Quarterback Baby Daddy (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)

by Claire Adams

  Brian ground his teeth but gave in. "The whole story is completely boring. I wrote a paper for the assignment. The paper was switched while I was at football practice. When Dean Dunkirk confronted me with the plagiarized paper, I didn't recognize any of it. It wasn't mine; I didn't write it."

  "Then who did? Where did it come from?" I asked. I blinked away a hot wash of tears.

  "Come on, Clarity, you're trying to protect your family. You know how it is," Brian said.

  "No," I snapped. "I don't know how it is. I'm not just trying to protect my father; I am trying to find out the truth. Wait," his words sunk in. "Are you trying to protect your family?"

  Brian scowled. "I'm not saying anything else. I already told that nosy professor everything. Though I wish you had gotten to me first. Maybe my uncle would understand if I confessed everything to a pretty girl."

  "Which professor?" I asked. My heart slammed against my ribs.

  "You know, your professor. The reporter all the girls drool over. What's his name? Like a car or something."

  "Ford," I ground out. "Ford Bauer."

  "That's the guy you need to talk to."

  #

  The frustration almost stopped my fingertips, and I struggled with my phone all the way across campus. Not only had Ford beat me to the first interview, but he had gotten more information. Once Brian realized I flirted with him just for information, he clammed up.

  It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Brian was too smart to need to plagiarize his paper. Clearly, the paper had been switched, and the only motive for doing so seemed to be my father's undoing.

  Finally, I punched the right information into my phone and found Ford's home address. The tires squealed on my car as I pulled out of the student parking lot and headed off Landsman’s campus. I tore through the idyllic neighborhoods that surrounded our prestigious college and whipped into the parking lot of the apartment building where Ford's address was listed.

  When I reached the door and hammered on it, a thought surfaced that made me catch my breath. What if someone saw me at Ford's place? What would campus gossip do with the knowledge that I had come to Ford's apartment alone?

  Footsteps approached the door, then Ford let out a string of expletives. Obviously, he had had the same thought as me.

  "You shouldn't be here, Clarity," Ford said as he opened the door to his apartment.

  "Yeah, well, propriety or not, I'm here," I snapped. I elbowed my way past him and inside.

  Ford turned around and shut the door behind us. Then I noticed he was still damp from the shower, with nothing on but a faded pair of blue jeans. The tee-shirt he held was knotted in his fist, and he forgot about it as he glared at me.

  "Your father told me he wanted you to stay out of it," Ford said. "Don't you think this might make everything worse? What if someone saw you come here?"

  "You're the one that answered the door half-naked," I said. It was hard to look away from the chiseled muscles of his chest or the dark dusting of hair that lead down past the loose waistband of his jeans. "I think you owe me an apology."

  Ford raised a dark eyebrow. Then he yanked his tee-shirt on, and his expression changed. Gone was the angry glare and the bemused sparkle. Instead, he looked relieved. "I've been trying to apologize to you ever since..."

  "Ever since you and my father treated me like a child?" I asked.

  His lips quirked but his expression remained the same. "Ever since we kissed. I should have told you immediately. My head was all turned around. I tried to tell you at Thanksgiving," he said.

  My stomach did excited flip-flops, but I waved his topic away. "No, I'm not letting you distract me from the matter at hand," I said. "You have information that can prove my father's innocence, and I want to know exactly how you are going to use that information."

  Ford's eyes turned a stormy gray. "I know you're stuck on that, Clarity, but we need to straighten a few things out between us."

  "Later," I snapped. "You can prove my father didn't help Brian Tailor cheat. That will save his career. And, we have a chance to tie it to Michael Tailor and be done with his corrupt interference at Landsman College for good."

  A dark blue washed into Ford's eyes as he studied my face. "I admire your optimism, Clarity. I really do. The belief that the truth will solve everything is a very powerful way to lead your life."

  My chest ached. "Except?"

  "Except the truth always comes with a price, and I'm not sure you understand that yet. I hate to sound cliché, but it's a lot like pulling the thread on a sweater. Everything can come unraveled," Ford said. "So, let's just slow down for a moment."

  He turned and went into his small, galley kitchen, and I had a moment to take in my surroundings. Ford's apartment was a lot like his office. Spartan furnishings were simple and undecorated. The shelves held very little except a few odd knick-knacks and a framed photograph of him and a similarly dark-haired young woman.

  "That's my sister," Ford said. He came back to the living room and offered me a soda. In his other hand, he held a beer.

  "What if I wanted the beer?" I asked.

  Ford shook his head. "Clarity, I don't know what information you think I gleaned from Brian Tailor, but it isn't enough to clear your father."

  I set the soda down with a sharp crack. Then I put my hands on my hips and glared at Ford. "You want to know what happened with that plagiarism case?"

  Ford sighed and slumped down on his sagging sofa.

  The screeching of the sofa springs distracted me. "Can't you afford a better place?" I asked.

  Ford crinkled his nose and looked around. "I didn't think it was that bad. I've got everything I need. I spend my money in other ways."

  "Like burying stories?" I asked.

  It was the wrong question. I knew it as soon as the words left my lips, and it hung over the room.

  "Tell me what you think happened," Ford bit out. He took a long swig of his beer and fixed his stormy eyes on me.

  "I think Michael Tailor had it planned all along. He knew his nephew, Brian, was smart. Much smarter than his own son. So, when it was time to start considering colleges for Junior, Michael Tailor brought him for a visit here. While he was here, he switched Brian's paper. Brian didn't notice until the plagiarism case, but his football coach warned him to stay quiet or he wouldn't play. My father noticed the discrepancy between Brian's other papers, his abilities, and the essay in question. He dismissed the case in favor of the student." I finished and pinned my gaze on Ford, though it hurt to look at him.

  In his apartment in jeans and a tee-shirt and slumped on a saggy sofa, Ford looked like any other man. Gone was the stigma of professorship, and I felt closer to him than I had ever been before. Except for the solid wall of distrust between us.

  I wanted to scream at him about my broken heart. Bruised heart, I revised in my own head. Ford had bruised my heart, but, then again, that was my fault too. This was all my fault.

  "I'm sorry, Clarity," Ford said. "None of it can be proved."

  "What?" It took a moment to bring my head back around to the story. "But you interviewed Brian Tailor. You know he didn't plagiarize a paper. He's too smart. And he admitted to me that he admitted to you about how the paper must have been switched during football practice. Maybe if we talk to his coach—"

  "We?" Ford asked. He sat up and shot me a dangerous look. "There is no ‘we’ unless you want to make this whole thing worse."

  I fought the urge to stamp my foot. "But it's the truth, I know it!"

  Ford stood up and walked to his apartment door. There he turned around and fixed me with a sorrowful look. "Sorry, Clarity, but it's not going to help. All of that is circumstantial at best, hearsay at worst."

  I tossed my hair. "Hearsay, rumor, gossip. Apparently public opinion is the only thing that matters at all at Landsman College."

  "Public opinion makes a difference everywhere, Clarity. It's one of the hard lessons of the real world that they haven't figured out how to
teach in college. Congrats on learning it before you graduate."

  He turned to open the door and I stopped him cold. "When was I supposed to learn it? At my internship? Is that how you learned? I know Wire Communications fired you. You were discredited. Is that public opinion or the truth?" I asked.

  Ford shook his head, and his voice was hard, though his shoulders slumped. "You wanted real world experience all wrapped up in a prestigious internship, and you got it. Don't let your father's mistake be in vain. Take that internship. Just keep your eyes open at Wire."

  His hand was on the door handle again. I longed to tell him that I had already decided to turn down the internship. I decided as soon as I discovered that working at Wire had cost him his career. I didn't know the details, but, more importantly, Ford's silent opinion was enough for me.

  It hurt, but I couldn't let him open the door, so I used the only leverage I had left. "You're going to help me write an article that exposes Michael Tailor's corrupt workings at Landsman, or I will tell the Honor Council all about your affair with Libby Blackwell."

  Ford shut the door, but when he turned to face me, his expression surprised me. Relief. It was written all over his face, from the relaxed furrow in his brow to the loosened pinch at the corners of his mouth. He took a deep breath and let it out, as if he'd been holding it for ages.

  "I'm sorry, Ford," I whispered, "but sometimes leverage is all journalists can use to get at the truth."

  "Don't apologize, Clarity. Never apologize to me." Ford strode across the room and caught both my hands in his fingers. He lifted my knuckles to his lips, then caught himself and dropped our contact. "What do you think I've been trying to tell you since we kissed?" he asked. His voice was rough with unreadable emotion.

  I fought as hard as I could but tears blurred my vision and a few slipped over and down my cheeks. "You slept with a student, Ford. You broke the rules. She was a freshman." My voice wavered when I spoke, then gained traction as my anger came through. "And, of all the freshman women at Landsman, you chose Libby Blackwell? You're not who I thought you were."

  "Who did you think I was?" Ford's voice broke over the question.

  I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The desperate longing I saw mirrored in his eyes wrapped us tightly in a bond I didn't know how to break. And I didn't know if I wanted it to break.

  I wasn't a silly, naive schoolgirl. I knew how desirable Libby was; anyone with eyes could see the reasons why men loved her. Ford was young; he was younger then, so why did the past affair make such a difference to me?

  "You were going to use me, just like you used her," I said. "It was just a casual kiss, no big deal, wasn't it?"

  Ford grabbed me by the shoulders, and his eyes were fierce. "That's not how it was, Clarity. Please tell me you don't believe that."

  "How am I supposed to know what to believe?" I asked.

  His grip lessened but he did not let go. "I'll tell you the truth," he said. "And I want you to report everything to the Honor Council. I want to be held accountable for all of it. I'm not going to hide from it anymore."

  I closed my eyes because I felt myself drowning in his intense gaze. "Tell me the truth."

  "I was a different person when I started working here." I felt Ford lead me to the sofa, and we both sat down. He moved his grip down my arm and held my fingers fast again. "I had been discredited as a journalist, and my career was over. I never wanted to be a professor, but Landsman College made me an offer, and I had no other course of action."

  "I don't understand. Lots of people apply to work here. It's a dream job for most," I said.

  Ford brushed my hair back from my shoulder and silenced me with a shake of his head. "I wanted to be somewhere else. I wanted to be a journalist again, but that career door had been slammed shut in my face. So, I started work here and hoped it would save me from self-destructing."

  I looked up from our intertwined hands. "Self-destructing? How?"

  "I drank. A lot," Ford said. He tried to smile, but it slipped away. "I tried to drink it all away, but it didn't budge, so I started making other bad decisions."

  "Were you trying to get fired?" I asked.

  He squeezed my fingers and nodded. "I think I was. I wanted a reason to fight for my old career, to face what happened at my old job, and I just couldn't do it myself. I needed the money."

  I blinked hard. "I wish you had known my father then."

  A real smile burned through the haze of Ford's torment. "Me too. He's too nice to kick my ass, but a few well-chosen words from a man of respect can cut through a lot of bullshit."

  My heart warmed as he referred to my father as a man of respect. Ford was keeping me and my father at arm's length, and I didn't know why, but those words had me hoping he would help us when it came down to it.

  Ford cleared his throat and let go of my hands. "Libby expressed interest. She flirted. A few other students flirted too, but I never thought about it. I never intended to anything about it."

  "What happened?" I asked. Hope fluttered again in my chest.

  "The first alumni/donor dinner was a huge success for Landsman College. I was invited, but only stayed for a few minutes. I was blind drunk and lucky that no one noticed. Then there was Libby. She saw me, the state I was in, and she took her chance."

  Ford hung his head and took a few deep breaths. "I could have written it off as a drunk mistake, but that only made the connotations worse. So I tried. I tried to make something out of it. We saw each other a few more times, but Libby was not who I thought she was. When she saw how I lived, that I didn't own a car, or have a fancy condo, she demanded that I change. I pointed out we meant nothing to each other. I guess she rewrote it in her head since then."

  I edged away, uncomfortable with the mix of disgust and sympathy I felt for him. Ford had made a terrible, immoral, and reprehensible mistake, but there he sat telling me the whole truth of it. I felt like crying, but I also felt like comforting him.

  He looked up and pinned me with a stormy-blue stare. "You mean a lot to me, Clarity," he rasped. "It has nothing to do with who your father is or that my job is on the chopping block. It has nothing to do with your age, our situation, or anything else but this."

  He reached out and brushed a hand across my cheek. The searing undercurrents of his caress struck hotter than lightning. He felt it too.

  "I should have thrown it all away to be with you," Ford said. "But, now it's too late. The least I can do now is help your father and save you."

  "Save me?" I asked. I snapped out of the spell his confession had woven and stood up. "I don't need saving. I don't need protecting. As far as I can tell, between you, my father, and me, I'm the only one that can be trusted to seek the truth."

  "The truth is not so simple," Ford warned.

  "That's it," I cried and headed for the door. I had to escape before I gave into the urge to collapse in his arms. "I know you think I'm silly and naïve, but I can't help it. I prize honesty, I want the truth, and if you're not going to help me get it, then I will uncover it myself."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clarity

  I collapsed on Ford's saggy sofa. From there, I realized the only real things of substance that Ford had in his apartment were all media. Two newspapers were stacked under his coffee table. Bestselling nonfiction books were in random stacks. Magazines were all dog-eared or folded open. His tablet was charging on the edge of the table next to me.

  "I wonder how many of these things tell the real truth," I sighed.

  Ford raised an eyebrow and sat down slowly on the opposite arm on the sofa. "What do you mean?"

  "Online media, print media—it's all just the same. The story is slanted no matter what. The only difference is some people make it go their way," I said.

  "Come on, you can't think like that. You're too young," Ford joked.

  I sat up and tossed the magazine next to me onto the coffee table. "So what? That's it? The difference between being a child and being an adult is a
working tolerance for dishonesty?"

  "Things just get complicated. The older you get, the more demands there are on your time and money and ability to believe," Ford said. He scrubbed a hand over his chin and frowned at his own statement. "What you lose in believing in honesty, maybe you gain insight into other people's motives."

  I groaned and flopped back again. "I don't want messy motives. They're never easy to understand. I just want the facts to work, to tell the truth, and for the people who are wrong to be punished instead of the ones who are trying to do good."

  Ford slid onto the sofa and nudged me with his elbow. "The best articles always reveal or hint at the subject's motives. People are interesting but mostly static, but motives shift and move. Motives are action."

  I leaned away from his elbow, but the sag in the couch brought us closer together. I fought off the gravity that pulled me towards Ford and said, "I'm glad I have a reason to turn down that internship at Wire Communications."

  "What reason is that? You're not going to actually list this sideline private college corruption as a reason to decline one of the most prestigious internships in media arts, are you?" Ford leaned in to study my face.

  "Why not?" I asked, "Then they won't have to guess my motives. Maybe it'll make a great subject for whomever takes my place."

  Ford scrubbed his stubbled chin again in a sign of exasperation. He was so close I could smell the faded traces of his cologne. "Don't give up the internship," he said. "I'm not saying that success is better than honesty, but don't you imagine that sticking with this internship is the only kind of revenge your father really wants?"

  In order to push my shoulder away from his, I had to press my knee against Ford's thigh. Immediate heat flooded from where our legs touched all the way up to my cheeks. "I don't want to be there," I said. "No matter how far the internship lets me go in my career, I'll always know where and how it started."

  "No." Ford turned to me, our legs pressed tighter together. "You're a great journalist. You can make it there without letting it taint you. Just let things like this slide right off of you. They won't be able to touch your integrity unless you let them, and I don't think you will."