The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs Book 2)

by Kate Stewart

  I tap lightly on Clarissa’s door. “Are you decent? Dante said you wanted to see me?”

  “I’m dressed.”

  From the doorway, I poke my head in and see she’s sitting at a small vanity in the corner of her bedroom.

  “Nice room.”

  “Thanks. Come in, have a seat.” I take a seat on the bed as she lines her lips in hot pink. Her dress is a deep turquoise, the front dipping low accentuating her mouth-watering cleavage while the rest of it hugs her curves.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” Her tone is dry, and instead of letting it deter me, I use this chance alone with her to try to bridge the gap between us. She’s refusing to let me in. Her smiles are mostly forced, but she’s always polite. Though I’m the last man she’d consider for a relationship, I’m determined a friendship is possible. It’s what’s best for all of us, but I can’t seem to find an in.

  “I mean that. You really are beautiful.”

  “I appreciate the compliment.”

  I shake my head. “Always so formal. Are you ever going to let me—”

  “Dante has another ear infection. He’s been prone to them since he was a baby. At one point, we thought we were going to have to get him tubes because he had them so often.”

  She reads my concern in the reflection of the mirror.

  “He’s fine,” she says, fastening an earring. “They’re less frequent now, and his hearing is perfect.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “More?” She draws her brows. “His drops—”

  “I can read the directions on the medicine. Tell me more about what he was like as a baby.”

  “Oh, he was a living doll,” she says fondly. He came out so small but got really fat when I breastfed.”

  “Yeah,” I chuckle. “He had rolls on his rolls.”

  “Yeah. He was my Michelin Man-baby. Tough as tread, too. Didn’t cry much when he hurt himself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I cried more than he did. He’s always been resilient.”

  I fight between the resentment I feel and asking more questions, and she reads my posture. You could cut the budding tension in the room with a knife.

  “Sixteen hours,” she says, her tone cool while she eyes me in the mirror.

  “What?”

  “If you want to know why I’ve held this grudge for so long. There’s your answer. Sixteen hours. Alone, and in the worst pain of my life.”

  I’ve always been curious about his birth, but from the picture she posted, she was all smiles after, so I never considered it was that hard on her.

  “I thought about messaging you just so I would have someone, anyone, there to hold my hand. I was two weeks early, and Parker was out of town for work. I was completely alone. My parents had both died years before, and I’m an only child. I had no one. So, I considered reaching out to you for my own selfish needs, but the more I studied your profile pic and the cocky smile you were wearing, the angrier I got.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turns to me, her arm resting over her chair. “Not good enough. It wasn’t then, and it’s not now, but I’m trying. I really am. You think I enjoy being this way? I don’t. I’m not proud of the way I’m behaving. It’s not as easy as just letting it go. It’s not that simple.”

  “I get it.”

  “You couldn’t. You couldn’t possibly understand just how hard it was. During those hours, I had too much time to think about my future. The years I’d spend making decisions alone, caring for him alone. I wrote you off for good the second he was ripped from me. Twenty-three stitches. And Jesus, how that hurt. But it wasn’t just the labor itself, it was being there, in the scariest moment of my life, without anyone I cared about to tell me it was all going to be okay. And the realization during those hours that I would be in the same position from then on out, it was all too much.”

  “I would’ve been there. I wanted to be there. If you would have just reached out, I would have been there.”

  “I didn’t want you there. Despite the way you looked then, in the light of day, you were an eighteen-year-old kid. If there were any question, it would have been answered the second your name and age was printed on his birth certificate. I was hysterical, my voice went out. My labor screams were silent. I was so upset, I put my baby in distress. I assumed since so many women have done it, I could handle it, but I was so fucking wrong. The whole time I was just…sad. Sad for myself, sad for my baby who didn’t have a chance at normalcy because his father told a selfish lie.” Her voice is shaking, and I clench my fists, itching to pull her into my arms. She lifts her chin defiantly. “So, while you paint me the bad guy for all you’ve missed, and all the effort you’ve put in, just remember that you deprived me of what was supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life. ‘I’m sorry’ will never give me those moments back, will never make them less hellacious. ‘I’m sorry’ will never change that day.”

  Her confession has me reeling.

  She sighs. “Troy, I don’t want to be this bitch to you. I don’t want to harbor this grudge anymore. For the moment, you make him happy, and that should be all that matters now. I’ve been holding onto this anger for six years. It’s not going to disappear overnight. But I am trying.”

  “Tell me what to do,” I don’t even recognize my own voice. “What to say.”

  “Say you’ll never leave him in that situation. Tell me you’ll never ever let him feel that alone when it counts, and that’s enough.”

  “Never, but I want to make it up to you, too.”

  “You can’t. But you’re doing what you can by him, and that’s enough for me.”

  She stands and slides into a pair of heels. “Sometimes I wish I could go back, tell that girl that it will be hard, but he’ll be worth it. Tell her just to make the best of those hours because, after that pain, she won’t ever be alone again.”

  Words fail me as she spritzes some perfume on her wrists and walks past me and out the door. “I’ll be home by eleven.”

  All I can do is nod.

  Stephanie’s Angel Food Cake with Whipped Cream Frosting

  Baker, Oregon

  Makes 8 servings

  2 hours

  1 Angel Food Cake Mix

  1 Pint Heavy Whipping Cream

  6 Tbsps. Cocoa

  2/3 Cup Sugar

  Make Angel Food cake according to package directions. Slightly whisk remaining ingredients together and chill in refrigerator. After cake is cooled, beat chilled mixture on high until thick and spread evenly over cake.

  Clarissa

  Shutting the car door, I wave at Brett before turning back to the house. We’ve only been on a handful of dates since he first asked me out. Not enough to tell if he’s a long-term guy, but enough to know there’s chemistry there. We’re taking it slow, no pressure, which is fine with me. After having Dante, I gave myself the obligatory back in the saddle moment, which proved to be a fool’s errand. Now I’m to the point in my life where I’m vetting in the most particular of ways. Before giving my heart and my body, I make sure that I’m capable of feeling more than chemistry. My self-worth reigns when it comes to dating, and any man who courts me will have to be as patient as I have been because I’m dating for two.

  Troy has been good about watching Dante, so it’s made it a lot easier for me to not worry about finding a sitter. He seems committed to Dante at this point, which makes things easy. Despite Parker’s initial assessment, this is anything but a saga or a shitshow.

  This could work.

  Walking toward the porch, I see two lit pumpkins, the larger of the two has an intricately carved goal post with Troy’s jersey number inside, the other is no doubt my son’s, The Legit Life logo shining proudly due to the tea lights. The yard has been freshly mowed, the leaves bagged and brought to the curb. It’s the first real house I’ve been able to give Dante, and I proudly stand admiring it from the yard. With Troy’s help, we’ve had a little money for s
ome extras. With the porch columns wrapped in colorful Halloween tinsel, and the yard lit up with a ghost and a few pumpkins Troy picked up from the home store, it feels more real to me. I’d been so worried when I took on the lease I could barely afford and now find myself thankful for Troy’s weekly checks.

  Turning the key, I stop halfway inside, knocked breathless by the sight of a sleeping Troy alone and shirtless on the couch in dark washed jeans and bare feet. His laptop is open on his ripped stomach, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks entirely different to me, vulnerable, yet sexy as hell. I stop the screen door from slapping shut behind me and simply admire him from where I stand. The man is incredible to look at. Even when completely relaxed, he’s perfection—broad jaw, rippling chest and abs, narrow waist, and a well-defined V that protrudes at his hips and disappears into his jeans. The sight of him so at ease on my couch is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. He truly is the perfect picture of male beauty, every woman’s fantasy. I hate that I’m still so attracted to him. Even after all the years of resenting him, he has the same effect on me as he did the night we met. But the sight of him this way, in Dad mode, makes me curious, and though I don’t ask much about him, I’m becoming more interested in what makes him tick.

  Though it’s wrong, I can’t help myself as I approach him and take the pad of my finger moving it along the mousepad to see what he’s working on. I chalk it up to a teacher’s curiosity. One day I hope to teach at a university level. Professor Arden has a nice ring to it, and the money would be a substantial change from what I’m earning now. The screen lights up his face, and I cringe when I see his nose wrinkle at the intrusive light. When I’m sure he’s still asleep, I glance up to see three open Google search windows.

  The best foods to feed lactose intolerant kids.

  How to make the perfect frittata.

  I repeatedly blink at the words. I’d mentioned just once in passing conversation how much I loved frittatas. But it’s the last search that has me reeling.

  Ten ways to prove yourself to your spouse.

  Does he really care so much about my opinion of him?

  I get no time to deal with my discovery when I sense him shift beneath me and take a step back to clear my throat, fully waking him. When his eyes open and he gives me a sleepy smile beneath his Clark Kent glasses, I damn near hit my knees. There’s far too much Troy in my living room.

  “Hey, how was your date?”

  “Good,” I squeak out as he closes his laptop and moves to sit. “Thank you for watching him.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he says in a sleep-filled voice, “it’s my job.”

  “Right. Thanks all the same.”

  “No problem.” He reaches for his shirt, and I fight the urge to get one last eyeful as he pulls it down over his abs. “He wasn’t up too late. I think he passed out around nine.”

  “Oh? Good.” Troy lifts a worn ball cap from the couch, and I pray he doesn’t put in on backward, it’s my weakness, but he does.

  Bastard.

  The minute he stands, crowding my space, I feel my lady bits spike to life.

  “T-the pumpkins look great.”

  “Yeah,” he glances in the direction of Dante’s room, the hint of a smile on his full lips, “he did a good job.”

  “I’m quite sure he didn’t do it alone.”

  “Mostly, he did. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.” He takes a step toward me, and I find myself backing away. I don’t miss his expression when he notices my retreat.

  “What are you backing up for?”

  “Nothing, it’s hot in here. Did you turn the heat on?”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s seventy degrees outside.”

  “Oh, well, I’m hot.” I begin to fan my face, and his smirk widens as he trails his eyes down my body.

  “Are you?”

  “Hmm. So, what’s your question?”

  “I was hoping,” he takes off his glasses and folds them in his hand, “that maybe I could go trick-or-treating with both of you next week.”

  “Sure. Y-yes. That would be okay.”

  When he hears my stutter, he smiles so big it reaches his eyes, and I grip my purse at the strap so hard I think I’ll break it.

  Get it together, woman. This is how you got pregnant.

  Everything about him is huge, his presence, his smile—his fucking blinding white smile.

  “Awesome.”

  “Awesome?” I ask, confused.

  “Yeah, you just said I can go trick-or-treating.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  He draws his brows. “You okay? Are you getting sick?”

  “Sick, no?” I open my mouth a mile wide to fake a yawn, but it backfires because I’m no actress. Instead of looking tired, I look like I’m ready for a bite of something from a fork he’s not holding out.

  “Tonsils look good,” he chuckles.

  “I’m clearly tired!” His eyes widen, a full-on laugh escaping him when he hears the fight or flight in my tone. I used to be a lot better at this. I used to have game, but this man single-handedly ruined it by way of a stretched-out vagina and sand dollar sized nipples.

  “Thank you for taking care of the yard.”

  “So polite,” he taunts, taking another step forward and playfully tapping my nose. “Dante has impeccable manners, just like his mother.”

  He smells heavenly, like man soap and fresh cologne. I gather my wits from the hit of it and remove myself from arm’s reach. “Thanks.”

  “He’s so well mannered, half the time I forget I’m talking to a kid.”

  “Yeah, he’s got a way about him.”

  “So does his mother.”

  I ignore the compliment and head for my kitchen. “Maybe I’m not feeling well. I’ll make some tea. Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks, I need to get ready for work.”

  I look at the clock and see it’s close to midnight. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to be out so late.”

  “You know I’m good with it.”

  “You didn’t get nearly enough sleep.”

  He shrugs. “I got a nap after class before I came over, and I’ll grab another hour at home.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t see how you do it.”

  “Years of practice,” he says, gathering his bag and pulling an envelope from it before walking over and handing it to me.

  “Another check? You’ve already given me one this week.” I open the envelope and look at him over the torn edge. “Tickets?”

  “I thought, maybe, for my birthday, you could bring him to one of my games before the season ends.”

  I nod. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’m sorry—”

  “No apologies. It’s a home game for the first of next month, and I thought maybe if you felt comfortable enough, you could bring him. There’s one in there for a friend.”

  “That’s,” I swallow, “that’s very considerate of you.”

  He nods and heads toward the door. “See you later?”

  “Sure…Troy?”

  “Yeah?” He turns back to me, and our eyes connect. “You…you’ve come a long way with him in a short time. I think it’s going just fine.”

  He chuckles. “Just fine, huh?”

  I nod. “Yes. He talks about you all the time.”

  This earns me another flash of teeth. “Good to know. Night, Clarissa.”

  “Night.”

  Troy

  Kevin squawks from where he sits at the bench between lockers. “Jesus, I’m dying. I can’t fucking reach my cleats. Dude, take these off me.” He stretches his foot toward me, and I swat it away.

  The whole locker room is grunting in a collective heap of pain. “I hope it was worth it, you mother fucker!” Someone shouts, earning whimpers of agreement.

  Coach Elliot is riding us harder than ever. Someone on the team hooked up with his daughter, and he’s had his nose rubbed in it. He’s not sure which number sacked his own kid, so we’ve
all been paying the price. None of us are safe. Coach hasn’t let up, and from the looks of it has plans to punish all of us for the whole of the season. We’ve squeaked by with a few wins, but nothing behind the scenes indicates solidarity for the team. All I know is he better get his shit together because my whole future rides on this season, and we’ve barely managed to hang on with the wins we have.

  “I don’t think I can hang tonight,” Kevin drawls out.

  “You’re not breaking my heart. I have plans anyway.” I close my locker and pull on my duffle.

  “To do what?”

  Take my son trick-or-treating.

  “None of your damned business.”

  “Ah, got something good on the menu?”

  “It’s not always about women.”

  “Said no man ever.”

  “See you later.”

  “What’s up with you?” He rises to sit on the bench. “You haven’t been hitting on much lately. You ducked out of the Hero party early. You’ve got something going on?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions? I’m all about ball and the hustle this year. What’s wrong with that?”

  “There’s a girl.”

  “Nope.” There’s a woman, and she’s made it abundantly clear I don’t have a shot with her despite the mutual eye fucking. My chances crushed with every arrival of a BMW. There’s more going on than a co-parent dynamic between us, but I’m not about to press it after what she told me last week in her bedroom.

  Her words haunt me daily and give me no choice but to accept it’s time to move on from my infatuation with her.

  My shifts are more grueling due to my ball schedule, and life isn’t giving me any fucking breaks financially. All my credit cards are getting close to maxed from buying stuff for Dante—things he needs, things he wants—and I can’t bring myself to regret it. And then there’s the fact that Clarissa is finally cashing the checks I give her to help with rent.

  I asked for this responsibility, all of it, but it’s getting hard to keep up with my own needs.