Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6)

by Kata Čuić

  Her black eyes study me like they did when she was interrogating me for her senior thesis in college. “Five years old?”

  This is definitely not the time for that conversation. Maybe it never will be. “Just because I never planned on having kids doesn’t mean I’d want to be a deadbeat dad by default. If I helped make a baby, then I’d want to help raise my kid.”

  Amira picks up her phone and stares at it blankly. This is one question she obviously wants an answer to right now. She taps the screen a few times to bring up the app and find his profile again. “Is it wrong that I hope he doesn’t respond? Or that he does and says he wants nothing to do with us?”

  “I don’t think there are any right answers here, Brain.”

  “Will you wait with me, Brawn?”

  “Yeah.” I tell her. “As long as it takes.”

  It’s been hours since I sent a message that might change my entire life. Again. My eyelids are falling closed more often. Though the sound isn’t muted, my phone lies face down between me and Alex on the sofa. I want to know where my baby daddy stands, and I also never want to hear from him again. I would much rather not have given him the option to hold this much power over me, but Alex is right. The man has a right to know he’s going to be a father.

  The sun has long since set. Blue light from the television casts Alex’s face in a wash of shadows. His long, muscular body reclines against the supple leather, his knee elevated on the chaise part of the sectional. He’s still awake, waiting with me as promised.

  I don’t even know what we’ve been watching. Some sort of movie, I think. Whether horror or comedy, neither of us have made a sound.

  His voice is gravelly. “Do you want to go to bed?”

  “I don’t think I’ll sleep much,” I admit. “Do you want me to order you food?”

  “I don’t think I’ll eat much.” He smirks then rolls his head toward me. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m nauseated most of the time.” Morning sickness is a lie. I feel ill 24/7. I can’t blame it on the big move and new job anymore.

  He inhales sharply, then murmurs, “I never told you what happened to my knee.”

  I recognize a distraction when I hear one. I’ll take it. Gladly. “What happened to your knee?”

  “Jimmy and I decided to act responsible for a change over the summer. We took Davey camping.”

  I blink at him. “Does Davey enjoy camping?”

  I can’t imagine how they would know such a thing since their youngest brother is non-verbal.

  Alex frowns at the TV. “In hindsight, no. Not so much. We should’ve known better. He doesn’t like bugs. Roughing it isn’t exactly his jam, and he’s a picky eater. He wasn’t real happy about the menu choices of hot dogs or s’mores.” Alex shrugs. “We wanted to make some time for him though since we’ve been so busy for the past few years. Just us brothers together for a long weekend.”

  It might not have worked out the way they hoped for, but my fragile heart swells nonetheless. Alex’s deep, abiding love for his brothers has always endeared him to me even more. It’s a small piece of his true self that he doesn’t show to the world. His nearly naked body? Fair game. His precious brothers? Out of bounds.

  “Anyway, we figured kayaking would be good sensory stimulation. We thought he might like the repetition and pressure of rowing the oar. So, we’re getting ready at the river’s edge—me and Jimmy carrying each side of the three-person kayak. Davey started having a meltdown because of a mosquito or something. Since Jimmy was closer to him, he dropped his end of the kayak into the water. That fucker bounced up like a fat kid sitting on a see-saw and knocked me in the knee so hard that I saw stars. Not the good, orgasmic kind either. The oh-shit-did-I-just-get-a-career-ending-injury kind.”

  It’s a funny story. I’m tempted to laugh except for the last part. I reach out and squeeze his forearm that’s corded with muscle. “You performed very well at training camp. I’m guessing it’s not a career-ending injury?”

  He rolls his head back to me again, wearing a grin that competes with the light from the television. “Aww, were you watching my performance at training camp while pretending to ignore me, sweetheart?”

  I pinch his arm.

  He yelps and pulls the not-at-all injured limb to his chest, making a show of rubbing it like a baby as he pouts. “It’s not career-ending. Yet. It could get there though.”

  Play-time is over. Knee injuries are some of the most common and debilitating parts of the job that wide receivers face. They absolutely can be career-ending. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t notice his pain though I was watching his performance carefully at camp. “What is the nature of the injury?”

  He grimaces. “For now, it’s a chipped bone floating around in there. I get weekly MRIs. As long as it stays put and doesn’t migrate toward any major tendons, it’s just excruciatingly painful.” He nods at the TV he’s not really watching, no longer meeting my gaze. “The trainers are keeping an eye on it, but…” He blows out a breath. “I’m fucking terrified I’m gonna wind up addicted to pain pills.”

  It’s not a light admission. Nor one that isn’t backed by statistics. Many pro players face a lifetime of substance abuse caused by a culture that favors playing time over physical health and emotional well-being.

  “I can help you with that, you know. I have the training.”

  “Just another reason you should stay with me, you know. I need the help. And I have the free rent.” He smirks at the TV.

  It’s not that I want to leave him alone in this big, empty house with a hovering addiction. Not at all.

  “My due date will be in late February. I have already read horror stories about pregnancy mood swings, cravings, and medical emergencies. I’m not going to saddle you with that kind of baggage. Especially not when you have your own problems to contend with.”

  His chest vibrates with silent laughter before he glances at me. “You really don’t understand how this whole friends thing works, do you?”

  “I could turn into a raving madwoman,” I warn him. “Eating pickles dipped in chocolate, screaming at you for not turning off the faucet the right way, crying over gum commercials.”

  He laughs again. This one fills the room with light. “I’ve been dealing with a madwoman for the past six years. I think I can handle it.”

  “See, if you say things like that, I might snap and punch you in the testicles.” I laugh when he covers his genitals with his hands.

  Men can be so predictable about certain things.

  “If there’s someone you should be punching in the nuts, it isn’t me.” He places his hands on his flat stomach again. The one with the eight-pack, not the six-pack. Because six-packs are for amateurs, as he always said. “I actually have some experience with the weird cravings and crying over gum commercials.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any baby mamas?” I’m dying to learn more about his six-year stint of celibacy, but I won’t pry for that information. It would give me hope I have no right to have for multiple reasons.

  He shrugs. “Evie is pregnant. She’s due in the middle of the season. Rob texts me hilarious stories about ice cream topped with salsa and the latest laundry detergent commercial that made her bawl. No screaming though. At least not that I know of.”

  His tone is light, but my mood plummets. I’ve never had any right to be jealous of the woman Alex fell in love with. He’s known her since high school—far longer than we’ve been friends. They survived a very traumatic event together at a tender age. He offered her the kind of support and steadfast loyalty that many women never receive after a sexual assault. I convinced myself when I graduated from State that I would be happy for Alex if he ever felt more for a woman than simple, biological lust.

  The day he confessed to me that he was falling in love with her was the day I broke my old rule about never having a one-night stand.

  “I have also read stories about pregnant women’s libido being higher than at any oth
er time in their lives. I could become ravenous to the point of distraction for you.” It’s a horrible thing to say. Petty to the point of shame. It was on the tip of my tongue to threaten that I might not be able to control myself around him. At least the pregnancy hormones are not completely controlling my brain. Yet.

  “I could help you with that, too.” He winks at me.

  I wish I could turn back time a million different ways. “You are only saying that because you obviously know that orgasms are natural pain relievers. Perhaps if you broke your vow of celibacy, you could avoid a pain pill addiction.”

  He tilts his head. “You know, Evie actually told me a few times that she thought I had a sex addiction in college. Fucking hilarious, considering I wasn’t having sex at all at that point.”

  “I guess she didn’t know you as well as she thought,” I grind out.

  I shouldn’t hate her, but I do. At least this gives me a plausible reason. That makes me feel a little better.

  “No one knows me as well as they think.” He chuckles. “I like it that way.”

  “We all have our secrets,” I agree. I will take a few of mine to the grave.

  “Oh, hey. Speaking of secrets…” He rolls his head toward me again, his expression serious. “What’s worse?”

  I blink at him several times as I replay the past few minutes of conversation. “I do not understand the question. What’s worse than what?”

  “You said earlier before your breakdown,” he raises his hands in a defensive position, “that I am not judging at all. You said to make matters worse, and then never finished the thought.”

  I am not going to finish it now either. I have to throw up again.

  I can only handle so many problems at a time. I’ll worry about my parents’ ultimatum later.

  Pre-season games suck. The guaranteed starters have to show up, dress, and ride the bench while the coaches play God with the lives of the guys who are just trying to prove they’re good enough to make the final roster cut. We sweat; we give up our entire day; we don’t get paid.

  I love football. I live, breathe, eat, pray, and bleed this game. After a pre-season match-up though? I cannot get my uniform off fast enough.

  “Who’s ready to head to the Shark Tank, ladies?”

  Most of the veteran players laugh at Mayview’s shitty pun. He’ll get head tonight, all right. If he wants to get it at the Shark Tank though? That means I can’t go home to Amira. She might need me, but the ladies in Orlando need me more. At least Amira’s safe in my bed. Time to change out my BFF cape for my rape deterrent hat.

  Jizz furrows his brow on the bench beside me. He’s covered in sweat and turf. The guy saw some serious playing time today, and his chances of making the final roster are looking even better than they did at camp.

  He mutters out of the side of his mouth, “What the hell is the Shark Tank? Is that some kind of euphemism for the media room?”

  “Team strip club,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t look any less confused. “I thought strip clubs weren’t a thing in Orlando because of the family-friendly tourist business?”

  “That’s why it’s the team strip club,” I admit. “It’s exclusive. Not open to the public and not advertised. You have to have a paycheck in the millions to even know about it.”

  “Hell, yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He claps his hands together and shouts, “I’m in!”

  I don’t know Jizz yet. Not really. He’s good on the field, and he seems decent enough. I can’t really blame the guy for being excited about a little skin after a rough day of beating up his body. Any guy in their right mind would be craving some action after playing the kind of game he did today. His adrenaline is still pumping, and he needs a release for all the energy coursing through his body that has nowhere else to go now that the game’s over.

  A win makes us feel invincible; a loss makes us want to be in control again.

  Gorge pins me with an irritated expression from a few lockers down. He’d rather go home and bone the loyal woman waiting in his bed, but he knows damn well we agreed to this babysitting gig that we don’t get paid for either.

  I’m not going to be boning anyone at home tonight, but I shoot her a text anyway.

  Alex: You good? Need anything on my way home? Pickles? Chocolate sauce? A random dude to junk punch?

  Brain: Getting ready for bed. I saw on ESPN that you got the W. Tell everyone congratulations from me.

  I grin at my phone. She just gave me permission to make the guys who bet against me sweat a little.

  “Dr. Deep says congrats!” I shout to the locker room.

  Gorge’s face lights up. He recognizes an open route when he sees one. He makes a rolling motion.

  It takes me a second, but I catch on.

  I yell to Mayview at his locker where he’s down to nothing but tighty-whities, “I’ll come to the Shark Tank with you. I can’t turn down an opportunity to get some convincing footage on video for Amira to choose the guy who isn’t getting lap dances from strippers every weekend.”

  He grins at me. Pointy as ever. “No phones allowed in the Shark Tank, Fossoway. You know that.”

  Fuck.

  This is why he’s a pro quarterback who hasn’t been convicted of sexual assault yet. He thinks of every angle.

  I flip him the bird, then peck out another text.

  Alex: Gonna be late. Team celebration for the W. Don’t wait up. If you think of anything you want, text me.

  Brain: Enjoy ;)

  It’s a text message, but I read her innuendo loud and clear. She learned from a master after all. Fucking demon woman. Forty-eight hours ago, I would have enjoyed wrapping my body around hers in bed without the sex. Now? What the fuck am I supposed to do? She might be a MILF, but she’s carrying another man’s baby. A man who hasn’t responded to her message after an entire week of waiting on pins and needles. He might never read it. He might sack up. I’m caught in limbo on multiple levels with no clear route in sight.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  No time to think about that. Mayview’s already dressed. I’ve gotta get my ass in gear.

  Soft lips dance across my cheek until warm, sweet breath fans in my ear. “The usual tonight, Mr. Fossoway?”

  I turn my head until we’re face-to-face, so close that a gust of wind would push our mouths together. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  She grins. “That’s why I do it.”

  “Keep it up, and I won’t leave my usual tip,” I threaten.

  She winks. “You’re so sexy when you pretend to be a dom.”

  “Who says I’m pretending?”

  She chuckles as she straightens and surveys the room. It’s the usual crowd tonight, but there are some newbies that Lexi doesn’t know yet. She massages my shoulders while she talks. The club music is loud enough to cover our conversation. “Anyone who needs a warning label?”

  “Not sure yet,” I admit. “The rookies all seem okay. Mayview’s as shitty as ever.”

  “I really wish you’d let me set him up,” she says for the millionth time.

  I pull her around to sit on my lap, so I can look her dead in the eye. “How’s Jax doing?”

  She bites her puffy lip. She’s obviously been busy already tonight. “He advanced another level in speech therapy over the summer. He’s mastered one-step directives with only minimal prompting. We’re moving onto two-step.”

  I cover my jealousy with a smile. Her kid’s only five, and he’s already smashing goals my little brother will never reach. “That’s awesome. Still don’t wanna have to explain to him why his mom ended up dead after trying to pull off a sting operation to catch a rapist. I don’t think most of those words are in his vocabulary.”

  She wants to roll her eyes, but she won’t. Not here. Not now with so many people watching. She licks her lips instead. “He’s not a murderer, Mr. Fossoway. He’s a rapist who should be punished.”

  “Got any sharp knives around? I could
solve that problem real quick.”

  She laughs. Her blue eyes glitter from the strobe lights that are flashing on the stage. “You’re more subtle of a hero than that.”

  I snort. “I’m not a hero at all.”

  She drags her open hand down the side of my throat. “You’re my hero.”

  I met Lexi when I followed my new quarterback to the team hangout after my first game as a rookie. I didn’t want to partake in the main offering at the Shark Tank, but I wanted to save face and keep up my expected reputation. I took one look at this woman and saw someone who didn’t belong. Someone who felt like I did about this scene. She was here for a reason, and it wasn’t sex. She immediately understood the same about me.

  She suggested I buy an hour of her time in a champagne room. That’s where I learned about her young autistic son who needed therapy that a 9-5 job didn’t afford her. She had the body to make a lot of money, and for him? She wouldn’t hesitate to use it. I appreciated her dedication for obvious reasons. We struck up a deal—I’d pay for speech therapy, and she’d help me keep my rep intact.

  It’s been a beautiful partnership, but I can’t even pretend to fondle her rack tonight.

  She’s perceptive as hell, so she notices where my hands aren’t straying. “Mayview’s as shitty as ever, but something’s changed with you. What is it?”

  “Amira’s here,” I say before swallowing the last of my top-shelf tequila.

  There’s nothing like Patron when a guy just needs to wallow for a while.

  Lexi’s eyes widen. Yeah, she knows all about it. After so many paid hours together, we ran out of things to talk about one night while I was shit-faced. She squeezed me like a lemon, and I talked until there was no juice left in me.

  Lexi doesn’t bother asking how or why Amira’s here. She goes in for the kill like the professional she is. “Are you going to finally tell her?”