Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (12 page)

But there it is again - that nagging, lingering thought that this is
wrong
. That pulling feeling on my back that I can’t ignore - all of it stemming from the fact that
all of this
is due to to a financial contract.

Me living here, these clothes I’m wearing, meeting his mother…

All
of it, built on the premise of an exchange of
money.

And I feel
filthy
.

I pull away. “No, Austin.” My eyes dart to his, almost losing my sudden resolve in the deepness of those hazel orbs, or in the thin lines of those dimples in his cheeks.

“You’re- you’re paying me.”

He frowns. “Nat, it’s not like
that
-”

“It’s
exactly
like that, Austin.”

I push my hair back as I stand, snatching my shirt up off the ground where it landed and hold it to my bare chest.

“That can’t happen again,” I say, quickly shaking my head.

And I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more as I whirl and run for my room.

C
lub music pounds
through my head, vibrating my skull and making my damn teeth hurt it’s so loud.

I fucking hate clubs.

I’m a Texas boy. Give me some country music and a cold Lone Star and I’m a happy guy. But instead I’ve got shitty Euro-pop and some godawful designer light beer my new teammate Eli passes to me.

Welcome to LA, I guess.

“Hey, so, congratulations I guess, man,” Eli hoists his beer my way.

Daryl, another new teammate, along with Kyle who’s just along for the ride, join in, toasting my newly-spilled nuptials that’ve been splayed across the fucking internet for the last two days.

Daryl chuckles and claps me on the back. “Twenty-three, a first round draft pick, a sweet new bachelor pad up in the hills, and a forty-mil contract.” He snorts. “And
now
is when you decided to settle down with one woman? The
fuck
is wrong with you, rookie?”

What’s wrong with me indeed.

It’s the question that’s been looming over my thoughts ever since Natalie locked herself away in her room after our craziness in the living room the night before. It’s the question rattling through my head ever since I almost followed
her up there like some sort of pussy-whipped, well,
pussy.

Fucking married life, man.

I needed to get out. And hell, I
should
be here, even if I hate the place. I’m a damn NFL player; it’s practically in my contract to be out at clubs acting like a rock-star.

Eli cracks up as he and Daryl clink beers over the pounding of the house music. “You’re in your
prime
, young buck!”

I get that the whole marriage thing has to be a secret, even to guys on the inside like Eli and Daryl who for all I know have the same sort of arrangement going on with fake media-wives of their own. Except - as Derek reiterated by way of yelling when I called him after the thirty-nine text messages, six voice mails, and an email the size of the Old Testament he’d left when my phone was off - “you just don’t talk about it.”

Apparently, these bullshit “image-wives” are commonplace, except it’s like that fight movie - “the first rule of fake wives club is, you don’t talk about fake wives club.”

This town is insane.

This whole “image” thing rests on me showing the American public that they don’t have to lock up their daughters whenever my face shows up on the television. It rests on me looking like I’ve turned the corner from wild, womanizing, party boy to the sagely, family-friendly, Disney-fied married man. It’s about showing the world that I’ve put all my wickedness behind me, all for the love of a woman.

Which is of course all complete bullshit, but that sweet,
sweet
endorsement money is pretty damn motivating.

“I mean, she’s a great girl,” Kyle says, taking a pull from his beer. He grins my way. “You know, I’m proud of you man. I think you’ve
really
turned a corner with this one.”

I shoot him a look. He
knows
the truth, and while an outsider might look at it as him “protecting” the secret, I know the little shit well enough to know he’s messing with me.

He grins back, chuckling to himself.

Asshole
.

“Yeah, well, hope you enjoyed all the pussy you got up until this very moment, kid.” Eli chuckles, shaking his head. “Because that ship has
sailed
. Great girl or not, good fucking luck getting laid now.”

I clear my throat, ready to play the part. “Hey, I mean, I went into this knowing it meant one girl from here on-”

Eli and Daryl laugh, and I furrow my brow. “What?”

“
One
girl?” Daryl snorts.

“Yeah, bro, I didn’t mean your days of chasing college girls and cheerleaders were over, I meant your days of using your dick
at all
are over. Period.” Eli grins as he clinks his bottle of beer against mine. “Welcome to married life, kid.”

I frown. “You’re married?”

“Fuck no!” He laughs, almost spitting beer out of his nose. “Cause I’ve done it twice. Daryl’s in the middle of dropping his third right now.”

Daryl shrugs. “This life doesn’t mesh with the normal life, kid. You’re rich, you’re young, you’re traveling all the time, and every single girl you meet wants a piece of you. There ain’t no room for ‘one and onlys’ and ‘happy ever afters’ with that kind of pressure.”

“Oh, but happy endings you get whenever you want though, buddy.” Eli grins. His eyes light up. “Ooo, we should set you up with Lori, from the cheer squad.” He pantomimes crossing himself. “A mouth like a fucking artist, let me tell you.”

I frown into my beer as Eli and Daryl crack up again and the music pounds loud around us.

Like I said, I
hate
clubs, but now and again, you just gotta get lost outside yourself somewhere.

Accosting me at my fucking house is a new one, but being rich, young, and famous drags all kinds of leeches like Tina out of the woodwork. Tina, who’s
still
trying to threaten me with with this media bullshit about me knocking her up, which would be a pretty fucking amazing feat considering I’ve never laid a hand on her, much less ejaculated inside her.

Except Derek’s right. If she puts up enough of a stink about this, it’s going to get ugly.

* * *

“
Q
B
! Let’s go!” Daryl nods his chin at me with a small army of club girls giggling around him. “We’ve got the limo outside, gonna head to that new club.”

I turn back to Kyle who grimaces as we both knock back shots and slam the glasses back on the bar top.

“You ready?”

He makes a face. “Nah, I’m out, man.”

I frown. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s late,” he says with a shrug.

“Kyle, you’re a newly minted millionaire, you’re twenty-three, and you’re at a club in LA with three professional football players.”

He laughs. “And now I’m going home.”

I shake my head at him. “Do you even comprehend how many different ways you could be getting laid right now?”

He grins and claps me on the back. “I got stuff to do, man. And hell, don’t you have practices starting in like two days?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got four guys worth a collective hundred million dollars, a limo, a city to conquer, and
that-
” I stick a finger back in the direction of the club-girl army.

Kyle shakes his head. “Dude,” he leans in. “You know I fucking hate clubs.”

“Well, me too pal, but I happen to
really
like the girls who come to them.”

He grins and shakes his head. “How about the one waiting at home?” He clicks his tongue in the way he does that makes it sound like he’s scolding you. “You know, your
wife?
”

I give him a look. “Really?”

“Fake, real…whatever man. I’m just saying.”

“Saying
what
.”

He laughs and holds his hands up. “She seems cool, that’s all.” He shrugs. “Seems like she could be good for you.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t see her storming away and locking herself in her room like a total drama queen.”

“After you pulled something stupid, I assume?”

I frown as Kyle rolls his eyes at my silence.

“You got the part where she’s my
employee
, right?”

He gives me a look. “Oh,
that’s
the issue here, huh?”

I flip him off. “I do have lines I don’t cross, you know.”

Kyle hoots. “Married women, groupie skanks, that professor of ours back in college - oh, the barely legal junior commissioner’s daughter?” He scratches his head and gives me a faux-sympathetic look. “Sorry, was there a
line
there somewhere I missed?”

I scowl at him.

“Just sayin’, man,” he says with a shrug. “Might be nice to stop pulling the same shit everyone expects you to pull. Aim higher, man.”

I raise a brow at him. “Nice pep talk, really.”

He grins and shakes his head. “Sorry. Look, ignore me man. I’m the guy that’s about to go home and code until five o’clock in the morning.”

“Rookie! Let’s go!” Eli hollers at me from the door to the club.

Kyle claps me on the back. “Go out and have fun, man.”

Gee, thanks.

* * *

T
he problem is
, he’s right, and I know it.

The problem is that the whole limo-ride over to this new club - with two scantily clad models, or actresses or whatever the fuck they are squirming on my lap - him being right and who he’s right about is the only thing playing through my head.

And I’m very quickly not feeling this at all.

The same two girls are all over me once we’re in the next club - dragging me out to the dance floor and grinding against me. One’s got her lips on my neck while the other one starts to pull my hand under her skirt.

And all I can think about is Natalie, and the other night.

“She’s not wearing any panties.”

“Huh?”

I blink back to the here and now, there on the dance floor of that shitty club. The girl at my neck giggles this awful laugh as she leans into my ear again. “She’s not wearing any panties,” she whispers again, nodding at the other girl grinding on me trying to pull my hand under her skirt. The girl at my neck traces her fingernails across my chest through my shirt. “Neither am I,” she husks.

Fuck this. I can’t do this.

I pull away from the two girls. “Maybe some other time, honey,” I mumble, ignoring the looks they give me. “You know, poor Daryl over there is going through a divorce, why don’t you go say hi to him?” I nod towards my teammate who already has four club-girls all over him before I turn and just walk away.

And part of it is press, sure…at least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I grit my teeth and storm out of the club. Part of it is wondering about whatever pictures will show up on gossip blogs or on Facebook or whatever of me cavorting around drunk at some party with an armful of scantily clad girls when I’m supposed to be a newly minted married man.

But that’s really all secondary bullshit, and I know it. Because I’m not thinking about the girls all over this club that’ll say yes to whatever I ask.

I’m thinking of the girl in my house that keeps saying no.

I’m thinking of my
wife
.

And this is a problem Because this whole thing is supposed to give the appearance of me being less of a pussy-chasing horn-dog, not
actually
stopping me. But somehow, for whatever bewildering reason, Natalie Ames is in
deep.

And I want to go deeper.

I want more,
now
.

I want to feel her, skin-to-skin, with those long legs wrapped around my waist. I want to feel her honey dripping down my cock as she rides me, and I want to watch her face go to pieces as I slip those legs over my shoulders and fuck her hard and deep.

Hell, I’m paying her enough.

The thought stings through my head like a bard, and I scowl as I slam the door to my Vanquish shut.

Fuck no.

She’s right. The idea of that being some sort of trade-off for the money makes the whole thing sound sordid and dirty - and
not
in a good way. And besides that, I’m sure as hell not
paying
for sex.

I mean
please
, it’s me.

I don’t pay to get laid, and especially not when it’s my damn wife.

So, Natalie wants to say no because of the money, even though its fucking obvious how much we both want this?

I grin as I turn on the car and rev the engine.

Sounds like a challenge. And if she thinks I’m the kind of guy that shies away from a challenge, well, she hasn’t been paying attention.

My cock throbs in my pants as I roar back through downtown LA towards the hills, my mind on one, single thing.

I’m going to have her begging for it, and that’s a promise.