Scoring the Player's Baby

by Naima Simone

  “So you moved out of the hotel, huh?” Shit. He should never try small talk because he sucked at it. “Forget I asked that. I’m trying to find something to say other than what’s in my head, so I won’t offend you and get kicked out.”

  He expected a smile, at least. But nothing. She’d stood in the same spot since he’d entered. Cocking his head, he studied her, finally taking in the tight clasp of her hands in front of her stomach. The stiff set of her shoulders. The flat, solemn line of her full mouth. He’d only seen Kim a handful of times. But in those encounters, he’d known her aloof, passionate, teasing, and irritated. Never had he observed her nervous. And that this confident, sensual, strong woman was unable to hide her anxiety scared him.

  “Hey.” He crossed the small space separating them and clasped her upper arms. “What’s wrong?” he murmured, rubbing his palms up and down her bare skin. Worry crawled through him, because she only stared up at him, those lovely eyes dark. “Talk to me, hala. What can I do?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  A deafening rush of wind roared through his head, and through it, all he could hear was the slow, heavy thud of his heart. Ice numbed his body, and his bloodless fingers fell from her. What the…? She couldn’t have said…

  “What did you say?” he rasped.

  “I’m pregnant,” she repeated.

  Oh fuck, he’d heard right.

  On leaden feet, he stumbled back a couple of steps, and all he could do was gape at her. How? They’d used protection… Oh God. That last time in the early hours of the morning. Half asleep, he’d slipped inside her but had almost immediately withdrawn, the too-damn-good feel of her bare flesh wrapped around him jerking him awake. He’d put on a condom and continued, but that one tiny, seconds-long mistake couldn’t have… Squeezing his eyes shut, he fisted his fingers against the thoughts and emotions bombarding him like a hail storm.

  A baby. How did he know it was his…?

  As soon as the question entered his head, he evicted it. No, given how she felt toward football players, if she wasn’t sure the baby was his, she wouldn’t have told him. And add to the fact that, as naive as it might make him seem given all that he’d seen in his profession, he didn’t believe Kim capable of that kind of deception. She’d been tight as hell the first time he’d entered her body; she wasn’t the kind of woman to sleep around. That night and now, he had the sense that her sleeping with him had been an aberration instead of the norm.

  Which meant he was going to be a father.

  Holy hell.

  “Ronin,” she said, her voice reaching him as if from a long distance.

  “Wait.” He held up a hand. “Just give me a…minute.” He glanced down at his suddenly weak knees. Oh damn. He was going to embarrass himself by face-planting it on her hardwood floors. Not a good look.

  He evaded three-hundred-plus-pound linebackers intent on crushing him to the turf for a living, but he’d never experienced the kind of fear that swept through him. Like a tsunami, it whipped and battered him.

  A father.

  Him.

  What did he know about being a good father? His own had abandoned his family when Ronin was ten, and the next time he’d seen him was ten years later when Ronin was drafted. It’d also been the last time, since he’d told the motherfucker to get ghost. His only male figures had been coaches. And they’d taught him how to read plays, run, catch a ball, be the best at the game, but not how to raise and nurture a child…

  Guilt flashed inside him, quick, but oily and heavy. A wave of grief followed, swelling up inside him so fierce and hot that he locked his muscles against it, so he wouldn’t buckle under the power of it. Grace had wanted a baby, but they couldn’t because of her disease; her weak lungs and body couldn’t have handled it. But now, he was having the baby they should’ve had with Kim…

  A baby.

  The shame evaporated under the wonder. A baby that would have Kim’s gorgeous eyes and pretty smile. Maybe his dark hair, and a beautiful blend of their heritages and skin tones. Whether it was a girl or boy, he or she would break hearts. But if it was a girl, he would have to break other things on any boy who dared hurt her… Hell, any boy who dared talk to her, period.

  He blinked. And a surge of protectiveness and love swamped him, stunning and fierce in its intensity.

  “What are your plans?” he asked, his heart pounding a hard, fast tattoo against his rib cage.

  “To keep it,” she replied, her chin notching up. Almost as if waiting for his objection, his argument.

  To hell with that. But for a moment, he couldn’t speak with the relief crashing through him.

  “Good,” he finally muttered, tone hoarse. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “Good.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but her shoulders loosened the tiniest fraction, and her fingers quit trying to maul one another.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “Just good?”

  He shrugged. “Nope. There’s this, too.”

  He reclaimed the space he’d inserted between them with her announcement, and wrapped his arms around her. For an instant, she went rigid, but in the next moment, she melted against him, her fingers fisting his T-shirt, her cheek pressed to his chest. If he’d shaken in fear for those few seconds, then what had she felt when she’d found out? Had she considered not going through with the pregnancy? Had she thought he wouldn’t stand by her? By their kid?

  He tightened his hold, burying his face in the thick, fragrant strands of her hair. He didn’t speak, and neither did she. But he offered comfort with his body, letting her know he wouldn’t abandon either of them. He might be shitty at relationships, but this commitment he could make and, without the slightest doubt, keep.

  Kim slowly released his shirt and stepped out of his embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “For showing a moment of weakness?” he gasped in mock horror. “There’s a special place in hell for you, Kim.”

  He didn’t miss the quick-as-lightning tug at the corner of her mouth. Satisfaction glowed in his chest. Progress.

  “I wasn’t sure how you would take it. Whether you would believe it was…” Her voice trailed off, and she glanced away, her slender throat working as she swallowed. “I know football players are often targets for false paternity accusations,” she continued in a tone that he could only describe as “off.”

  Logic told him not to approach the subject of her ex-husband, but when did he listen to reason? Not unless it suited him.

  “Was your ex one of those targets?”

  Instead of answering, she strode toward the kitchen. He turned, watching her. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a bottle of red wine. “Do you want some wine?” Not waiting for his reply, she removed a glass from a cabinet and poured the alcohol in almost to the top. “I might not be able to drink it anymore, but I refuse to let God’s gift to mankind go to waste.”

  Sighing, she returned to the fridge, grabbed a water, and then reentered the living room with both in her hands. Extending the wineglass to him, she settled on the couch. Taking that as an invitation to join her, he ignored the arm chair flanking the sofa and sat next to her.

  He sipped the wine and waited.

  “Yes, a stripper at one of the clubs he frequented filed a paternity suit against Matt,” she admitted, and he almost winced at the blunt statement. “Thankfully, I had already filed for divorce before it came to light. Or rather before I found out about it. He’d known about the possibility for months.”

  She spoke matter of factly, but he caught the whisper of hurt beneath the straightforward statement.

  “Did the baby end up being his?” Ronin asked, squelching the instinct to reach out to her. Skim a caress over her cheek. Stroke a hand down her hair. She always appeared so…alone. While she shared this particularly painful memory—and no matter her demeanor, he knew it was painful—she shouldn’t be lonely.

  She shrugged, cradling the bottle of water b
ut not unscrewing the top or taking a drink. “I don’t know. Don’t care. I used to torture myself by reading all of those tabloid and gossip blogs, but when StripperGate broke, I called it quits. By then, I was so overwhelmed and disgusted by all I hadn’t known about the man I’d been married to for three years—had been with for five—I didn’t want to find out.”

  “I always considered Matt Cooper one of the best defensive linemen in the game. A bit arrogant and talked shit with the best of them on the field, but nothing worse than what plenty of players did. But not until this moment would I have called him stupid.” Or a dick, Ronin silently added. He might not want a relationship, but Matt obviously must have, or he wouldn’t have put a ring on it. “The ass had a gorgeous, smart, strong, independent woman, and he’d fucked it up for what? An orgasm?”

  He didn’t get men who cheated—didn’t have any respect for them. Even those he played with. Why marry if what you wanted was a different lay every night? It was the reason he was relentlessly upfront with the women he had sex with. No lies. No confusion. No misleading someone that there might be something more permanent. Because for him, that option was nil to not a chance in hell of happening.

  “Thank you for that,” she murmured. Clearing her throat, she continued, “So as you can guess, my marriage—my entire relationship—was, uh, problematic.” Her mouth twisted into a humorless smile, and when her gaze met his, those pretty eyes of hers contained shadows he wanted to sweep away.

  He mentally winced at the sentiment. It was because he had sisters. His sister’s ex-husband had cheated on her as well, and he’d wanted to pound him into sand.

  “I’m not telling you all this for sympathy, but so we can have an…understanding,” Kim said, running a hand over her hair. “I’m guessing ‘good’ means you want to be a part of the baby’s life. And I don’t have a problem with that, but that’s all we’ll be to each other. Co-parents. Not lovers. Not fuck buddies. Just parents raising a child together.”

  She shook her head. “You accused me of being prejudiced against football players, and you’re right. I am. And not just because I believe they can’t keep it in their pants. It’s the lifestyle. The late nights. The partying. The clubs. The ‘boys.’ The spending. And yes, the women. Even before I found out about Matt’s infidelity, he’d refused to leave the rest of that lifestyle behind. I’m not saying all football players are like him, but the ones I’ve met through him were. Right now, I’m not even thinking about entering into another relationship, much less a marriage. But when—if—I do, it won’t be with anyone involved in sports. I don’t want that again. Not for myself, and definitely not for a child. So, we keep things platonic between us.”

  She inhaled a deep breath, and her shoulders stiffened as if bracing herself for a verbal blow from him. Hell, he wasn’t gonna lie. Part of him wanted to deliver it. He wasn’t her husband. Could never be that kind of douche who disrespected women.

  “You’re not wrong about the lifestyle many players indulge in and exploit. But I’m not one of them—never have been. Truth? I’d rather have a beer and burger at Doyle’s with my friends than hang out in the VIP section in the latest hot spot with random woman climbing over me just because I catch a ball and run it down a field. Coming from a poor family, I learned early on the value of a buck, and frivolous spending tempts me as much as one of Mom’s herbal teas. And yeah, I’m not going to lie. I love sex as much as the next man, but it doesn’t rule my life.” Hell, the last three months had proven that. “Look.” He paused, debated the wisdom of saying any more, but mentally shrugged and pushed ahead. “I get where your stipulations are coming from. Your ex hurt you in a way no woman should ever be betrayed by someone who claims to love her. But at the same time, you’ve reduced me to a stat with an unruly dick.”

  She flinched. “I didn’t—”

  He held up a palm, halting her apology. She could utter “I’m sorry,” but it wouldn’t matter. Because she would feel and believe what she wanted, what her experiences had taught her. Besides, she was handing him an out. He didn’t want to get involved either. While her experiences had marked her, his had left their own soul-deep scars.

  “Kim, I get it, okay? We’ve all had relationships that have left us with bitter tastes in our mouths. All of us,” he stressed. “And I’m not in the market for one, since they seem to do more harm than good. So I happen to agree with you about keeping it civil and uncomplicated between us.” He had enough on his plate—his mother’s illness, providing for his family, his career, a team who depended on him to be at his best, and trying to stay focused on the game and the upcoming playoffs. And now an unexpected pregnancy with a woman he barely knew.

  And then there was the fact that he had nothing to give. Sex. A night or two. They were the most he had available for any woman. Grace had been his one shot at what his friends now had. Even the thought of opening himself up to the possibility of that kind of loss, that kind of pain again, squeezed his chest so hard, he forced himself not to rub where it ached.

  No, it was best to stay platonic…except for the baby they had between them.

  Fuck. When had his life become a May sweeps episode of The Young and the Restless?

  “I know what it’s like to be the child of parents who have no business being together,” he said, the memories of that painful time in his youth roughening his voice. “I won’t put one of mine through that. As long as both of us are present in his or her life. That’s what matters.” He paused, another thought occurring to him. “You’re not staying in Seattle, right? You’re only here for your job.”

  She stared at him for several silent moments, then nodded. “Yes, I’m only here for a year. Less than that now.”

  He clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the stem of the wineglass. He’d forgotten Renee had mentioned it in Doyle’s. But he’d been so knocked on his ass by Kim’s reappearance, he’d pushed it aside. Now, though, with a baby on the way, he was faced with co-parenting from across the country. Having to be a part-time dad… After Grace, he’d never imagined being a father, but when she’d been alive, and they’d dreamed and planned a future together, he always thought he would’ve been a hands-on, full-time, present father. The exact opposite of his own.

  “We have time to work things out. How we’ll arrange…” She trailed off.

  “Yeah,” he forced down the odd mixture of guilt and helplessness. “We’ll work it out.”

  She glanced down at the water bottle she held. “Yes,” she echoed him. Then, “One more thing.”

  “For chrissakes, hala. I’m beginning to understand why men are terrified of the phrase ‘we need to talk,’” he teased, needing to add a little bit of levity for his sake as much as hers. He might appear calm, but inside, his heart pounded, and his gut churned like it was trying to make butter. A father. Yeah, outside: Got this. Inside: Man down.

  A ghost of a smile flirted with her lips but disappeared as she again swept a hand over her hair. She’d done that the night in her hotel room and again at the bar. A tell of nerves. Since the woman had the poker face of a steel vault, he catalogued it for future reference.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not tell anyone about the pregnancy until after I’ve gone to the first doctor’s appointment, and I find out how far along I am.”

  He frowned but then remembered how his sister had been superstitious about not announcing her pregnancy until after the first trimester. But then, Alea also believed cigarette tobacco removed bee stings and that the Lake Chelan Dragon was real. While Kim probably didn’t believe a creature with the legs and body of an alligator, head and eyes of a serpent, wings of a bat with sharp teeth, and a long, scaly tail dwelled in the depths of one of Washington’s deepest lakes, he wouldn’t have pegged her for believing in the superstition jinxing a pregnancy, either.

  “Have you already scheduled an appointment?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s Wednesday at eight.” She paused. Lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “I
didn’t want to assume that you’d intend on going with me.”

  “Hala.” Giving in to the desire to touch her—a desire that hadn’t abated in the least even in spite of her “platonic” speech and his agreement with it—he covered the fingers wrapped around the bottle of water. “Anything having to do with this child? Assume.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He removed his hand, his palm humming as if his nerves were exposed. If a small touch like that sent his senses into overdrive, he was in more trouble than he thought.

  Giving his head a mental shake, he curled his fingers into a fist. He had to get his shit under control. He might’ve cleared this first hurdle with Kim, but he harbored no doubts that she didn’t trust him. Goal number one: Prove she could count on him.

  And that started with keeping his word—and his dick to himself.

  One was easy.

  The other was gonna be the death of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Kim glanced at the clock as she slipped her laptop in its case.

  7:05 am.

  The OB-GYN’s office was fifteen minutes away. And since she was a new patient, she had to arrive another fifteen minutes early to complete paperwork. That left her with about twenty more minutes before she absolutely had to leave the apartment.

  No problem. She strode to her closet for her shoes. No problem at all…

  “Oh God.”

  She curled an arm around her stomach as a wave of nausea hit her. Covering her mouth with her other hand, she raced to the bathroom in time to wish her breakfast of jelly, toast, and weak tea a fond farewell.

  Moaning, she grasped the top of the toilet tighter, praying the queasiness would pass, as she had nothing else to offer up to the greedy, never-satisfied porcelain gods. Morning sickness. It’d started Tuesday and had visited her like clockwork every day since. Between seven and eight in the morning. Around two in the afternoon. And ten at night. For a person who hated suffering even a head cold, this gestational plague was a curse. If God had inflicted Pharaoh with this shit, he would’ve let the Israelites go in a New York minute.