Page 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Becca

Choking on my tears, I reread his message a thousand times, or maybe I just stare at the message.

I do love you, just a lot going on. We’ll talk soon.

Soon? Not tonight or call me when you can.

I guess when push comes to shove, John proves my theory about dating athletes.

I’ll come last. They’re too busy, cocky, and gorgeous to stay with one person.

Of course, I know there are some capable of having a relationship.

Corbin and Oakley. Reed and Brooke. Bryce and Emmaline, and so many more, but they’re in the minority.

Most professional athletes are stepping out on their wives or girlfriends on an ongoing basis.

Corbin and the Notes had an away game tonight, and the girls went with them. Thank God, because I’m reeling over having a baby in my belly and don’t know how I would explain not having a daiquiri.

The couch dips and cradles my body as I get comfy and pull up the Rattler’s game on my laptop.

Streaming his game is always a gamble—the picture freezes every time I get invested, turning every big play into a pixelated guessing game.

I place my finger on the screen, following every shift of his body, desperate for the smallest connection between the man I fell in love with two months ago.

But he’s hidden by a helmet, pads, and a uniform, making the physical and mental distance between us even wider.

It was stupid to try to feel him through the screen.

I feel a rush of nausea coming on, so I push the laptop to the side. I hop up and run to the bathroom. My morning sickness is all day, every day, and I want to call my mom and tell her about my pregnancy, but John needs to know first.

My vision of being pregnant came with a husband, a house, yard, and staring at a pregnancy stick together.

Going to our first appointment together.

Picking out baby furniture. Trolling the internet for baby names, not being by myself and not knowing if our baby will have a father who he or she sees every day.

When I get back to the couch, it’s the second period and suddenly, John’s fighting with the opposing team. Not just a shove but throwing punches, and the ref gets caught in the middle. After the dust settles, John sits in the penalty box, scowling.

I slam the computer closed. Seeing him, even on a screen makes my heart twist and ache with worry. It’s only nine in the evening, and I have an excessive amount of work yet to do. Instead, I put on John’s t-shirt he snuck into my luggage.

Property of Dallas Rattlers #22

The fabric is weathered, worn, and oh so soft, it almost feels like a second skin. And the smell still has a touch of John’s masculine scent mixed with a beach smell. How? Because I haven’t washed it. Nearly seven weeks of not seeing him and until a week ago, things were fine.

That is until I found out I was pregnant.

And when he started distancing himself from me .

It would be one thing if it was because of the baby but since he doesn’t even know, the pregnancy can’t be the reason.

I grab my briefcase and pull out a file to work on, and it takes me back to John asking if I love being a lawyer.

I begin to question myself. Is this the life I want for my baby?

A mom who works eighty hours a week but has nice things.

Even if I work twenty-five percent less, it will still be a sixty-hour work week.

A groan slips out as I tip my head back, thumping it lightly against the couch in defeat.

Surely, this can’t be my life—nights that turn into mornings spent hunched over briefs and contracts.

And in the glow of the laptop at midnight, I feel the life I thought I wanted slipping away.

A sharp pang of clarity shoots through me: I don’t love being an attorney. I like what it affords me.

I tap my pen against the legal pad that I’m taking notes, letting my epiphany simmer.

What would make me ecstatic to go to work every day?

Oakley’s a hairdresser, and she’s happy.

Brooke is a ballet teacher. Lettie is a chart-topping country singer, but she works around their kids’ schedules.

No tours but an occasional performance when Dane’s basketball season is over.

All of them have one thing in common; they all love their careers.

What do I love?

Chocolate? Yes. But I don’t want to make candy.

Decorating. Yes. That’s a possibility.

But only one thing makes my insides smile and gets my adrenaline pumping—cheerleading.

Getting thrown up in the air, somersaulting in the sky and landing in the arms of my stunt partner.

Competing against the best. Tumbling across a mat until I’m dizzy.

I love cheerleading. But cheerleading isn’t a career.

It’s not like hockey or the other sports where there’s a clear winner.

Competition cheer is someone’s opinion based on skills.

You don’t get paid to cheer for a career. Yes, I get a stipend for cheering/dancing for the NBA Nashville Fireflies, but it’s more for the social aspect and getting to know people in the sports world.

As I’m writing my notes about my client’s finances and jotting down the different ways to protect her inheritance, bouncing vibrations rattle from the coffee table, making me jolt. I lunge for my phone, heart racing, hoping for the game to be over—desperate for it to finally be John.

It’s not. Instead, it’s Corbin and Oakley sending me a link to an article about John. I brace myself for it to be a photo of John and Stella or even some other woman.

It’s not. In fact, it may be worse. The article says John was filmed betting against his own team in a game they lost last year. The headline Cecily sent was just that he had been called to the commissioner’s office. Now the pieces are coming together.

To use his words, I guess he does have a lot going on. I read and reread every word, and the longer I dwell on it, I realize that when John and I were supposed to share a secret, I shared mine, but we got distracted, and he never revealed his. Could this be his secret?

No one will convince me of these accusations against John.

He would never do anything like these ugly headlines.

He lives and breathes hockey. Always has.

He went to bat for his teammate tonight and does so every other night when it’s necessary.

They don’t call him the penalty player for nothing.

There’s no way he would sabotage his own team.

If I could only use one word to describe John, it would be competitive, not criminal.

I’m torn between calling him and letting him vent and just curling up in my bed, listening to my favorite country crooner. Instead, I text my brother.

Me: This is a lie.

Corbin: I don’t believe it either, but he also promised me that he would never hurt you, yet here we are.

Me: At least he has a real reason he hasn’t called.

Corbin: I guess. But I meant it when I said if he messes this up, he’s not just losing you, he loses me too. If it makes a difference, he hasn’t texted any of us in the group text or privately.

Me: Corby, thanks for being the best brother in the whole world.

Corbin: Reed is trying to get some info from his dad but so far, his dad said to stay out of it.

Me: Okay, let me know if you get any clarification.

After I take another ginger pill and drink a half glass of water, I curl up under the covers. Panic swirls in my chest when I hear the buzz of the intercom and the building doorman’s voice. “You have a visitor and they won’t take no for an answer.”

“Okay.”

I’ve barely hung up when I hear a rapid, frantic knocking against my door. It’s urgent, almost as if someone’s life depends on it. Is it Oakley? Is Corbin right behind her, trying to cool her off. But panic drums in my veins as I reach the door. I look through the peephole.

He's here.

My heart hammers against my chest as I click the deadbolt and open the door.

John stands there, breathless and rumpled—worry written all over his face.

Unshaven with multiple days’ worth of growth.

He looks like he’s about to fall apart or maybe run, but then all at once, I realize I don’t care how he got here—all I care about is that he did.

“How are you here?”

At first, he just stares with his palm against the door jamb, still in the hallway. He takes a deep breath and says, “What did you mean by we?”

My eyebrows dip to the center, not understanding what he’s talking about. I mean his game only ended a few hours ago.

“What?”

He takes a cautious step toward me, reaching for my face, but I flinch in response. John’s expression changes from desperate to pained.

“Bex, tell me. What did you mean when you said, ‘We can make it without you?’”

Tucking my lips between my teeth, I contemplate on whether I should tell him I’m pregnant when he’s in the middle of this chaotic scandal. But when he grabs my hand, my lids can’t contain the tears bursting through.

I cry, and between broken breaths, I ask, “Why didn’t you call me or text me? You’re supposed to love me.”

John wraps me in his arms and tucks my head beneath his chin as his fingers rub circles over the nape of my neck. He then tilts my chin up. “I love everything about you, Bex. I’m in love with you. Please answer my question. Who did you mean when you said we ? Are we having a baby?”

His eyes bore into mine, searching for an answer. I press a trembling hand against his abdomen, putting distance between us. I cover my stomach with my hand and can’t help the smile forming. “Yes. We’re having a baby.”

The words feel both terrifying and electric, when the truth slips from my lips. Shock doesn’t ripple across his face. Instead, the worry lines blur, and his face softens.

“I know this isn’t good or a good time, but…”

He stares at me, wide eyed and silent, “It’s better than good.

I want this. I want you—both of you. I swear I won’t let you down.

” Tears sting my eyes, but for the first time in days, hope begins to bloom, tickling my chest. “How long have you known? I’m so sorry that I didn’t let you know what was going on.

I was trying to handle the scandal by myself when I should have confided in you. ”

“You should have, but I understand you’re not used to depending on another person,” I say, wishing he had a dad like mine.

Someone supportive of his decisions. Not a person who manipulates him.

I don’t know the details of what happened to cause the scandal but he’ll tell me. “What are we going to do?”