Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2)

by Magda Alexander

  “My car—”

  —will be fine staying here overnight.”

  They have pretty good security in this building, but I’m not leaving it behind. “Brock—”

  He jams his hand into his front jeans pocket, probably to retrieve his keys. “Your car’s too small for me, Ellie.”

  He would bring that up now.

  “And you only have a one-car garage. We can’t both park in it, and I’m not leaving a souped-up Outlaws’ Porsche Cayenne on the street. Or here for that matter.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. Why am I finding it hard to breathe? I grab the handrail to keep from shaking. I hate all that is happening. I hate not being in control.

  Stepping into me, he cups my cheeks. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Is it?” My voice has grown breathless, as it so often does when I’m around him.

  “I’ll make sure of it, sweet girl.” He brushes his lips against mine.

  His kiss calms me, soothes me. I want more. But the doors open to the P1 level, and there’s no time.

  As we exit the elevator, he curls his hand around mine. “We can talk on the way.”

  My shoulders snap rigid once more.

  Strangely enough, once we’re underway, he remains silent. Maybe he changed his mind about talking. Or maybe he’s thinking about what to say. Either works for me since it’s given me a chance to find a measure of peace.

  “I want to see our daughter.”

  Ah, he was figuring out how to phrase things. “Well, you’re going to get your wish. She’s home.”

  He briefly takes his eyes off the road to glance at me. “I want to help support her. Financially. I figure I owe about ten—no, that can’t be. How old is she?”

  “Twelve. She just turned twelve.” One of the few outright lies I told him.

  “I owe you twelve years’ worth of child support.”

  “You don’t have to.” I blurt out, even though I’m totally wrong.

  “Yes, I do, Ellie. I want to do this. I need to do this. For her sake as well as mine.”

  He’s right. Morally and legally, he should pay. It’s just, once he does, she won’t be all mine. A part of her will belong to him. But then, it always has. I just refused to acknowledge it.

  Rather than respond, I stare out the window wondering how everyone at home is coping. I never wanted this to turn into a three-ring circus. I tried so hard to avoid a scandal. All to no avail. “They’re not going to stop, are they?”

  “Who?”

  “The paparazzi, the media.”

  He drops one of his big hands over mine and squeezes. “They will. Once we work things out, they’ll have nothing to talk about, and they’ll move on to the next story.”

  My gaze cuts to him. “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  He should. He’s lived through enough notoriety to know.

  “I’d like visitation rights, Ellie.”

  My breath cuts short. “You going to take her to the dog park once a week, too?”

  He juts out his jaw. “That’s a cheap shot.”

  He’s right. I’m more mature than this. “Yes, it was. Sorry.” I pick at my fingernail polish. “Marty talked to me this morning. A couple of the senior partners were there as well.”

  The GPS announces a turn and he pulls the car onto the exit ramp.

  “What did they have to say?”

  “Basically? Fix this or you’ll get fired.”

  “They won’t do that.”

  My gaze cuts to his. “Why not? I screwed up. I should have told them about you.” I turn my head to the window so he won’t see the moisture pooling in my eyes.

  “If you had, would they have hired you?”

  “I’d like to think they would have. But who knows?” I can’t wallow in the what ifs, not when the present demands a solution. “Marty suggested we make a joint statement to the press.”

  “All right.”

  I retrieve a legal pad from my briefcase to jot down some ideas. For a few minutes, I list the important, salient points. “Okay. Here’s what I have so far. You didn’t know you fathered a child. But now you’re eager to get to know her. You’re paying back child support. Anything else?”

  “I think that covers it. For now.”

  “What do you mean for now?”

  “We’ll have to settle some things between us, Ellie. Legally. I need to confirm I’m her legal father. Which means a blood test. We’ll need to meet with lawyers to draw up visitation rights, custody rights.”

  Oh, hell no. “Visitation rights are one thing, but I’m not sharing custody with you.”

  “Why not? I am her father.”

  “You met Kaylee five minutes ago, and now you want the part of her father?”

  “I’ve always wanted a family.”

  “Funny way you went about it,” I scoff. “What with your orgy room and all.”

  That remark should have silenced him, but it doesn’t faze him one bit. “They weren’t the type of women you have a family with.”

  “Did you use condoms with them?”

  “Every single time. You were the only one. The only one, Ellie.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “Have I ever been sued for child support?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I haven’t. I always used protection.”

  Okay, so he always took precautions. But that’s neither here nor there. He’ll have a bigger issue to deal with as far as Kaylee is concerned. “She’ll fight you. Last thing she thinks she needs is a father.”

  “Doesn’t matter what she thinks or does. I intend to take responsibility for her. Be reasonable, Ellie. If anything happens to me, I want her to inherit what I have. It’d be a lot easier if she were my legal daughter.”

  He’s not going to give in, no matter what I have to say. And I’m too exhausted emotionally and physically to argue about it at the moment, so I punt. “I have to think about it.”

  His jaw juts out. “There’s nothing to think about. I’m going to do it. Whether you like it or not.”

  This is a disaster. “She’s scared, Brock. Her whole world has been turned upside down.”

  “I know it won’t be easy, but I won’t give up. Whether she, or you for that matter, don’t think she needs a father, she does. I know what it’s like to grow up with an absent parent. I don’t want that for my daughter. I’ve lost twelve years of her life, I don’t intend to lose anymore.” And that, as far as he’s concerned, is that.

  We arrive home to find about a dozen photographers parked outside my door. When we pull into the driveway, a feeding frenzy ensues as they trip over one another to get the best shot. Only when the garage door closes behind us do I take a deep breath.

  We walk into the house to find Mama cooking on the stove and Kaylee eating at the kitchen island.

  As soon as we step into the kitchen, Kaylee shoots Brock a death glare. If looks could burn, he’d be seared on the spot. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s your father, Kaylee. Show some respect.”

  She has the grace to blush.

  “Hello, Kaylee.” He keeps his proper distance, probably because he’s got no clue what to do. Meeting a daughter is one thing, meeting a twelve-year-old who’s royally pissed at you is another.

  Butch comes racing up and jumps on Brock.

  “Sit, boy.”

  But for once, Butch doesn’t obey. Nudging Brock’s knee, he pushes him toward the living room.

  “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt anyone.”

  As if he’s ceding his role of protector, he plops on the floor next to Kaylee, probably trusting Brock to handle whatever’s happening outside.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Brock says. “He’s guarding her.”

  “He’s been glued to her side since she came home from camp.”

  Brock turns to me. “What happened to her?”

  But before I have a chan
ce to answer, Kaylee interrupts, “I’m right here, you know. You can ask me.”

  “Sorry. What happened to you?” he asks her.

  “I tripped over a stupid, dumb rock and sprained my ankle.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “It’s only a sprain, but the doctor wants me to keep this stupid cast on for a whole week.”

  “Well, that’s for the best. Otherwise, you might make it worse. Just rest it and take some ibuprofen. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  She squints at him. “Did you ever suffer a sprain?”

  “About five of them. None of them were any fun, so I know what you’re going through.” He grins, probably because he’s in safe territory discussing his injuries.

  Thank God they have something in common.

  “What are you going to do about the invading horde?” Kaylee nods toward the front yard.

  A small smile flits in and out of Brock’s lips. “I’ll talk to them.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say.

  “No. It’s best if you stay inside.” When I start to protest, he adds, “For now.”

  He walks out the front door and stands in the path leading up to the street. I rush to the living room window, crack open the curtain, and listen to what he’s saying. His speech is short and to the point. He tells them they’re trespassing on private property and they’re making his daughter and dog very nervous. And then he asks them to leave. Unfazed, they pepper him with questions. After answering a couple, he promises to have a longer statement the next day. But right now they need to go.

  When none of them move, he lowers the hammer.

  “If anyone’s around in fifteen minutes, I’ll call the police and have you arrested. If you persist with this invasion of privacy, I’ll have you and your publications banned from the Outlaws’ approved media list.

  Upon hearing that statement, most of them hightail it out of there, but a couple of diehards move their beachhead to the sidewalk. They’ll be sitting out there all night, because I’m not coming out for the rest of the day. Maybe ever.

  Having accomplished his goal, Brock walks back into the house. “They’re gone.”

  “Some are still out there,” Kaylee says, tapping the app on her phone, the one that came with our security camera system and clearly shows some photographers still hanging out.

  “They’ll get tired soon enough when there’s nothing to see.”

  “Would you like something to eat, Brock?” Mama asks. “I made some chicken and rice.”

  “That would be lovely, Ruth. Thank you.”

  “How about you, honey?” she asks me.

  “No, thanks, Mama. I ate at the office.”

  While she ladles a portion from the cooking pot onto a plate, I set out a placemat and cutlery on the kitchen island. He drops on a stool next to Kaylee, who’s quietly eating while sneaking bits to Butch.

  “So, Kaylee, what grade are you in?”

  “I’m going into seventh grade at Larmoor Junior High.”

  “Your mother tells me you’re really smart.”

  She shrugs while playing around with her food. “I guess.”

  “You get that from your mother. I pretty much sucked at most classes.”

  “Guess you were too busy with football.”

  “You’re right. I was.”

  “I suck at sports. Mama, may I be excused?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  He reaches out to help her stand.

  “I can do it. Thank you.” She rests her leg on her hands-free crutch and rolls toward her room, with Butch bringing up the rear.

  Once she’s disappeared from view, Brock lets out a long breath. “Boy.”

  “Told you it would be hard.”

  Ruth pats his hand as she serves him a full plate of food. “You did fine, Brock. She’ll come around.”

  But will she? That’s to be determined. Kaylee’s got a stubborn streak in her a mile long.

  Mom loosens her apron strings and hangs it on the peg on the wall. “Well, I better go. Got some pies to bake for the church fair. I’ll be back tomorrow, honey.” She buzzes me on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Good seeing you again, Brock.”

  “Thanks, Ruth. Appreciate the food.”

  “Anytime.” And with that, she exits through the back porch door. She usually parks by the side of the house and comes in through the back gate. Hopefully, she won’t run into any paparazzi out there.

  Once she’s gone, Brock glances off into the distance, as if he’s seriously considering something. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I believe holding a press conference won’t be enough.”

  “It won’t?”

  His glance rolls over to me. “The Outlaws’ owner is worried about my tendency to create a scandal wherever I go. When I told him I would handle it, he was very honest. He doesn’t believe I can change. So I’ll have to make him believe I can.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “Obviously, I’ll have to take a drastic step.”

  Alarm bells go off. “What drastic step?”

  His gaze lands on me. “I think we should get married.”

  Chapter 17

  Eleanor

  “GET MAR-MARRIED?” My stomach flip-flops. Good thing there’s nothing in there; otherwise, it would have come back up. “Are you crazy?”

  “No. Not at all. In fact, I think it’s the sanest decision I’ve made.” He calmly takes another bite of Mama’s chicken and rice, as if he hasn’t totally upended my world. “That should solve all our problems, don’t you think?”

  Yelling won’t do any good. I have to discuss this rationally, logically with him. Well, as logically as I can given the fact he’s insane. “How?”

  “Marrying you will prove I’ve given up my wild partying days and settled down into domestic bliss. The Outlaws’ management will love that.” He grins like it’s the most brilliant idea he’s ever dreamed up. “With any luck, the media will stop writing about my personal life and focus on my football stats.”

  On the verge of hyperventilating, I rush to explain. “We don’t need to marry, Brock. If I acknowledge you’re Kaylee’s father and you’re providing child support, that’ll take care of your problem.”

  For a couple of seconds, he chews over my suggestion. But then he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Oliver Lyons will keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially after word gets out about my ‘orgy room.’”

  “It hasn’t gotten out so far.”

  He turns toward me, and I get the full effect of his green-eyed gaze. “Well, with all the publicity, do you honestly believe that little turd at the condo, what’s his name—”

  “Warren Sheffield.”

  “You think he won’t find out? As soon as he figures out who’s living in that condo, he’ll blast it all over social media. And it won’t take the tabloids a nanosecond to spread it far and wide.” He helps himself to more chicken and rice before pointing his fork at me. “They’ll drag you into it as well.”

  “Me? I haven’t done anything.”

  That sexy grin of his curls over his lips. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. We did plenty on Sunday, didn’t we?” He punctuates his question with a wink. Bastard.

  I bow my head and pick at my nail polish. If I keep this up, I’m going to need a coat of Floozy Red or Scarlet Tramp to go along with my new fallen woman status. “That was just a one-time thing.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He manages to inhale another healthy portion of Mama’s food and waggle his eyebrows at the same time.

  Is he ever going to be serious? He thinks marrying me would be one big lark. Of course, he does. Not only would it solve all his problems, he would have a readily available sex partner. Someone he could screw all night long. That thought shouldn’t sound appealing, yet it does. What is wrong with me? Do I really want to play bouncy-bouncy on his bed? Have him do all the things he did to me and
more? I shiver. Yeah, I would. But I’ll need more than that if I’m to agree to this. “Okay, fine. Let’s say for the sake of argument, I say yes. If we get married, and that’s a big if, your playboy problems would be solved. But what do I get out of it?”

  His mouth twists with disdain. “Money, you mean?”

  “I don’t want your money, Brock,” I snap back. “If I had, I would have demanded it years ago.”

  His brow clears up. “You should have. Why didn’t you?”

  Unable to meet the question in his eyes, I stare down at the floor. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” How do I explain I didn’t want him in our lives?

  “That’s okay. I understand.” The bleakness of his tone prompts me to raise my head. And I’m floored by his expression. He knows why I never contacted him.

  “You were busy with football and . . . everything else.”

  “I would have made time for our daughter, Ellie. I would have loved having her in my life.”

  “How? When?”

  “Football season lasts only a few months. Plenty of other time to spend with her.”

  “She was too young to be away from me, Brock. And she would have never understood. Heck, she barely understands now.”

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “No sense hashing over the past. What’s done is done.”

  He’s right about that.

  “Look. You’re in hot water with your agency, right?”

  He had to remind me. “Yes.”

  “Well, if you marry me, you won’t be. Simple as that.” Done eating, he strolls to the sink, rinses his dish and drops it into the dishwasher. He then folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the kitchen counter. Sexy does not begin to describe those roped arms and wide chest of his.

  But I can’t be sidetracked by his powerful body. “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, for starters, I’ll walk if they do anything to harm your career.”

  “You would?”

  “You better believe it. And that’s only for starters. If they so much as give you the side eye, I’ll spread the word among my teammates about how they treated you. They would not look kindly upon sports agents who mistreated my wife. Plus, the agency might have a harder time signing new players, especially ones who came from my Alma Mater.”