by Meghan Quinn
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
I stand there, shifting on my feet, nerves crawling up the back of my neck as I twist my phone in my hands. My mouth goes dry, the confession stuck in my throat.
“That’s what I fucking thought,” he says, with a shake of his head. Dismissing me with his hand, he says, “Let yourself out.” He walks over to the bed where he takes a seat, his corded back to mine.
My fight or flight kicks in, the need to run starting to rev up my body, but my brain takes over and before I can run off, I quickly shout, “It was my son.”
Gunner’s head, which was pressed into his hand, pops up and he looks over his shoulder, his brow creased. “You have a son?”
Oh God.
I’m doing this.
I’m really going to do this.
At a teacher’s conference, naked except for a shirt draped over my body, right after the best sex I’ve ever had.
I consider just leaving it at that, but then Dylan’s pleading eyes flash through my mind, wanting to know who his father is.
He deserves to know.
Both of them deserve to know.
I slowly nod. “Yes, I have a son. He’s, uh . . . he’s eight.”
“Eight?” Gunner stands, and oh God, I truly feel like I’m going to throw up. “How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”
Because I didn’t know if he was your child or not.
Because I didn’t want to upend your life.
Because I’m a chicken and was too scared you would connect the dots.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice weak. I reach to the floor for my jeans and slip them on, followed by my shoes.
“Where are you going?” Gunner asks.
“I . . . I . . .” Tears well in my eyes, the urge to run so strong that I back up to the door.
“Lindsay, what the hell is going on?”
“I have . . . oh God, I have something to tell you and I don’t know how to do it.”
The crease in his brow deepens even further. “Are you . . . in a relationship?”
“No, Jesus,” I say, gripping my forehead. “I’m not in a relationship. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been in a relationship. I’ve been a single mom for eight years; I don’t have time to date.”
“Where’s the father?”
I press my lips together to stop them from trembling.
“Linds . . . where is the father?”
Heart beating rapidly, lungs screaming for air, stomach twisting and turning, I quietly say, “He’s . . . uh . . . he’s standing right in front of me.”
“Wh-what?” Gunner says.
I look up at him and with all the courage I can muster, I say, “You’re the father, Gunner.”
He backs away as both his hands go to his head. “I . . . you’re . . . what?”
Yup, going to throw up. I can feel it. And there is no way I’m going to do it in front of him.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have told you like this. Now. I’m going to . . . I’m going to go.”
I turn and contemplate heading out the door as Gunner calls out, “You’re just going to leave like this?”
With my back still to him, I say, “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t . . . hell, I don’t fucking know.” He pauses and says, “Look at me, damn it.” I turn to face him and when our eyes connect, he asks, “Do I really have an eight-year-old son?”
Body shaking, I slowly nod. “Yeah, you do.”
“Not going to lie, Romeo is a good time. If I wasn’t head over heels in love with Knox, I would have considered him as a possible love prospect,” Emory says, setting her stuff on the dresser and switching the light on. “He really knows how to play cards. Damaged my hand when we were playing slap jack. His idea, not mine. At one point, we FaceTimed Knox after his game and he was cheering me . . . wait why are you sitting here in the dark? But more importantly, why are you in our hotel room to begin with?”
Legs pulled in, arms resting on my knees, I drop my head to my arms and let out a deep sob. I thought I was done crying, I thought I’d gotten it all out, but a questioning Emory brings the wave of emotion back in full force.
“Oh my God, what’s going on?” Emory asks, coming straight to my bed, where she sits on the edge and places her hand on my back. “What did Gunner do? I’m feeling revved up from cards, I can take care of business. Does he need a punch to the eye? I will knock him dead on in the eyeball, make him think twice about whatever he did to you. He won’t even suspect it. A knock on his door and then a one two bam-bam straight to the eye socket. Is that what you want?”
I shake my head, even though I appreciate her willingness to come to my defense.
Lifting my head, I wipe at my eyes and take a deep breath. No one knows Gunner is Dylan’s father. I’ve always told everyone it was a random one-night stand. Knowing Knox and all our friends, they would have forced Gunner to do something. And I don’t want that. I don’t want him forced into anything.
“Talk to me, Lindsay. What happened?”
On a deep breath, I say, “After your wedding, Dylan was asking about his father. He really wanted to know who he was. I, uh . . . I actually knew it was between two guys.”
“What? Really?”
I nod. “I had one tested and it wasn’t him, which meant . . . it’s Gunner.”
“Wait . . . what?” I can see Emory’s mind explode right in front of me. “Gunner Klein is Dylan’s dad?”
“Yeah and I kind of told him tonight.”
“At a teacher’s conference?” Emory nearly shouts. “Why didn’t you do this some other time?”
“I don’t know, I was too chicken to call him up and turn his life upside down. But when I was in his room, after we just had sex—”
“I knew you were going to do it.”
“Please, Emory.”
“Sorry.” She waves her hand at me. “Continue.”
“Dylan called me, I took the call in the bathroom and when I hung up, Gunner confronted me. He thought I was in a relationship because he heard me call Dylan ‘baby.’ I couldn’t take it and I blurted out that I had a son . . . and he’s the father.”
“Wow.” Emory leans back on the bed. “That’s quite a way to take someone out of post-coital bliss. What did he say?”
“Not much. He was angry. Fuming actually. After I confirmed he had a child, he snapped his keycard off his dresser and then fled the room before I could. I took it that I should leave too and came back here.”
“Not even another word? I mean . . . I can understand his anger, but that doesn’t seem very much like Gunner. He’s pretty easygoing.”
“Emory, this isn’t like I told him I backed his car into a pole, I told him he has a kid.”
“Yeah, I can see the difference there.” Chuckling, she pulls me into a hug. “It’s going to be okay, Lindsay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” She nods against me. “Because the greatest thing you have at your disposal is Knox Gentry. If Gunner treats you like shit, Knox is going to let him know about it, and so is every other player on the Chicago Bobbies. You’re part of the family.”
“If only it was that simple.”
“It will be. And if it isn’t, we’ll figure something out.”
“What if Gunner wants to take me to court for custody? I can’t lose Dylan.” Tears stream down my cheeks. “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s been me and him, together. I can’t lose him.”
Emory squeezes me tighter. “Gunner wouldn’t do that. He might be angry, but he would never take you to court.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t. But what I do know is that you did the right thing today. Gunner deserves to know, and I think you know that too. It might suck right now, but I truly think it’s going to be okay. Give him a second to calm down. He’ll talk it through
with you.”
Why do I feel like even though she’s trying to make me feel better, her words carry no weight?
She didn’t see the look in his eyes.
The hurt.
The anger.
The utter rage as he stormed out of the hotel room.
I don’t think this is going to end well, and I truly wish that instead of being at this conference, I was at home, holding my boy, letting his innocence remind me that everything very well might be okay.
That I’m not going to lose him . . .
Chapter Five
GUNNER
“I thought I told you not to do anything stupid,” Arlo says, walking up to me at the bar.
I’m sitting at the end of the bar shirtless and shoeless, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and hovering over a glass of whiskey, trying to comprehend what Lindsay just told me.
I’m a dad.
A fucking dad.
Holy shit . . .
Both of my hands grip the tumbler in front of me as I stare down at the amber liquid while Arlo takes a seat next to me.
Leaning in close, Arlo asks, “Why the hell are you almost naked, sitting at the bar? Are you drunk?”
“Wish I was.” I lift the tumbler and take a small sip, letting the burn of the alcohol scorch down my throat.
“If you’re not drunk, then do you care to explain why Principle Yanez told me one of my teachers was sitting at the bar, shirtless and with no shoes?”
“Not really.”
“Where’s Romeo?”
I shrug. “Not sure, with Emory Gentry somewhere playing cards I think.”
“Klein, you have three fucking seconds to—”
“I’m a dad.”
Arlo rears back. “You’re . . . what?”
“A dad. Brought Lindsay Nelson up to my room. We fucked. She told me I’m a dad.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Arlo’s brow furrow in confusion. “You know it doesn’t work that fast, right? You can’t just have sex and then . . . bam, you’re a dad.”
I drag my hand over my face. “Well aware how making babies works. I have to teach the damn sex ed class every year.”
“Then what the hell are you talking about?”
Sighing, I turn toward him, one arm resting on the bar, gripping my drink. “Lindsay and I have a history. A fuck history.”
“Okay.”
“And one of those times I apparently got her pregnant and she never told me. Hell, I didn’t even know she had a kid.”
Arlo’s eyes soften as he looks off to the side. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Why didn’t she tell you?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. I stormed out of the room before we could dive deep into all the specifics.”
“You left? Gunner that’s the last thing you should have done.”
“He’s eight, Arlo. Fucking eight. It’s not like she just had a baby. She’s kept this a secret from me for eight years. Excuse me if I left the room because I couldn’t quite comprehend being a father and I wasn’t about to try to do it in front of her.”
“You probably should have, you would have gotten answers rather than sitting here, stewing.”
“Would you have been able to stay and listen?”
“I’m not sure to be honest.” He rubs his chin. “You know her well?”
“Pretty well, but there’s so much more I want to know about her, or at least I did.”
“You like her?”
I pinch my brow and squeeze my eyes shut. “Honestly, before everything went down, I was planning on making sure she didn’t slip through my fingers again, like every other time we’ve been together. There’s something about her, man, something that makes me fucking happy and it isn’t just sex. There’s more to it than that.”
“So this shouldn’t change anything.”
“Are you insane?” I ask, sitting taller. “This changes everything. She lied to me.”
“Maybe she didn’t have a choice.” Arlo takes my tumbler from me and brings it to his lips. He takes a big gulp and winces as he swallows. When he sets the glass back down, he says, “The boy is eight? You were still in the majors then, playing in Arizona. She was probably doing you a goddamn favor by not telling you.”
“By being noble and taking care of him by herself? I would have helped in any way possible, despite the demands of being a professional athlete.”
“Something she probably didn’t consider, since you know . . . you fucked her on multiple occasions and never asked for more.”
I go to respond, but my comeback falls silent as his words register.
Hell . . .
“Got you on that one, huh?” Arlo says with a stupid fucking smirk on his face. He slides from his chair and taps me on the cheek. “Put yourself in her shoes before you chastise her for her choices.” He starts to walk away but then pauses and says over his shoulder, “And put a goddamn shirt on, you’re at a professional conference, not a frat party.”
“This is really stupid,” Romeo says, parking his car and looking up at the apartment complex.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“But you asked for my help, therefore I get to give you my opinion.”
After I bolted, I found out from a very angry Emory that Lindsay flew home early from the conference, unable to hold it together during the first seminar. I then received an enlightening phone call from Knox Gentry, giving me quite a tongue lashing, full of threats and promises of not only destroying me, but my team’s hopes and dreams of having him come spend time with them.
He was fucking brutal.
Once Romeo heard that threat, he told me to get my shit together and fix things.
When the conference was over, Romeo and I flew back together, and from the airport we drove straight here . . . to Lindsay’s apartment. Emory informed me that Lindsay’s mom would still be taking care of Dylan so we would have some privacy. Thank fuck for that because I’m not sure I would be ready to see my kid.
Does he even look like me?
Or is he all Lindsay?
A little boy with her blond hair and brown eyes? Hell, just the thought of it makes my heart ache.
“You should have called her, told her you were showing up.”
I shake my head. “No way, she wouldn’t have talked to me. Not after I bolted. I need the element of surprise.”
“Yes, because surprising your baby mama after you acted like a tool and abandoned her once she told you that you have a kid is a great way to go about things.”
“Why is everyone treating me like this is my goddamn fault? I had no fucking clue I had a kid. She was the one who didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, but do you know what kind of strength that takes, to tell someone, after so long? That’s courage, dude.”
“Courage would have been telling me right away.”
“Courage is raising a fucking child on your on with a teacher’s salary, probably scared shitless, and keeping it to yourself so you don’t upend the life of the professional baseball player daddy.”
Christ. Romeo and Arlo. Did they have a little pow-wow together on how to knock me down a peg or two?
“You know I’m right.”
“I know.” I glance toward the building again.
“You need to go in there with a compassionate attitude. With understanding and don’t attack her. If you want to get anywhere in the conversation, you can’t attack her.”
He’s right. Even though I want to rage, I know I can’t. Anger never gets you anywhere.
With a deep breath, I open the car door. “Take care of my bag for me. Not sure how long I’ll be.”
“Sure. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I shut the door and head up the apartment complex, taking the stairs two at a time until I get to the third floor. Apartment 3B. To the right.
I spot the door and my stomach bottoms out as the need to run, flee, forget this all happened washes over me.
But just as fast as it comes, that feeling disappears.
You can’t turn back now.
When I reach her door, I lift my hand and knock on it before I can stop myself. I wait, my leg bouncing, hands in my pockets. And just when I’m about to knock again, the door opens and Lindsay’s bloodshot eyes peek through the crack.
“Gunner, what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“It’s . . . it’s not a good time.”
“There’ll never be a good time for this conversation,” I say, pushing the door open, revealing a small apartment. I walk straight into the living room where there is a set of blankets and a pillow off to the side, a strawberry ice cream container on the coffee table, and a movie playing in the background. I glance to the left and see two doors, one leads to a bedroom and from where I’m standing, I can tell it’s Dylan’s from the superheroes on the door. The other room . . . a bathroom.
I spin around, taking in everything.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Small dining nook that can only fit a two-person table.
Turning toward her as she shuts the door, I ask, “Is this a one-bedroom apartment?”
She twists her hand in the long hem of her oversized shirt. “Yeah. But don’t worry, Dylan has the bedroom. I wanted him to have some semblance of normal.”
Fucking hell.
I furiously push my hand through my hair. She’s living in a fucking one-bedroom apartment when I have a four-bedroom house to myself that overlooks the lake. And from the holes in her sweatpants, I’m going to guess she doesn’t spend a lot of money on herself.
“Jesus, Lindsay. Why didn’t you say anything? I could have helped you.”
She walks past me and sits on her couch as she says, “We’ve been doing just fine.”
“Is that why you sleep on your couch?”
Her eyes snap up to mine. “This is a great school district. The apartment is what I could afford on my salary to make sure Dylan stays with his friends. Don’t come in here and tell me—”
“I’m not telling you anything.” I say, sitting down next to her. “Jesus, I’m just trying to understand.” I glance around her meager dwelling, feel the lumpiness of the couch, and hell, my heart breaks. “I could have helped. Knowing you’ve been sleeping on a couch, doing the best you can, giving Dylan everything you can, it . . . it fucking kills me.”