“Goddammit, Brady.” He rushes over to me, his hands on his hips, his mustache sharp and gray. “You’re 30 minutes late.”
“Yeah, I know.” I look at his face and realize that he’s expecting some excuse or apology. “Um, traffic.”
Coach lets out a low sigh, clearly not satisfied with the answer. “And Willis just called me and said you ordered him to park your flashy car?”
I look at him for a moment, unsure of what the problem is. “Yeah.”
“He’s the manager!”
“And?”
He shakes his head. “It’s your first day, Brady. Do you really want to start fucking things up already? Because if so, we’re already off to a bad start.”
I shrug. I don’t know what more this old man wants from me. I showed up. I’m not hungover. Things seem to be starting off just fine to me.
“Just follow me.” Coach turns around and starts stomping down the hall like an army sergeant. “And take those fucking shades off!”
I reluctantly slip my glasses off, and hook them onto the neckline of my shirt.
“Let’s get one thing straight—you’re not in New York anymore.” The coach prattles on as he walks me through the facility, which looks just like the Bulls stadium, except smaller and older.
“You signed a morality clause, which I take very seriously. I can tell from the way you strolled in here like a cocky frat boy that you think you can do whatever the hell you want, but I’m letting you know now that that’s not the case.”
God, he reminds me of my dad.
“As was written in your contract, you are forbidden from partying and gallivanting around town. So, don’t even think about it. Also, any female who works in this stadium is off-limits. Your old coach said there were issues in the past with you messing around with jealous female co-workers, so consider them off-limits, understood?”
Although I was mostly whistling in my head and checking out my reflection in the various windows during coach’s speech, the words “female” and “off-limits” snap me awake.
“Wait, wait, wait. I don’t remember that being anywhere in the contract I signed.”
The coach sighs, rolling his eyes as he hikes up his pants. “Well, read it again, Einstein. It’s definitely in there. Maybe you overlooked it while admiring yourself.”
I roll my eyes, but inside, I’m quietly panicking. What am I supposed to do in this town if I can’t drink, have sex, or do anything fun? God, I’m gonna die here.
“Come on, I’ll show you the locker room.”
As I follow coach into the room, a wave of “shhh!” follows as soon as we open the door. The teammates drop what they’re doing and stand straight up, like loyal soldiers.
Things appear to be a lot stricter here than with my old team.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Everyone, please welcome Brady Thomas to the team. I’m sure he needs no introduction. Brady, say something.”
I look out into the sea of emotionless faces, as stiff as robots.
“Yo.”
“Even though Brady comes from the Bulls, he’s going to train just as hard—if not harder —than the rest of you. I expect the absolute best from my players, and that goes for everyone. There are no special treatments here.”
As I look around the locker room at my new teammates, I can’t help but worry about the reality of me being here. I’m actually going to have to work my butt off, and the coach already seems to have it out for me. Things are not looking good.
“Brady, I need you to head to the equipment room to get your gear.” The coach walks me to my locker, prying its rickety frame open. “After that, I need you to head upstairs to get your diet plan in order.”
“Wait, a what?”
All this is too much, with the crazy work schedule, the uptight coach, and the robotic teammates. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“A diet plan? I don’t need that,” I insist.
“Yes, you do.” The coach props his leg on one of the benches. “Everyone on the team has a diet plan, and now, you will have one, too.”
What planet am I even on right now? If I mentioned “diet plan” to my old coach, he would have laughed me right out of his office.
“Nah, I don’t need that. I’m fine the way I am. I eat food, I put energy out. Bada bing, bada boom. It’s not rocket science.”
The coach eyes me without saying anything at first. And then, “I’m not even going to dignify that kind of stupidity with an explanation.”
The coach takes his leg off the bench and starts heading out. “Listen, make an appointment with Isabella Williams. She’s the head nutritionist and dietitian here. Meet with her, and she’ll get you all set up. Can you do that for me? Nod your head so that I know you’re listening and not singing rap songs in your head.”
Wow, this guy is a real smart ass.
“Coach, I know you think I’m just some hotshot asshole, but I know what I’m talking about when I say I don’t need a diet plan. I played just fine with the Bulls eating whatever the hell I wanted, and we were way better ranked.”
The coach is already heading out the door. As I continue shouting at him, he dismisses me with a wave of his hand as he stomps down the hall.
I look around at the other teammates, who all look at me silently with that look of judgment in their eyes. Why does everyone in this stupid town have that same expression? I sigh and shove my bag into my locker.
What the fuck is a diet plan?
Chapter 5
Brady
“Mr. Thomas, Ms. Williams will see you now. Sorry for the delay.”
I place the issue of Sports Illustrated I was flipping through down and check my watch.
Eight minutes.
Eight long minutes.
Anyone who knows me know that I don’t like waiting, nor do I expect to wait. Not to brag, but I’ve stopped waiting in lines five seasons ago.
I toss the copy of the magazine on the receptionist’s desk, who looks up at me with frightened Bambi eyes.
“You know, if you were gonna make me wait so long, you could’ve at least had the Swimsuit Edition.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Her soft voice is so fragile, it could break in half.
I grab a peppermint from the candy jar on her desk.
“Don’t sweat it.” I wink at her as I pop the mint in my mouth. Walking away, I can see her from the corner of my eye melting into a puddle.
As I walk into the main office, I see a blonde-haired woman sitting at a desk covered with folders. She doesn’t even notice me when I walk in. Annoyed, I knock on her door, which snaps her back to reality.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Thomas.” She takes her glasses off and stands up, smoothing down the creases in her sweater.
I notice right away that she has long, slender legs poking from the slit of her skirt. I start feeling pretty excited—until I remember that stupid morality clause, and now I’m just back to feeling annoyed.
“Please, sit down.” With a skinny arm, she motions me to sit in the black armchair positioned in front of her desk.
“What is this, a therapy session?”
As I walk toward the chair, I notice Miss Blonde Lady taking a cautious step back. Does she think I’m gonna bite or something? I plop down in the chair and raise my hands up, showing her my palms.
See? Harmless.
The lady takes a deep breath before sitting down. As she scoots into her desk, I get a better view of her face—and damn. Definitely the best-looking woman I’ve seen since I’ve been here.
Not like I can do anything about that, though.
“Okay, so Coach McGoy tells me you’ve never had a diet plan before.” She starts stacking papers on her desk and grabbing a file with my name on it. She’s all business.
“I need to figure out what your current caloric intake is on a daily basis before I start building a plan for you. What kind of food do you normally eat?”
I think of
my fridge back in my rented apartment that’s just full of beer, ketchup, and pizza crusts.
“Mostly kale.”
She looks up from her computer, her face all stony and serious. Maybe she’s not the humorous type.
“Can you just answer the question honestly, please?”
“What? You don’t think I eat kale? Well, that’s awfully judgmental of you.”
She gives me another scrutinizing look, this one so severe, I decide to just let her win this round.
“Fine. Mostly takeout. Pizza, burgers, Chinese food. Anything, really. I have an iron stomach.”
She makes a note of it on her computer.
“And what about alcohol?”
On her desk I see a framed photo of her and what looks like her parents. I pick it up, admiring the frozen smiling faces.
“Um, Mr. Thomas, can you just answer the—”
“Are these your parents?”
“Yes, but—”
“They seem nice. Where are they from?”
She looks visibly flustered. Her stony demeanor drops as she squirms in her seat. It’s kinda adorable. Nothing wrong with a little harmless teasing, right?
“Mr. Thomas, we don’t have much time—”
“Call me Brady.”
She stops and glares at me with her piercing eyes.
“Okay, Brady.” She reaches across the desk and yanks the frame from my hand. “We have work to do, okay? So how much alcohol do you drink?”
“A shit ton.” I grab another frame from her desk. Hey, I can play this game all day. “Who’s this?”
The photo shows her pushing a young boy in a swing. A little brother, perhaps? She seems way too young to be a mother, and I don’t see a ring on her finger…
Suddenly, Blondie stands up and yanks the photo out of my hand.
“There.” She roughly places the photo face down on her desk. “Now you’re not distracted.”
Feeling a weird tightness in my throat, I sit up in my seat. I guess I took it too far. But why would she care so much about some dumb picture of her kid brother?
After that tense moment, it’s right back to business as usual. She asks me every possible question one could have about my diet, from how much I’m eating per meal to how many times I eat.
How many ounces of alcohol? Too many to count.
How long do I exercise on a daily basis? Honestly, not enough.
Do I have any injuries, issues, allergies or other issues that need attention? Not that I know of.
Honestly, it feels like a dietary interrogation.
Throughout the whole process, Blondie is typing it all in her computer and then marking things off in some secret folder. There’s something kind of sweet and innocent about her, as if she’s from somewhere smaller than San Antonio.
“Did you just move here or something?” I ask her. “You seem…different.”
She stops typing and looks over at me, her eyes traveling across my face before stopping and going back to her computer.
“Actually, yes. I just moved here.”
“Yeah? Where from?”
For some reason, this question makes her nervous, and she’s back to Business Mode.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t have time to tell it. So anyway…do you have any religious or dietary preferences?”
I give her a strange look.
“Uh, sure. In my religion, not eating Chick-fil-A every day for lunch and dinner is considered a sin.”
She starts jabbing at her keyboard violently, probably while imagining the keys are my eyeballs.
“And what’s the name of that religion again?”
“Uh…” You know, girls have always found me funny, but I’d be lying if I said I was clever. “Bradyism?”
For a split second, I think I see a tiny smirk on her face, but it disappears so quickly, it’s like it was a figment of my imagination.
“I’m asking this question because one of your teammates is a vegan—one of the linebackers—so it’s important for me to know if you, too, have any strict requirements.”
“Nah, sorry.” I look at the framed photo on her desk that’s now faced down, the mystery of it still nipping at me. “I love meat too damn much.”
Blondie click-clacks on her computer a bit more before making a conclusive “Ah!” sound and swiveling her chair around towards me.
“Okay, so this is how it works.” Her eyes are glistening. This must truly be her passion. It’s the least annoyed she’s looked all day.
“So, I’m splitting the team up in two groups: Group A and Group B. In Group A, their diets will be targeting their needs to pack on lean muscle. In Group B, their diets will target their needs to lose fat. Every day when you have team meals, everything will be labeled accordingly so that you know which group you’re in. Sounds good?”
I nod my head, but honestly, she lost me about halfway through the conversation. It’s hard paying attention to someone who’s so damn cute.
“Yeah, easy peasy.” I stand up, stretching my legs. “Can’t wait to eat some dietary grub.”
Blondie smiles but looks a little too eager to get me out the door.
“Thanks for your time, Brady.”
I look her over up and down, trying to figure her out. What’s going on inside her head? Not to sound cocky, but most women can’t resist the ol’ Brady charm, but Miss Blondie here seems immune, as if she took an anti-Brady vaccine before our meeting.
“So, hey, since we’re on first name basis and all,” I say, leaning against her door so that she can’t push me out. “Is there a name you like to be called?”
She jerks her head back, confused by the question.
“You can call me Ms. Williams.”
I scoff and roll my eyes.
“Oh, come on, lighten up. We’re gonna be working together closely for the rest of the season. Isn’t it a little awkward for me to be addressing you like a schoolteacher?”
She doesn’t seem sold on the idea of us being on a first-name basis. Without saying anything, she leans around me to open the door. As her arm brushes against my torso, I feel her recoil a bit, back to her safe spot closer to her desk.
After scrutinizing her for a bit, I shrug. Hey, I guess I can’t win ‘em all, right?
“Catch you later, Ms. Williams.”
As I head out the door, she suddenly calls after me.
“Izzie. Just call me Izzie.”
Chapter 6
Izzie
Shit.
I’m still shaking. It’s even worse than I thought it would be, trying to pretend that I don’t know Brady for who he is—the man who basically killed my sister. The man who brought a huge blessing to my family with Liam’s birth but a huge curse when Lucy died.
How the hell can I keep this up?
I slump down in my desk chair then lean forward to set all my photos upright again. Did he see the resemblance…that Liam is his Mini Me? Probably not.
Somehow, I don’t think his powers of perception are all that finely honed.
I run my fingertip down the photo of me and Lucy at graduation. Thank God he didn’t see that one. I’d need to be more careful.
For a moment I let myself think about what would happen if Brady knew he was Liam’s dad. It could make life pretty easy for Liam—a dad who was a pro football player could give him anything he wanted.
But I promised Lucy.
I touch her face, so carefree and laughing in the photo. “I miss you, Lucy,” I say. “And I’ll keep my promise not to tell Brady about Liam.” Then I giggle. “Although I guess I have to admit, I can see just a little of what you saw in him.”
I find myself thinking about Brady’s eyes, his muscles, and how my skin tingled just from brushing my arm against him. I shake my head.
Stop right there, Izzie, I think to myself. He broke Lucy’s heart, even if he never knew it. He’s bad news.
I sit back in my chair again, swiveling to look out the window and thinking about Lucy. S
he’d been so happy. I remember the day she told me about Brady Thomas for the first time.
“He’s amazing, Izz,” she told me that day as we sat in Brew Baker’s Café, just off campus. Her eyes had that dreamy look they always got when Lucy was in love, but somehow, this time, they sparkled even more. “Would you believe he’s an orphan like us?”
“That’s a big coincidence,” I said carefully, sipping my mocha. Lucy was always falling madly in love, then falling out of it with a thud a few weeks or months later.
“He was raised by his aunt and uncle,” Lucy continued, then frowned. “But they didn’t treat him so great, not like us with Gigi and Pappy. We were so lucky…” Her voice trailed off.
We both thought about our grandparents—about how warm and loving they’d been, even when they suddenly found themselves with two kids to raise just when they should’ve been thinking about enjoying themselves.
“Anyway,” Lucy continued, “he loves football. No, he, like, lives for football. He’s an amazing player, and he thinks it’ll be his ticket out of his old life.”
Football. Well, at least that was good. Although Lucy had a weakness for football players in general.
Lucy gazed into her mug with a little secretive smile. “I’m totally in love with him,” she confessed. As if this was something new and different.
“C’mon, Luce,” I said, unable to help myself. “If I had a buck for every time I’ve heard you say that, I’d be friggin’ rich.”
“It’s different this time,” she said quietly. “Really different. Real love.” Then she giggled again. “I’ve pretty much been living in his room.”
“Oh my God, Lucy, you’ve been having sex?” I said in a mock-horrified voice.
Heads turned to look at us, and Lucy turned bright red. But then we both collapsed into giggles.
“Well, I hope he’s good,” I said, and Lucy quirked her eyebrow and grinned.
I shake my head, gazing at the photo of Liam on my desk. My mind drifts, moving forward to a month later as Lucy’s sitting on her dorm room bed, wringing her hands, her face anxious.
“Look at it for me, Izzie,” she said, handing me the stick from the home pregnancy test. I take it from her with finicky fingertips—ewww—and look.
A Daddy for Mother's Day_A Secret Baby Romance Page 3