I wasn’t even this argumentative the day I up and left him.
I simply gave my ultimatum, then followed through when he ignored it.
This, though? Me speaking my mind vehemently after he told me not to?
This is uncharted waters for both of us.
“Well, if I’m such a shit father, why do you want me around them anyway?
” He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and widening his stance in an attempt to…
I don’t know…make himself look bigger and more powerful?
“It seems like you found an adequate replacement. I can’t imagine how much of a slut you have to be to land a guy like Austin Baker, but I guess when you dress like that”—his gaze drags down my body, his top lip curling as he takes in my low-cut, ribbed tank top and airy tennis skirt—“you’re bound to attract the wrong kind of attention. ”
My jaw goes slack, a choked gasp bursting from my throat.
“Excuse me? I’ve got on the same amount of clothing as almost every other woman here.
And even if I didn’t, that’s none of your goddamn business.
” I lift my chin, stiffening my upper lip.
“What is, however, are the three kids you seem to have completely forgotten about. Don’t you miss them?
Because they definitely miss you.” Their little faces flash behind my eyes, the dullness in their understanding smiles every time I had to apologize for his absence when all they wanted was for him to show up.
“They don’t miss me. They miss the person you made them think I am.”
I shake my head, my brows dropping low as I attempt to make sense of his words. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He huffs a cold, hollow laugh, leaning back against the wall and shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Come on, Paris. We both know I never wanted to be a dad, especially not at eighteen. I married you because our parents didn’t give us a choice, and I stayed because divorce was frowned upon in our circle.
I was fucking elated when you packed your shit and took off.
It was the first time I felt like I could breathe since the day you told me you were pregnant with Rowan.
No more whiny, nagging wife or crying kids every time I walked out the door.
I was finally able to pick up where I left off before you ruined my life. ”