by Ava Ashley
Be realistic, Sloane. You’re a reporter. You deal in facts.
Fact One: He’s not my type, after all. He’s a jock. Fun for letting off steam, but not for settling down.
Fact Two: There was no such thing as love at first sight. And, besides, I never liked Cinderella growing up. Screw the fairy tale. I could be my own damned Princess Charming.
Fact Three: Whether I liked it or not, I needed this story. And here he was, offering me my own personal keys to the kingdom. Access to his life, 24/7.
Talk about toeing the line.
“Not that I think Logan deserves to win this election, but okay. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Great!” Lennox exclaims and plants an enthusiastic kiss on my mouth. The kiss starts to melt into something warmer, but I gently pull away.
“I need you to understand something first, Lennox. While I admit last night was fun,” I begin.
“Fun? Last night I think the word you used was ‘amazing’,” he counters playfully.
“Okay,” I concede. “Amazing. But, be that as it may, I really don’t think I can let that happen again. I really need to focus on other things right now. Like nailing this job, finding a place, and, well, figuring out how to be a mother.”
Now it’s Lennox’s turn to look bruised, but he rallies pretty quickly.
“Understood. And, for the record, I’ve been called a mother more times than I can count. So, if you need any help in that department, I’m your guy.”
The smile his flip comment brings to my face is a welcome one. I can honestly say I haven’t smiled like this in a long time. Maybe this arrangement won’t be so bad after all.
“But, right now,” he continues. “Right now, I am in desperate need of a shower.”
He hops out of bed, that Adonis form strutting across the Berber carpet toward the master bathroom. Parts of me twinge.
Yeah. Not bad at all.
He gets to the door and winces. He turns, a little sheepish, back toward me. “By the way, how are you with washing machines?”
Chapter 8
Lennox
The hit is brutal and I eat a salad bar worth of turf. But, you know what? It’s in the end zone, and that’s all I care about. Okay, well, maybe not all I care about.
It’s been three weeks since Sloane has been moved into my condo. So far, things have been going along fairly smoothly. At least at home. Turns out, Sloane’s not just a dynamo in the bedroom. Not that she’s given anything up since that first night. Don’t get me wrong. She’s been friendly enough. Easy to talk to after a rough day of practice. But, I have my bed and she has hers.
My balls are starting to turn an unhealthy shade of blue.
Sloane’s right. If this little smoke-and-mirrors routine is going to work, everyone has to believe we are a couple. That means no random blondes. Or brunettes. Or redheads. No more anonymous hookups. Home like a good boy every day after practice.
Sloane makes the sacrifice worth it, though.
She’s an absolute beast in the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I ate a home-cooked meal as good as some of the healthy choices Sloane’s been putting on the table. Or even if I ever have. She’s through her first trimester now and the morning sickness has pretty much passed. Her bizarre cravings for Mel’s fries are history, too. Now it’s roasted sweet potatoes brushed with olive oil and dusted with chili powder, or something called Eggplant Napolitano. Who knew Napoleon like eggplant?
And I’m getting a culinary education as a side dish. Up until last week, I would have told you that ‘Julienne’ was a girl’s name. I also have towels again, so that’s another plus. Sloane even gave me a tutorial on how to operate the damned Maytag Tardis, so I can even do a load myself once in awhile.
On the field, with the team, it’s a little bit of a different story. Not everyone had forgiven me for what had gone down on the roof of Omnia. Like I told Sloane, there was a line, and I had crossed it. More specifically? I had crossed my teammates, and they weren’t letting me off easy. Guards were letting guys slide by and I was taking more than my average share of hits. And passing routes that should have run smooth as silk were being jacked up on purpose, forcing me to run the ball more than I should, and calling open season on the quarterback. Me.
Not everybody was pissed at me, though. The little plot Sloane and I had cooked up had definitely appeased management. I’d skirted the issue when she’d asked the specific reason they were so fired up. I didn’t want her to know about my fuck up at Omnia. That wasn’t me. I just told her they felt I needed a serious attitude adjustment. So, she had started showing up with me at a few pre-arranged functions and the only headline I’d made lately was when we routed the Washington Wolves last week in a bitter rivalry game. That hadn’t been an easy battle. I seemed to have been fighting my own guys as much as the opposing team, but I guess I really didn’t have anyone to blame for that, but myself. But, we won.
Now we had to beat the Jersey Jackals. Their quarterback, Cal Ellis, was smart and quick. But, it wasn’t him I was worried about. Their defensive line was a solid wall of sinew and muscle. If I couldn’t get my guys to play ball with me, I was in for a world of hurt next week. And I didn’t care how much painkiller Hugh pumped into me. Toradol didn’t fix broken bones. And there were three more months in the regular season.
At least now it looks like the higher-ups are off my back and I can concentrate on more important things. Like why I was still feeling inexplicable bouts of anger. For now it seems like the episodes are mostly confined to the field.
Hard to get in a bar fight when you’re not going to bars.
Fortunately, Aaron Pratt isn’t being a complete asshole to me. The wide receiver jogs up to me at the water cooler on the sidelines and gives me a playful, but solid punch in the arm. He wasn’t at The Omnia to see what went down. He’d been home with his wife. Presumably still working on baby number two.
Didn’t mean he hadn’t heard about it.
“So, Tyson Fury. Get into any good boxing matches lately?”
“Ah, bite me. Fury got lucky. Klitschko shoulda kicked his ass. Besides, I can only say I’m sorry so many times.”
Aaron knocks back a few gulps of water and drags his arm across his mouth. He points at me. “That is one hundred percent false. Wait till you get married. You’ll be saying it for the rest of your life.”
I let a wry chuckle escape.
“Nah. Go ahead. Laugh. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for. Whatever it is, it’s on me by default. Because I’m male. You’ll see.”
A line creases the space between my eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s just say I’m just glad you’re wising up and knocking off all that sophomoric bullshit. Different girl every night of the week? Dude. That seriously gets old. Nope. Give me a good woman who will be there during the good times and guide me through the worse times. I mean, come on, I’m not going to look this good forever.”
I place a solemn hand on his shoulder. “They say that awareness is half the battle.”
“Dick.” He grins.
“Go long,” I wave him back. I want to keep my arm warmed up and I don’t think Forrester is up for it.”
I jog a nod to the opposite side of the field where Dante and Forrester are daggering dirty looks my way.
“Yeah. Sure thing.” He backpedals and I cock the football backward, strings out. I cannon it right into Pratt’s waiting hands. “I gotta tell ya, though, that girl of yours? She must be a helluva woman to put up with your bullshit.”
He sends a beautiful spiral back my way. Hm. Not bad for a receiver. I pull my arm back, ready to return it in kind.
“Even brought your sorry ass a picnic lunch,” Pratt continues, jabbing a thumb toward the stands.
“Wait. What?”
His comment is just enough to send the ball corkscrewing wildly off the tip of my fingers and into the water table where it upends the regimented rows of
waiting water cups.
“Hey!” the water boy yells as he is doused with a drenching wave of clear liquid.
The incident barely registers. My eyes are locked on the beautiful woman in the stands, waving wildly across the field. If the lights in the Cougars’ stadium ever go out, the wattage of Sloane’s smile could light up the entire grid around The Railyards. She’s holding what looks like a Playmate cooler, the kind that swings open when you push the button on the side. Before things really went sideways, Mom used to pack one just like it. She’d take me down to the park, usually to let dad cool off or dry out, and we’d watch the model boats on the lake and picnic on the bank. She always thought she did such a great job at hiding the sadness in her eyes. I was nine. Not blind.
There weren’t a lot of picnic lunches left for me and Mom.
Anyway, mine’s not the only attention Sloane’s enthusiastic gesturing has caught. Over half the team is staring at her. A chorus of catcalls and whistles echo across the field. A few others, like Dante and Forrester laugh derisively and point at me. That internal boiler starts to churn, but almost as quickly, it turns to a hopeless smile punctuated by a chuckle.
She looks like she’s signaling in a 747 with all that ridiculous waving.
I sprint to the stands. Sloane grabs the rail and leans over, looking down at me. Her four month belly is starting to escape the hem of her t-shirt, but she’s been balking at the concept of maternity clothes. I don’t think she’s going to have a choice much longer. Just like I don’t think we’re going to have a choice about moving into the next phase of our little plan. The part where I claim paternity of her little bundle of joy. Correction. Sloane’s and Logan’s bundle of joy.
My inner critic joins Dante and Forrester in laughing at me. This baby wasn’t mine. Not by a long shot. I was going through the motions to help Sloane and guard Logan’s precious reputation.
At least Sloane deserved it.
But, the longer Sloane stayed at my condo, the more I had come to realize just how big of an asshole my brother is. I know he’s hungry for this Representative’s seat. Like starving, wild dog hungry. Tragically, I also know why. But, he was never going to satisfy that particular craving. It was as bad as wanting a deep-fried Snickers. You know it’s bad for you. And after you eat it? You feel sick to your fucking stomach. But, you still want the damned thing.
If only I could convince him it isn’t fucking worth it.
But, Sloane? I’d walk across an entire football field of glass shards.
Sloane is incredible. Beautiful. Brilliant. Witty. She has a good, solid head on her shoulders. And her smile? Her smile just washes over you like a Waikiki wave.
Logan had managed to take that smile from her when he kicked her to the curb. And after pretending to be me. I had finally decided – this was the last time I went to bat for him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask abruptly. “We hadn’t talked about you coming here today.”
“Well, hello to you, too. I knew you’d be at practice all day, and I figured you might be hungry. So, I packed you a lunch.” She gestures to the cooler.
A sour look floods my face.
“Or, I can just go, if you’d prefer,” she gestures toward the stadium exit. “I have a meeting with that magazine editor later. I have to figure out what to wear. Something that fits anyway. I think this kid is about to make this belly a public monument pretty soon. I guess I’ll, uh, just head out.”
Sloane misinterprets the scowl that screws up my features. Even I have to search under some deep-seated baggage to figure why such a nasty expression has wormed its way onto my face.
The internal self-examination slows my tongue. I guess Sloane must figure my silence means I’m pissed. She tugs on the bottom of the shirt and starts to move toward the exit. She “turns back to me. “You should eat the food. You know. Since it’s here anyway. I guess, I guess I’ll see you at home.”
I suddenly jump up and grasp her hand through the bars of the safety rail. “Sloane, wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry. It’s been a rough practice. Stay and have lunch with me. I could use a smiling face.”
A small smile starts to come back into her delicate features. “You sure?”
A few more whistles sound off behind us.
“Yeah, but, um, maybe we can move this lunch date to a more private location. Ever been under the bleachers with the quarterback before?” I can’t help but flash her a wickedly flirty grin.
*****
We’re finally alone. Sitting in one of the maintenance golf carts under the stadium seats.
“Last time I was under the bleachers, it was with Becky Lowell. Kennedy High School. I was the school’s starting quarterback. She was captain of the cheerleading squad.”
“They say it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks,” she nips back playfully.
“Oh, come on. I’d like to think I’ve traded up.”
She laughs throatily. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Especially with a pregnant woman.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, Miss Armstrong.” I move in to nuzzle her neck. She gently pushes me back.
“Come on, Lennox. We had an agreement. Besides, I brought you lunch to nibble on. Not me.”
I’m stubborn if I’m anything. I lean in again, this time stealing a quick pull on her lower lip. “Life’s short. Eat dessert first.”
“But what if someone sees?” she asks.
“I kinda thought that was the point. To have everybody believe we’re a couple.”
“Yeah. But, if we’re actually going to make people believe we’re having a baby together, we really should know more about each other than he prefers fabric softener in his sheets, but not his towels and he despises Brussel sprouts.”
I make a face. “Can’t stand the damned things. They look like mutated pygmy cabbages.”
Sloane giggles. “You know what I mean. We should know a little more about each other’s pasts. Like Kennedy High School. Until today, I had no idea where you went to school as a teenager.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She’s right. I still haven’t shared a whole lot about my past with her. And pretty soon, people would start asking questions neither of us would have an answer for.
“How about we eat lunch first?” I suggest.
“Um, yeah. Sure.”
She opens the lunch pail and pulls out a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “I packed peanut butter. I figured the extra protein would be good since you were at practice and all. Help bulk up those muscles.”
She puts the sandwiches in my hands and I just sort of stare.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, suddenly concerned. Her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my god! Are you allergic to peanuts?!”
She scrambles to grab the sandwiches from me. I wave her away.
“You cut the crusts off,” I manage.
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I never liked the crust on my sandwiches. It was always too –,”
“Hard. Yeah. I get that.”
“I don’t understand. Is that bad?”
I almost laugh. It’s so far removed from bad I can’t even begin to explain it to her. “No. This is, this is just the way I used to eat PB&J sandwiches when I was a kid. For a long time, it was about the only thing I ate.”
“Picky eater?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Just wasn’t a whole lotta choice.”
She seems to chew on that for a second. She reaches into the pail again. “I hope you like bananas. The potassium’s supposed to help prevent –,”
“Muscle cramps. Yeah.”
She rummages down toward the bottom of the cooler. “I think I put some electrolyte drinks in here, too.”
She hands me an electric blue beverage. “Did, um, you mom used to cut the crusts off your sandwiches for you?”
“No. Mom? She, uh, had a lot on her mind. Peanut butter sandwiches were easy enough to make. I figured I’d help her out where I could. Stayed out of the way. Took care of myself.”
I took a bite of one of the sandwiches to try and distract myself.
“What about your father? Where was he?”
My hand drifts to a round, circular scar on my arm before I can even stop myself. Almost as quickly, I pull my hand away. I can start to feel that white hot fury welling up inside my gut. I jump out of the golf cart.
“Look. Um, Sloane. Thank you. For the lunch. I mean it. It was really great. But, Coach is probably expecting me back at practice. We have a tough game coming up against the Jackals and the guys and I still have some things we need to work out.”
Sloane’s phone starts to buzz in her pocket. She only steals a quick glance at the caller ID but ignores the call, shoving the phone back in her pocket. She turns back to me.
As if I’m more important.
“Hey. Talk to me. What’s up?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I answer. A falling poly trash drum makes us both jump. It rolls feebly in a dark corner about twenty feet away. I shrug.
“Probably just the wind. Don’t worry about it,” I assure her worried look. “I will see you at home tonight. Okay?”
“Um, okay.”
“We can talk more then.”
“Sure,” she answers, but she looks really confused.
That makes two of us.
Her phone buzzes again. Whoever it is, they’re pretty damned insistent.
“Answer it,” I urge. “If it’s about the job, you should take the call. I’ll see you later.”
She nods as I steal a kiss before she can protest. I head back toward the field. I hear Sloane’s voice say “Hello, Giselle. Yeah. Sorry I missed that last call, but I’m here now. No. No problems. Things are great...just great.”
I can’t help but smile a little as I go back to practice.
Chapter 9
Sloane
London on its foggiest day is clearer than my head is right now.
Maybe I pushed too hard with the questions and Lennox suspects.