Scoring the Player's Baby (WAGs Series)

by Naima Simone

  My family. God, did he love to twist the knife when he could get away with it. She stared into the face of the man who’d wanted to terminate Kim’s life before she was even born. On instinct, she pressed her hand to her stomach, as if reassuring the tiny life there that he or she wouldn’t suffer the same fate.

  “Regardless of what you believe about my job and how I earned it, I am a vice president. And I don’t need to run to Alex to defend me or my decisions. But I can submit—and have submitted—my proposal and updates to the board at every step of the process these last few months. Numbers don’t lie. And I’m certain the board would be displeased by the news that offhand and impulsive decisions are costing them money. So if you interfere one more time, I will request a special board meeting and have them decide whether you should”—she paused—“do as you see fit.”

  Red mottled Malcolm’s fair skin in a rare display of fury. Satisfaction should’ve filled her, should’ve been brimming over. But instead, she felt…nothing. No, that wasn’t true. The hurt stabbed so deep, her soul reacted as it always did with Malcolm—by going numb, so she couldn’t suffer the pain of his rejection.

  Slowly, he rose, his furious gaze wintry and frigid. “My son might have a guilt complex when it comes to you, but I don’t. You don’t deserve to be here, and you don’t deserve his loyalty. And most importantly, you don’t belong in my family.”

  Pivoting sharply, he exited the office, leaving a heavy, depressing silence behind. Only the sound of her harsh gasps penetrated the weighty quiet. His words had struck her like well-aimed bullets, drawing emotional blood and leaving behind gaping wounds. As if she could staunch the flow, she splayed a hand over her chest and another over her stomach.

  Each word had hit where her deepest insecurities lay buried. Not belonging. Not being good enough. Not being enough. The two men in her life who were supposed to love her most—one by blood, the other by marriage—had abandoned and betrayed her. And she was the common denominator. What was so wrong with her that they couldn’t love her?

  Stop it! Stop it now.

  She closed her eyes and grasped a hold of that sharp, commanding voice. She couldn’t spiral into that particular dark abyss. Not now. And definitely not here.

  Shuddering, she focused on the memo on her computer screen, deliberately driving everything else from her mind. Work. It’d provided an escape through the divorce, and it would be her savior now. She had a doctor’s appointment later that afternoon and had to cover as much as she could before leaving for the day.

  Hours later, physically and emotionally exhausted, she pulled into the parking lot of the medical complex. The hospital had set up a follow-up visit with her OB-GYN, and it was scheduled for three o’clock. She stepped out of the car, locking it behind her. Removing her cell from her purse, she checked the time: 2:40. Ronin had told her he’d meet her here, but she still had some time before the appointment. As she crossed the lot, her phone pinged with a text notification.

  Probably Ronin. She glanced down at the screen again and froze mid-step. Her skin prickled, followed by a rush of anger. First Malcolm, and now Matt. Damn, could she catch a break? Fate must have a hit out on her.

  Staring down at the notification with her ex’s name on it, she read the simple message: Call me, please. Shaking her head, she stuffed the phone back in her purse. No. Especially not today. She couldn’t allow him or Malcolm to taint any more of her day.

  She entered the building and sat in one of the chairs in the lobby, waiting for Ronin to arrive. Ten minutes passed. Then five more. Then another five. And another.

  No Ronin.

  No call. No text.

  Pushing to her feet, she strode to the elevator. After jabbing the button, she glanced over her shoulder toward the glass doors. Waiting—hoping—to see him in the parking lot, walking toward the building. But no sign of him.

  An ache settled in her sternum, pulsing bright and warm. Frustration, disappointment, and hurt coalesced around it. And anger—anger at herself for lowering her defenses to trust him to keep his word. Anger at herself for starting to depend on someone other than herself.

  This is good, she assured herself. Good that it happened now instead of later when the dependence and trust would’ve been more deeply entrenched. Today, of all days, she’d needed the reminder that she was responsible for herself, her career, and this baby. In months, she would be back in Boston, a single mother, her child relying on her for all of his or her needs. Better she get used to Ronin being only a part-time father, more absent than present, now.

  As the elevator opened and she stepped in, she stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls. She had one focus, one priority. And one loyalty.

  Her child.

  Best she remember that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  The litany ran through Ronin’s head like a fervent vow.

  He’d screwed up. Bad.

  Instead of showing up at the doctor’s appointment like he’d promised Kim, he’d been in a meeting with his coach and several members of the head office staff, including Renee. Which was one point in his favor just in case he needed someone to verify that he hadn’t just blown off the appointment.

  Not that he doubted it would matter much to Kim. Wary because of her past, she wasn’t the most trusting person. Even less with a football player who didn’t keep his word.

  Tunneling his fingers through his hair as he approached her apartment building, he heaved a heavy sigh. Just appearing at her apartment smacked of stalker behavior, but when he’d finally arrived at the medical building, she’d already left. And he’d tried to call her, but she hadn’t answered her phone. Since he’d checked with her office, he knew she hadn’t returned to work, so he’d headed here.

  He probably should’ve waited before coming; he was reeling. That meeting had unearthed memories and emotions—no, that wasn’t entirely true. Because in order for them to be unearthed, they would’ve had to have been buried.

  And nothing pertaining to Grace was six feet under.

  As he’d sat at the conference table at the facility, he struggled to keep it together rather than shoving back in that expensive leather chair and storming from the room.

  With a wave to Keith, the security guard, he impatiently waited for the elevator. Pain, grief, and anger swirled inside him, a turbulent, dark, muddy mish-mash of emotions. He braced himself against the surge and swell of them.

  Moments later, he stepped out onto Kim’s floor and damn near stumbled down the hallway, his body lurching more than walking. A huge, ham-sized fist squeezed his chest, his lungs aching, throbbing with the limited supply of air moving in and out of them. By sheer will, he raised a hand and knocked on Kim’s door.

  Seconds, maybe minutes, passed before it opened.

  Kim stood in the doorway, staring up at him with that impassive expression that by now he recognized as a shield, protection. His normal MO would be to say something glib, funny. But his own form of self-preservation had been shredded to ribbons in that meeting.

  Grasping both sides of the doorframe, he supported himself. His fingers dug into the wood, as his breath rushed in and out of him. Maybe she saw the very thing he tried to conceal—his panic, his shame, his pain—because the ice melted, a frown marring the smooth skin of her brow.

  “Ronin…”

  “I know I let you down today. That you’re pissed and probably want me gone from your doorstep. But”—he briefly closed his eyes, clenching the doorjamb tighter—“can you put it aside for just a little while? I need you right now. Make me forget, Kim. I need…” His jaw clenched, unable to vocalize exactly what he wanted from her. Peace. A soft place to land. Even if only for a little while. Just long enough for him to scrape his strength back together so he could fight the shame, the guilt. For so long, he’d shouldered it, and after that meeting… Goddamn, he was tired. “You.”

  If she’d hesitated, he would’ve turned
around and left, returning later to explain what had held him up from attending the doctor’s visit. It was wrong to ask if he could essentially use her to release every roiling, furious, bubbling emotion within him. He didn’t mind her using him, but to request the same of her…

  But she didn’t hesitate.

  Instead, she moved back, granting him entry into her space.

  He stood there, frozen, when what he wanted to do was pounce. But that plea had sapped everything out of him, leaving him exposed, vulnerable. She reached behind him and shut the door, her gaze never leaving him.

  “Kim,” he rasped.

  Her fingers fisted the front of his shirt and tugged him forward. She rose on her toes and closed her mouth over his. But it was the hand cupping his jaw that snapped his paralysis. He took charge of the kiss, his tongue spearing between her lips to claim anything she would give him. And she offered him everything. She held nothing back, opening wide to him, her tongue immediately curling around his, sucking, licking. He thrust his fingers into her high ponytail, tugging the tie, and releasing her dark, thick strands into his hands. Tearing his mouth free from hers, he buried his face in the hair that contained the same scent he’d tasted on her skin. He shuddered, then took her lips again in a kiss every bit as wild and manic as the turmoil churning inside him.

  With hands he wished were gentler, he cupped her ass and hoisted her in the air. Her legs immediately wrapped around his waist, and he cut a path down the hall in the direction her bedroom probably lay. Never did he release her mouth, not even when he fell back on the bed with her astride him. He was lost in her—in her taste, her scent, the soft sounds she made as his fingers flexed against her ass, the weight of her smaller body pressed to his.

  He tilted his head, diving deeper, when she sat up and slid down his torso. With a growled protest, he reached for her, but she slipped farther down until she knelt between his spread legs. Her nimble fingers tugged open the button of his jeans, jerked down his zipper, and dipped her hand inside his boxer briefs, cupping him.

  “Fuck.” The word exploded from him, just as he almost detonated in her grasp. He stared down at his erect cock in her grip, the swollen, ruddy, damp head poking through her fist. God, his skin felt so tight, so sensitive; he didn’t know if he could take her mouth on him. No, fuck that. He’d suffer. Having her suck him deep into that wet, taut cavern would be the sweetest of hells.

  As if reading his mind, her full, lush lips parted around the head and pulled him deep. She didn’t stop until it bumped the back of her narrow throat. Tiny electrical pulses tripped and sizzled up and down his spine, while his gut knotted in pure lust. He hissed in pleasure as she slowly withdrew up his length, the cool air of the room brushing over his damp flesh. Then all too soon and way too late, she took him in again, suckling, stroking, licking, her low hum another added sensory torture. A flush painted her cheekbones, her lashes fluttered against her skin, and that hum… Damn, she took him like he was some delicious treat that she couldn’t get enough of. And as she arrowed him to the back of her throat again, allowing him to enter, holding him there as the passage squeezed him, he believed he was just that to her.

  She slid off his cock, jacking him with rough, tight, utterly perfect pumps. Whenever he fucked his fist in the shower from now on, he would imagine this—her lips puffy and glistening, her long, elegant fingers gripping him tight, punishing his flesh with pleasure.

  Dragging her tongue up the underside of his dick, she teased the rim, shooting sparks straight to his balls. They tightened, a forewarning that he was right on the edge of coming in her mouth, filling it with him. As if sensing that he was so close, she continued to flick and tease, sliding her other hand into his boxers to cup his balls, play with them like her new favorite toy.

  “I’m about to blow, hala,” he ground out. “But not here.” He traced the rim of her mouth which was once again stretched around his cock. He pulled free of her and, curving his hands under her arms, hauled her to her feet.

  Quickly and gracelessly, he stripped her of the long-sleeved shirt and drawstring pants covering her sexy body. The simple but sensual, nude-colored underwear followed. He slid his hands up her torso, pausing to place a worshipping kiss on her belly before palming her breasts and sweeping his thumbs over the tips.

  He rose and, grasping her waist, switched places with her. Lifting her to the bed, he arranged her on her hands and knees, her gorgeous ass in the air, her slender back arched. The dark strands of her hair tumbled around her shoulders and face as she glanced at him over her shoulder, her gaze slumberous with passion. His clothes went the way of hers, an urgency propelling him forward. He climbed onto the bed behind her, taking a precious moment to study the erotic picture she presented.

  Bent for his pleasure; toned, shapely thighs parted; her sex bare, soaked, and gleaming. From this position, he could see both entrances to her body—the small hole to her pussy, and the even smaller, puckered one to her ass. Fuck him, but the animalistic creature he’d become craved both of them. To fill both of them. To stretch both of them.

  With a low growl, he thrust two fingers into her core, relishing in every spasm of her flesh. Just one more, he promised himself, torturing himself, her smooth, plush walls contracting around his fingers, but he needed more. Fisting the base of his cock, he aimed it toward her, watching intently as the entrance widened to permit him inside her body. He groaned, long and hard, as he sank balls deep, until his pelvis met her ass.

  She emitted a high, almost agonized cry before shivers racked her body. Oh fuck. She was coming. Her sex clamped down on his cock, seizing him, milking him. Just from one stroke.

  The last shred of his tenuous control tore, and he pounded into her; his fingers clutching her hips would probably leave bruises. But he couldn’t think past chasing her orgasm, giving her more of him, of the lust already crackling and electrifying him. He reached around her, pressing his thumb to her engorged clit, rubbing, treating it to hard, concise circles.

  Her scream pierced the room, and her shuddering increased, her flesh gripping him again. This time, he went with her, holding nothing back, pouring deep inside her. His mind blanking to everything but the blissful, painful pleasure.

  Exhaustion grappled with him, and as he pressed his mouth to her sweat-dampened shoulder, he lost the battle, willingly allowing himself to be pinned. He fell to the mattress, taking her with him, cradling her back to his chest, his arm locked around her, savoring the peace she’d given him before the inevitable returned.

  The inevitable being the real world and the truths he couldn’t hide from.

  He sighed, and the weighty breath fluttered her hair.

  “I’m sorry about missing the doctor’s appointment today,” he murmured. Brushing his lips over her shoulder, he said, “Let me explain.”

  She nodded.

  Relief eased through him, and sighing, he unwrapped himself from around her and gathered their clothes from the floor. Pulling on his T-shirt, jeans, and boots, he rounded the bed and handed her the shirt and pants he’d removed. Silently, she accepted them and dressed. Turning on his heel, he led the way from her bedroom and out to her living room.

  He lowered to the couch, and she settled next to him. For a moment, his throat constricted. Grace. He was going to say her name aloud to another woman. A woman who…meant something to him, whether they kept having sex or somehow managed to settle into being just friends. That somehow seemed most blasphemous of all.

  Dragging his hands over his face, he fixed his gaze on the window and the view of Lake Union. “I missed the appointment because my coach called me to a meeting at the athletic center with the head office. They’re adopting a new charity to support this year, and it’s the Live to Breathe Free Foundation. It provides support and assistance to families with children who suffer from cystic fibrosis. They want me to be the spokesperson and ambassador from the Warriors.” He inhaled a breath. “They asked me because my girlfriend Grace died from the diseas
e two years ago.”

  Her loud gasp reverberated in the room, her shock an almost tangible thing. After a heartbeat, a soft, warm body pressed against his side, and a hand rested on his thigh. She didn’t speak, and he was grateful. If she said anything, he might not be able to get this out. He didn’t talk about Grace—not with his family, his friends, and not with the public, even if for an excellent cause.

  “Grace was my closest childhood friend. Her family lived next door to ours, and I can’t remember a time when we weren’t close. She was sweet, kind, never met a stranger. I can’t tell you the number of times she played mediator between my sisters and me. She was my best friend, along with Renee and Jason. Later, in high school, the feelings shifted, and I fell in love with her.” Even now, shades of those intense feelings belonging to the teenager whispered through him, specters of the past. But the tendrils of pain and guilt weren’t ghosts. Nor were they in the past, but firmly present. “Grace loved life, and she lived. Even though she was this tiny thing, delicate, she didn’t waste one moment. Every day was an adventure. Probably because she’d been born with cystic fibrosis and knew she lived on borrowed time.”

  She’d said as much to him on several occasions, though he’d fought the idea. He hadn’t wanted to conceive a world where she hadn’t existed.

  “Over the years, I’d convinced myself that she wouldn’t die. That she would always be there. Because I couldn’t believe God would allow someone as beautiful as her to be taken. But as she got older, the disease took its toll. I’d been playing for the Warriors since I was twenty, and so much of my salary went to fund research, to pay for airway clearance therapies, medicines, and pancreatic enzyme supplements, and respiratory therapists. I believed with the amount of money—millions—I was funneling into R and D, we could find a cure or life-sustaining therapy for her. But that was arrogance, or simply denial. She died at twenty-six, leaving a hole in so many people’s hearts and lives. Especially mine.”