by Lexi Ward
“Mr. Liam,” she screamed before she ran into my arms. Sometimes soon, I don’t know when but soon, she won’t be calling me Mr. Liam. It’ll be Dad, and I look forward to the switch of titles. Mr. Liam is her friend, but Dad is a name I looked forward to earning.
The Linebacker’s Secret Baby
CHAPTER ONE
“I still don’t like this,” Ben Smith, famous linebacker of the Arizona Vipers, said for the seventh time. Or maybe the eighth.
Georgia had lost count some time ago.
He crossed his arms anyway, like the publicist had told him to.
Georgia withheld a sigh and lowered herself into a crouch while aiming her camera up at Ben’s face and torso. The dramatic angle was cliche, but she was hired to take as many photos of the team—and of Ben—as possible. The more pictures she took, and the more they varied, the more the publicist and the advertisers could work with. Or some ridiculous nonsense like that.
Ben was getting special treatment—his own photo-shoot out on the field, in his uniform—because he was the star player of the team. Apparently, according to a bunch of commentators and journalists, he was the only reason the Vipers had a chance at the playoffs.
“Veronica,” Ben said, uncrossing his arms and blinking at the publicist. “I’m serious. This feels…wrong.”
“Wrong?” Veronica repeated. She stepped forward until she was standing next to Georgia. “How so?”
“You told me to act like I’m practicing,” he said. He frowned and shook his head. “I’m not practicing. And even if I was, I wouldn’t pose while I was trying to make a tackle.”
Georgia snorted, her lips curling upward. “You’re one of those guys who takes everything literally, aren’t you? You’re a stereotypical dense athlete.”
His glare snapped to her so fast that she sucked in a breath. His face twisted into an ugly expression, his parted lips revealing his white teeth. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Georgia said, laughing. She took a candid picture of his enraged expression and laughed harder. “It’s a photo-op. Everyone who sees the picture knows that you aren’t actually practicing. It’s the art of advertising without looking like advertising. Just do what the nice publicist says and get your millions of dollars. It can’t be as hard as you’re making it out to be.”
Ben’s nostrils flared, he was breathing so loudly that Georgia could actually hear it. He jabbed a finger at her. “I’m sure it’s easy to mock me behind that camera. Do you have any idea what it’s like having so much attention on me? Being a role model to kids I have never even met?”
Veronica nodded and clapped. “Yes! Exactly! This is why we are doing this. To show those kids how dedicated you are to the team—how committed you are to your work.”
“It also promotes the team itself,” Georgia said, cocking an eyebrow at Veronica—technically her boss, but Georgia wasn’t one to be intimidated by anyone. “And the more fans they get, the more money they get, which means,” She turned to Ben, “the more money you get. Ideally, anyway, if you get famous enough.”
Ben scoffed. “Is that how it works? You’re the management expert now?”
Georgia laughed again, tilting her head back and letting her shoulders drop. “It does not take an expert to see how upper management profits from this game.”
“A game that I love,” Ben said. “A game that means the world to me.”
“A game that pays you an extraordinary amount. Be honest, if this sport was considered a dying art form that nobody cared about anymore, there is no way you would keep playing it as a starving artist.”
“What?”
She bellowed out an exaggerated sigh and shook her head. “Athletes never get me.” She stood up, stretched her legs, and took another candid picture of Ben’s confused expression.
Ben glared again. “That’s it. I don’t deserve to be mocked.” He stormed toward the locker room. When Veronica went after him, he raised his hand to silence her protests. “No, I’m done. If I am violating my contract, then fine me.”
Georgia snickered as Ben continued onward toward the locker room. It had been a while since she had fought within anyone, and as always, it felt good. It felt like she had just come out of a battle, victorious. She held her head high.
Then she looked over at Veronica.
Veronica seethed. Despite wearing high heels, she had no problem stomping over to Georgia and hovering over her. “Don’t you know who that was? How much money he brings in for the team—through your photos?”
The distant sound of the locker room doors clicking shut slapped the air.
Defiant, Georgia held her camera at her side and smirked. She opened her mouth to defend herself—
“Don’t,” Veronica snapped. “Either you apologize to that man and get him back out here to finish the shoot or you’re fired. Which is it going to be?”
Georgia hesitated—a retort on the edge of her tongue—but experience had given her enough sense to clamp her mouth shut.
“Good,” Veronica said, motioning her head toward the locker room. “Go get him. Now.”
Georgia swallowed another retort and jogged toward the locker room, its doors embedded beneath the stadium. Its emptiness was kind of refreshing, yet it also contained a spooky atmosphere to it. Solitude or loneliness?
She shook the thought away and entered the locker room. She could hear Ben’s footsteps echoing in the distance before another set of doors clicked open, then closed.
Groaning, she forced herself to jog again.
CHAPTER TWO
By the time she had exited the locker room to the parking lot, Ben was already halfway to the Vipers Building—the skyscraper that contained hundreds of offices for all kinds of jobs. Even Veronica, a freelancer, had an office somewhere in there.
“Ben,” Georgia called, jogging after him. She cringed a second later when she realized using his first name might have been offensive. “Mr. Smith, wait!”
He didn’t.
“Ben!” she snapped.
And then several other people were shouting his name, all of them dashing out from beside various parked vehicles. They were like ants rushing out of a disturbed anthill—rushing out of nothing, really, as vast as the parking lot was with so few vehicles on it.
“Ben! Ben Smith!”
Cameras flashed. The people, grouped together with their cameras raised high in the air, rushed toward Ben while shooting his picture and shouting out his name.
“Ben Smith! Ben! Look over here!”
“Is it true you have a baby mama?!”
“What do you think about Carson’s comments on your sexuality?!”
Ben ran for the building so Georgia ran for it, too.
Ben, of course, entered the building in no time, though he foolishly left the door wide open. It moved at a sluggish pace back toward the building—threatening to hiss and lock the moment it closed.
Georgia increased her speed, arms flailing and wet gasps tearing out of her throat. She glanced at the paparazzi.
They approached the building at a diagonal path.
Georgia was running straight ahead.
The door was moving a little faster as it closed. It was less than a foot away from being shut. Less than seven inches. Less than three inches.
Georgia rushed up to it and jammed her fingers between the door and the building. Pain burst past her knuckles, but she ignored it as she opened the door just enough to slide in and then yanked it shut.
The clicking sound of the automatic lock put her at ease.
Turning away, Georgia cradled her throbbing digits and walked down the hallway. Behind her, the paparazzi smacked on the door and widow. They shouted for her and for Ben over and over again, the whining flash of their cameras masking their words.
“Ben,” Georgia called, increasing her speed. When she came to a hallway that went in both directions, she looked back and forth.
To the right, Ben stood at the end of the hallway. He jabbed his fi
nger at an elevator button before crossing his arms and tapping his foot.
“Ben,” Georgia said, forcing herself to jog over to him. A burning pain jolted up her legs—something she was going to mention to Veronica later. “Ben, I want to apologize.”
The elevator doors parted.
Ben walked past him. So Georgia walked past them, too.
“I’m sorry,” she panted out. She splayed herself back over the railing, her chest rising and falling at a rapid rate as she regained her breath. “I was just kidding around. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Ben didn’t even acknowledge her. He just glared at the elevator doors.
The elevator jolted, and then it moved upward.
“I know I can be insensitive,” Georgia continued. Her mind raced as she tried to remember all the critical things her mother ever told her. “I’m a little tactless and disrespectful—”
“A little?” He huffed, shaking his head. “You acted like a bratty child, the way you belittled me.”
“Childish, yup, that’s another one.”
“I work hard at what I do. And believe it or not, it is stressful to know that millions of strangers are watching you and judging you.”
“This is why you get paid so much money. That’s kind of the deal you made. I don’t understand why anyone in your position would complain about it.”
“You’re right,” he said, face twisting in frustration. “You don’t understand.”
The elevator stopped, its doors sliding open a few seconds later. It was so perfectly timed that Georgia bit her lip to keep from laughing. Well, laughing out loud, the sensation still vibrating through her ribs and clavicle.
Ben strode forward.
“I’m sorry,” Georgia said, meeting him stride for stride. “Really. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Ben turned down an adjacent hall—so quickly that Georgia tripped over herself, ending up a few paces behind the linebacker.
“Where are you going, anyway?” she asked, huffing. “Despite what some little kids may think, I know you don’t actually live by the field.”
He didn’t answer her. He just kept turning down one hallway after another, Georgia always following him and repeating her earlier apologies. It didn’t take long for it to sound like a tiring mantra.
Eventually, Ben stopped in front of a door with a shiny sign on it. The windows on both sides of it were dark, their blinds drawn.
Ben swore.
“It’s almost seven,” Georgia said. Walking on his other side, she saw that the door’s sign read “General Manager”. “And it’s a Friday. A lot of the staff went home hours ago.” A realization hit her, and she gawked at him. “Wait, were you going to report me?”
He twisted the knob. Surprisingly, the door opened. Ben walked through it without hesitating, a tight frown on his face. “I was just going to request another photographer.” He went over to the windows and peered downward. He swore again. “The paparazzi are still there. Some are even by my car. Damn it all.”
Georgia entered the office, too, but just to glare at Ben. A dulled kind of anger rose within her, and though it was something that should probably be ignored, she didn’t want to. “You baby! I make a few criticisms and you come running to the manager to tattle on me?”
Ben groaned, shoulders sagging. He swiped a hand out toward her as he walked over and plopped in the manager’s leather chair. He leaned back, face aimed upward. “At least you get to go home. I might be here for hours.”
“You’re sitting in the manager’s chair like you own the damn place. I think you’ll be fine.”
“What is your problem with me?”
“You keep complaining about your perfect life! And then when I apologize for pointing it out, you don’t even forgive me. It’s just rude, but you can get away with it because you’re famous.”
“Fine, I forgive you. Will you go away now?”
Georgia went over to the wall and leaned against it before sliding to the floor, her legs crossing in one graceful motion.
Ben hid his face in his hands.
Georgia got comfortable, a petty kind of satisfaction settling upon her. Shrugging, she said, “You should really learn to embrace change and challenges. And no, I’m not talking about all the crazy stuff that happens during a game. People, from snarky photographers to intrusive paparazzi, are always going to provide obstacles for you. You are clearly tough and able enough to get past them though.”
“I shouldn’t have to anymore,” he said, hands slapping down on the desk. He sighed. “I worked so hard to get to this point in my life, and now I have to work even harder to keep it? I thought…” He massaged the side of his face, his eyelids lowering. “I used to think that once I made it, that was it, things would be easier.”
Georgia leaned forward on her elbows, her chin resting in her hands. Her pride withered a bit, forcing anger away. It allowed her to think clearer. A wistful smile came over her as she thought about her own dreams. “Yeah. I used to think that all artists got super rich if they were talented enough.” A laugh, sincere and surprising, burst out of her.
“Why does everything need to be so complicated?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“I don’t know,” she said, following his gaze. “But you got to figure that everyone—or most everyone—is trying to follow their own dreams, which could involve you in some way.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t tell me you were a paparazzo?”
She laughed again. “No! I was never that desperate. Besides,” She winked at him. “I prefer soccer, anyway.”
His expression pinched into a goofy look. “Soccer? Really?”
“The rest of the world seems to agree with my tastes.”
“That’s why they’re not all considered the greatest country in the world.”
“Well, no, not every country can be considered ‘the greatest country.’ That doesn’t make sense.”
He smirked. It was, perhaps, the first nice look he had given her, and it brightened his face while giving his eyes a mischievous glint.
Heat pooled within Georgia’s lower belly, her own eyes going dark.
“You know what I meant,” he said, once again glancing over his shoulder and out the window. He frowned at the sight before looking at her again. “But really, why soccer?”
“I like to run. And you have to run in soccer a lot more than you do in football.”
“Okay, but what about basketball?”
“I can’t shoot worth a damn.”
He chortled.
Their conversation led to another one, and then another one. Occasionally, their earlier argument would return, but it returned in such a dismissive manner that neither she nor Ben got worked up over it again.
It was…bizarre. She enjoyed arguing—debates and what not—but they rarely ended so well.
“I like Great Danes,” Ben said. He had long ago taken off his jersey and his pads, his muscular torso barely concealed by his under armor. He sat on the floor beside her, shoulders and head pressed against the wall. “They’re strong but friendly, you know?”
“A manly dog.”
He laughed. “Exactly. A true man has both qualities.”
She shrugged, her shoulder brushing against his. Her frame was so narrow compared to his; she had never felt more like a supermodel. “I think you’re missing out with the Dachshunds.”
“They have back problems.”
“Great Danes tend to have heart problems.”
“Who doesn’t? It’s usually the heart or the brain that starts to deteriorate first.”
She pursed her lips at that. Only feeble counterarguments came to mind—none worth speaking out loud in order to win this. She blew out a breath and slumped.
“Nothing to say?” Ben asked, sounding smug.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Give me a minute.”
He scoffed, nudging her playfully as he stood and looked through the window. “They’re still
there. They’re persistent, I’ll give them that.”
“It’s their living. They kind of have to be.”
“They don’t HAVE to be. You’re a photographer. You didn’t do what they do.”
Another good point she didn’t know how to argue against. Not wanting him to know he had defeated her in wits again, she stood and looked out the window herself. The sight of those people—their cameras still high in the air—made her gut sink. Trapped by noisy, pushy people.