Page 8 of Tight End

Whether we’re on or off the field, I don’t shy away from difficult situations, and I’m not going to start today. If I can’t change or adapt, I’m no better thanheis, and I refuse to be that guy.

I let out another sigh—this one longer, heavier—and force myself to peel my fingers from the steering wheel. I swing my gaze back to June’s apartment, and after verifying her building and apartment number for the hundredth time, I tuck my phone in my back pocket, and in no time I’m standing right outside her door.

Ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut and my pounding heart, I knock.

What if Oliver doesn’t like me? And more importantly,how do I make up for missing three years of his life when I have no idea what I’m doing?

He’s known me for all of five seconds, and I don’t know the first thing about being a dad. My own was barely a step above a sperm donor. We had a terse conversation once, and while I’ve seen him in passing, I’ve never said another word to him. He pretends I don’t exist, and I’m more than happy to comply, especially if I can beat his stats, if I can chip away at the legend people think he is.

My mom and I were problems he threw money at because he felt obligated—no, because he wanted to keep us quiet, keeping us from destroying his perfectly crafted life.

He had the all-American family, including his oldest son who also plays football, and we were nothing but his dirty little secrets.

I won’t be like him.

June opens the door, and I push all thoughts of my father from my mind. He doesn’t deserve a place here. He doesn’t deserve any-fucking-thing. Not from me and certainly not right now.

Her smile is wobbly, her gaze timid as it slowly raises to meet mine. She’s still wearing her dress pants, but the top few buttons of her gray-and-white-patterned blouse are open, and she’s barefoot. She looks comfortable. I like seeing her like this, which I know is ridiculous considering I’ve only just learned her name, but I can’t help the pleased hum that rumbles in the back of my throat.

She takes a step back, gesturing for me to come inside, but then hesitates. “Wait. I don’t know your name. I, uh, forgot to ask earlier.”

“You didn’t look up the team?” I shut and lock the door behind me, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

A pink blush spreads across her cheeks, a blush I know paints her chest when she’s close to orgasm. Fuck. Not the time. “No, although I really should have looked up the roster before I went to the football field. I was there to give Silas his divorce papers—my mom is his lawyer—and I had no idea what he even looked like. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

Thank fuck. I’d almost forgotten about her showing up for Silas, and it didn’t seem like a good time to bring it up. I don’t know what I would have done if I found out the mother of my child was dating Silas Brooks.

That’s a lie. I’d have punched him in the face.

“I’m Ryan Devlin. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself sooner.”Yeah, like way sooner.

She snorts a laugh, leading me into the kitchen, and offers me a seat at the table. “That would have made finding you a little easier.”

“Yeah. Wish I had gone back to the bar after that night.” I wish a lot of things, but trying to change the past isn’t going to help the present.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I went back to North Carolina to finish school before I had Oliver. I was only back in Nashville sporadically until the end of the school year.”

“It doesn’t.” I huff a quick laugh. “But thanks.”

We both fall into silence, neither one of us making a move to sit, the heavy weight of our situation, of the unknown, settling around us. Oliver is in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crayons as he studiously colors a page in his book. From here it looks like he’s coloring mostly outside the lines, but with the way he’s concentrating, you’d think he was replicating a Picasso.

He glances up briefly, studying me, his eyes narrowing and his lips twisting to the side. There’s a dark-green crayonin his hand, a crayon he’s tapping against the book as he assesses me. His brows go up. Tap. He looks between his mom and me. Tap. He blinks. Tap.

And then he shrugs, turning back to his page and ignoring us completely.

“He’s yours,” June says quietly, pulling my attention back to her. “There was no one else at the time.”

I nod, sitting down at the table, my eyes quickly bouncing back to Oliver. I need a minute to tamp down the fluttering in my chest and the hope those eight words bring. Hope is dangerous and won’t do me any favors, not when I sleep tonight, and certainly not now.

June may not belong to Silas, but she sure as hell doesn’t belong to me either. No one else at the time doesn’t mean no one else now. I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean she’s single.

She was promised a good time and I delivered.

End. Of. Story.

And just like that night, we can’t afford any more strings or complications, and despite what my heart is telling me, this isn’t a ready-made family I can just step into. I had my shot once—the perfect wife, the home—and I can still feel the gut-wrenching agony when it was all ripped away. Despite my attraction to June, nothing can ever happen between us again. She’s the mother of my child, nothing more, nothing less.

Mother of my child.

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