Bad Boy's Bridesmaid (46 page)

Jack’s voice was
flat, bound in an instinct to protect me and his child. “I wasn’t charged.”

“No. But your
bruise is healing nicely.”

I stomped on
Jack’s foot before he cursed the reporter. “This season should be his best. The
coaches say his performance at training camp is outstanding. They have high
hopes for him.”

Ainsley snorted.
“He had better play well. Rumors are circulating—no contract extension this
year. This might be your last season with the Rivets, Jack.”

“It won’t be.”
Jack’s temper frayed and tensed to snap. “And I’ll expect a full report on your
show when I’ve signed the new contract. Hell, I might even give you some
ratings and do a fucking interview.”

“Charming. We’ll
need to change the rating on my program to M for mature.”

Jack had enough.
He hauled me from the table, but the fundraiser kicked into gear. A spotlight
centered on us. The man on stage called Jack’s name, and a round of applause
echoed over the hall.

“We want to
thank our largest single donor, Mr. Jack Carson!” The announcer’s voice was far
too cheery for the storm over our table. “His generous contribution helps us in
this fight against this terrible disease. It’s our hope that, one day, no child
will lose his life to leukemia.”

The applause
thundered, most of the guests just as shocked as the journalists to hear of
Jack’s generosity. It didn’t surprise me anymore. Nothing about his big heart
did.

Jack leaned
down, keeping his voice low as the guests still cheered for him. Ainsley’s
smugness turned to a grimace. That was smart. I’d hate to see Jack beat the
grin off of him.

“I doubt you’ll
report on the charity donation,” Jack growled. “You’d rather investigate a
story that would kick me from the league, right?”

“It’s just
ratings, Jack.”

 “I’ll tell you
this
once
, and it’s your only warning. If I catch you calling my mother
again…if you
dare
to harass Leah…if you are stupid enough to insult my
bi-racial
baby again? You’ll broadcast live from the hospital room with your jaw
wired shut. And you can quote me.” Jack took my hand. “Let’s go, Kiss.”

The table
silenced. He pulled me from the dinner just as the music started and the food
served.

The entire
fundraiser watched Jack slam the dining hall doors open for us. He didn’t stop
in the hall to cool down either. Jack pulled me to the valet.

We were going
home.

That wouldn’t
look good.

“Jack, you have
to go back and apologize to that…fiend,” I said.

“
What
?”

Jack didn’t
yell. He knew better, even if he couldn’t disguise his rage.

“He insulted
you. And…” His eyes crackled blue with a fierce fury. “The way he talked about
my baby...”

“You can’t get
angry,” I said. “Don’t do
anything
without thinking it through, Jack.
Ainsley Ruport is a powerful journalist. He knows enough people in and out of
the league to make this harder. He already doubts our story. Give him an inch,
and he’ll investigate us. He’ll find out that this was a lie.”

“You can’t lie
about a baby. About
my
baby!” Jack’s temper snapped, and I used all my
weight to pull on his arm so he wouldn’t rush inside and rip Ainsley’s head
off. “He’s going to use my kid against me.”

“If he does,
he’d be discredited. Especially if he leads with the
bi-racial
headline.
Come on, Jack. Use your head. The baby shields you. No one with a brain will
ever challenge a
father
on his own children. It’d ruin him. That’s why
you wanted the baby.”

He stiffened.
“That baby means more to me than my reputation.”

I hated that it
relieved me to hear it.

“I know. But you
can’t jeopardize your reputation just to antagonize Ainsley.” I rubbed my hand
over my belly, hoping the little one didn’t know we were upset. “We have to
think about the future now.”

The valet
arrived with the car. Jack helped me into the passenger seat but the door
slammed shut the instant I was settled inside. He nearly broke it. I tried to
calm him down, but Jack was beyond reasonable. The Porsche peeled from the
parking lot, and he took his anger out on the road.

“There’s going
to be more questions, Jack.” I brushed his arm. His breath caught. At least he
liked my touch. “We’re hiding it well now, but people are going to ask why I
was let go from my job immediately after the pregnancy hit the news.”

“Tell them you
wanted to stay at home with the baby.”

“We’ll need a
better answer than that.”

“Why?”

“Because I am
living with you, but we’re not married. I’m not working. For all they know, I
was fired for messing around with you. It looks bad.”

“What would make
it better? Wanna get married?”

He was
impossible. “You have to take this seriously.”

“I am.”

“I’m not
marrying you to avoid the press, Jack.” My heart thudded too hard. “We’re a
young, modern couple. We don’t need to be married to have a baby. It’ll just be
harder without it.”

“Then let’s get
married. What does it matter?”

Jack could be
romantic, or he could be an idiot.

Tonight, he was
an idiot.

I stared at the
road and willed the car to return to the house before the conversation got
real.

“We’re not
getting married,” I said.

Jack shrugged.
“If it shuts them up? If it stops them from calling my child
illegitimate?
”

“He
is
illegitimate, technically.”

Jack’s jaw
tensed. “That makes the baby sound unwanted. Damn it. I remember working
hard
to make that baby.”

It wasn’t a
boast, but I relived the memories. What calmed me only frustrated him more.

“All we need to
do is be careful,” I said. “Nothing needs to change.”

“Fine.”

I bit my lip. My
stomach flipped. Was he satisfied with how things were? Wasn’t he wondering
about a future? What it meant that we were still sleeping together? What would
happen when the baby came?

Jack passed a
car on the highway, blitzing by entirely too fast. He had control of the car
though, complete and total control, reading every bump in the road and sound of
the engine with ease. How could he be so confident about everything, especially
when I wouldn’t dare plunge into the darkness as effortlessly as he did?

I took the leap.
“I guess we have to talk about it sooner or later.”

“Talk about
what?”

“About…how we’re
doing this. You asked me to move in, but how are we…what did you…”

“You’re living
with me. What’s to talk about?”

I exhaled a
shaky breath. I hated that I was without a plan, without even a
clue
how
to approach a man who’d get married because it was easier than facing a
reporter. Jack didn’t have the same goals as me, he hardly seemed to share any
of the responsibilities I wanted in life.

Except the baby.

Except staying
in his arms at night. Flirting with him in the house. Kissing away our
frustrations.

“Are we raising
the child together?” I asked, finally. “Or…how did you want custody…”

His voice
roughened. “I told you. You won’t be alone. I’m going to be there for my kid.”

“Okay,” I said.
“But you know what this will look like, right?”

“What?”

“You can’t be
seen with other women. You can’t go out and party. You can’t get into trouble,
especially if Ainsley is watching. We have to look like…like a real couple.”

“And what do we
look like now?”

His hands
twisted over the wheel. Mine folded in my lap. I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t know.

Did he even
know?

Did he know what
he did to me? How he made me feel?

It was stupid to
surrender to a man who couldn’t go one night without getting into trouble. He
had no self-control, no desire to be responsible. Our fling was fun now, while
I was in shape and before a screaming baby invaded his bachelor pad, but who
knew what would happen in the future?

I read enough
articles. Witnessed enough of Ainsley’s reports. I couldn’t imagine Jack
changing diapers and dealing with colic if something more tempting captured his
interest.

So did we look
like together?

Easy. I was
Leah. Kiss.

I couldn’t be
any more.

“I’m your
pregnant ex-publicist,” I said. “And we look like a perfectly content couple.”

“Is that it?”
Jack pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. He’d fight anyone now, including
me.

“I’m also the
mother of your child. We’ll be okay as long as you behave until the baby is
born. Do that, and I’m sure you can convince the league you’ve changed.”

“And what do I
have to do to convince you of that?”

I looked away,
nibbling on my nail. Jack shook his head before I could speak. He turned off
the highway, heading to the house.

His house.

Our house?

“Forget it,” he
said. “There’s the answer.”

“Jack.”

“I can’t
convince you that I’m anything but a fuck-up. You’re worse than Ainsley, you
know that? You got me all figured out, like I’m another bullet point on your
list to check off once I make that final mistake.”

“You’re more
than a
checkmark
.”

“Bullshit. You
have less faith in me than the league or my fucking team or the media.”

“That’s not—”

“
Combined
.”

I wished I could
have said something, anything, but I didn’t have a response.

Not when he was
right.

And not when I
knew I hurt him that badly.

“Tell you what,
Kiss.” Jack didn’t let the revelation steal his confidence. “I’m gonna prove
myself. Not just to them, but to you and the baby. Then maybe one day you’ll
see the man I really am.”

My heart
fluttered.

I could see
exactly the type of man he could become. It was the reason I shared his bed,
agreed to have the baby.

But it wasn’t up
to me to believe him.

He had to want
to change.

And I really
hoped he would.

Chapter Seventeen – Jack

The whistle
blew, and I saw red.

I spent the
morning in the weight room. Mid-morning running laps. Late morning scouring the
playbook.

This afternoon
was practice. Full pads and contact. People watching—media, coaches, fans.

Everyone in
attendance to witness as I melted-down in pure, unbridled rage.

I don’t know who
pissed me off more, but my temper snapped. Life decided to fuck me all at once.

First, the
Rivets declined the contract renegotiation.  Then an article appeared about my
non-arrest and the league’s
political
fallout.

Worst of all?
Leah went to the doctor
without me
for a checkup. She promised it was
routine, that she wanted to get it over and done with. I knew the real reason.

She didn’t trust
that I would remember we had an appointment.

How the hell was
I supposed to prove my commitment to the baby? I built a nursery. I bought
everything the kid would need until college. Leah even moved in. I kept her in
my bed at night so I could be there when the morning sickness got bad. When she
felt lousy, I was there with a bottle of water.

I was trying to
change. What more did she want?

What did
anyone
want from me?

The ball pumped
from my hands—a clean, tight spiral. The rookie receiver ran the route
perfectly, but the ball bounced off his fingers.

And Coach
Thompson yelled at me for it.

We lined up
again. I called the count.

My guard,
Orlando, moved before we snapped.

Coach Thompson
blamed me.

God
damn
it. Was everything in the world my fault?

Apparently.

Fuck.

I pushed
through, hitting my limit and then setting a new mark for my physical and
emotional endurance. Training camp was grueling enough. Men dropped on the
field with heat cramps. It wasn’t a real practice until a handful of our bigger
guys threw up on the sidelines.

According to my
coach, that was my fault too. I hadn’t called the trainers to deliver water
while I practiced the hurry-up offense. But how was I supposed to run a quick
offense if my guys were still guzzling water?

Coach Thompson
didn’t care.

We lined up for
a play. Insects buzzed our faces, and the sun scorched our backs. My head ached
with dehydration even though I downed an entire bottle of water before kicking
onto the field.

I called the
play. The center snapped the ball. The coach blew the whistle.

“
Carson
!”
Now he meant to get under my skin. “Your drop back isn’t clean.”

Like hell it
wasn’t. I called the men to the line. He bitched at me again.

“Three steps,
twinkle-toes. Quicker, or your ass is going to eat it next time we play Ashenville.”

Bullshit. My
play was clean. My snap perfect. My drop back in perfect sync. He was trying to
piss me off.

Why
?

What did they
stand to win if they got me mad? Mouthing off wouldn’t make anyone look good,
especially with the media and the fans in attendance for the afternoon
practices.

I took the snap
again.

The whistle blew
immediately. I resisted the urge to spike the ball in frustration. Bryon
slapped my shoulder.

“He’s getting in
your head, man,” he said. “Let it roll off.”

“Can’t.”

He smirked. “You
need a drink and blow-job in no particular order.”

“No kidding.”

He pointed to
the sidelines. “Have that little baby-momma of yours take care of you tonight.”

Of course Leah
would be here now. I told her to come by and cheer me on. Figured it’d pump my
ego if she stroked it as good as she stroked my cock.

It was a selfish
request though. I shouldn’t have made her come out in this heat. I only hoped
she’d see me at work. If she understood how hard I tried, how rigorously I
trained, maybe she’d cut me a break. Let me in. Take me to the doctor’s
appointments.

Maybe she’d
trust
me.

I shouldn’t have
felt the things I did for the woman I knocked up for my own personal gain. And
I didn’t understand the raging possession that coiled through me when I looked
at her with that little bump. God, it made me
proud.

I had a lot of
pride in myself, but not much in anything else that I had done. Except that.
Except her. And I wanted everyone to see that bump and know what I did. Maybe
then they’d understand there was more to me than getting in trouble.

That goddamned
whistle blew again.

He was lucky I
didn’t force him to swallow it.

I swore and
refused the water from the trainers. The defensive coach settled his men down,
letting Coach Thompson stop the play for the fifth time in a row. I rubbed the
sweat from my eyes with fingers itching to throw the damn ball.

It didn’t help
that the play called was a simple run for Bryon. Straight up the middle,
nothing complicated. Not even a play-action to give me a chance to do something
besides hand the ball off.

Another whistle.
Bryon caught me before I went nuclear. A hush fell over the crowd, loud enough
to hear my frustrated profanity. I didn’t even bother looking at Leah. I knew
what she’d say.

Stay positive.
Imagine there’s a camera on you. Be more patient.

Well, I wasn’t
patient. No sense hiding that from the crowd.

The coach called
us to formation again. Bryon pushed me back to the line.

“Don’t let him
fuck you over. He’ll kick you off the team the instant you pop.”

I’d like to see
him try. Coach Thompson antagonized me for a reason. Every move I took,
decision I made, and call I shouted was questioned, ridiculed, and denied.

So be it. I
ignored him and counted to ten—Leah’s suggestion for when my temper got the
best of me. Hell, she even moved closer to the sidelines, holding up her hand
and counting
one-two-three-four
on her delicate fingers.

I heaved a
breath.

It worked, but
it wasn’t the counting that steadied me.

It was her.

Leah’s chocolate
eyes studied me from across the field, and the tug of her smile chased the
adrenaline from my veins. She gave me a cute little wave, as though she didn’t
know what her place was or why she was there for me. She cupped her hands over
her tummy and cheered me on.

And holy hell, I
never saw anything greater.

I lined myself
under center again. No whistle yet. I took it as a good sign and scouted the
defense. They lined up to trick me, but I read through it. I grunted the
snap-count to lure the line off-sides—a particular specialty of mine.

It worked.

The corner
jumped, and he didn’t make it across the line before the snap.

I expected Coach
Thompson to whistle and bitch him out. So did my center. He was slow to rise
and even slower to block. But the play didn’t stop, and the defensive line
roared over my men in a wave of testosterone—violent and angry and looking to
prove how big their dicks were before the end of camp.

I dropped back,
but the center got in my way. I saw it happening. There wasn’t a goddamned
thing I could do about it. I clenched my jaw for the sack.

The defense rode
over the line. I grunted as I slammed into the ground. My leg planted.

Twisted.

Popped
.

I felt nothing
but pain.

Then shock.

The field
silenced as my agonized shout ripped through every single man, woman, and child
in earshot.

I fell on my
back, but I couldn’t have risen again if I wanted. My leg screamed with pain,
not broken but something equally bad. My knee instantly swelled.

And I knew right
then I was
fucked
.

My vison blurred
into pained halos as the trainers sprinted onto the field. My offense crowded
tight around me, trying to help. Nothing they could do. Not now.

It couldn’t end
like this.

Terror cracked
through me. I had to get up. I had to walk it off. I had to—

Pain
. Blinding,
frustrating, enraging pain.

I rolled. The
trainers rushed to my side, ripping off my helmet and shoulder pads. Did it
really matter if I was hot? The knee injury laced my body in a chilled dread.
I’d be lucky if I didn’t puke.

Now there was a
headline.

“Gotta get you
to the locker room, Jack.” The red-headed trainer who had once helped Leah
stared at me, her eyes wide with worry. I didn’t like that look. I hated even
more that she prevented me from rising up. “Wait for the cart.”

“No, no, no.”
Now I was dizzy. The pain had me nauseous. “No cart. I can walk.”

“No, you really
can’t.”

“I’m not getting
in the cart.”

“Jack—”

“Fuck off, I’m
not getting in the cart!”

Everyone heard
that. Figured. I was lucky I didn’t blaspheme every Abrahamic religion when I
went down. The team parted, and I figured it was because of Coach Thompson.

It wasn’t. His
ass hadn’t moved from the bench.

But Leah ran to
my side—something profoundly stupid for a woman in her condition. She was
already weepy with hormones. This would be worse than the empty peanut butter
jar fiasco.

“Jack, are you
okay?” Her voice wavered.

She wasn’t
supposed to be on the field, but no one was moving her. She took my hand, her
eyes welling with tears. God damn. She was really upset. Honestly worried for
me.

My chest
tightened. I couldn’t deal with that thought, not when I wanted to rip my own
leg off. I hated that I couldn’t comfort her, even as I writhed in pain.

“I’ll be fine.”
I lied. My knee looked like a softball grew out of it. “Just gotta get up.”

“Why won’t you
get in the cart?”

Oh, she was cute
when she only studied enough football to release a press statement. I called
for my guys to help me to my feet. The trainers protested. I ignored them.
Bryon and someone else could help me walk to the locker room. I didn’t need a
cart.

“Jack.” Leah
flittered at my side. I wasn’t used to a feminine voice on the field, much less
her beautiful whisper. “Listen to the trainers. Get on the cart.”

“Kiss, get off
the field.”

“I’m going with
you! Just take the
ride
.”

“It’s not a
ride
.”
I stared at her, snapping at a woman who didn’t deserve my anger. “It’s the
cart
.
You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.
Please
.”

Fine. Plain and
simple. Her favorite language.

“You only get on
the cart if it’s a season-ending injury.” The pain cracked my voice. The fear
took the rest. “I just fucked my chances of playing this year.”