Page 9 of Tight End

A child I never thought I’d have. Not after—it wasn’t in the cards for me after that.

“Obviously we can do a paternity test and whatever else you need. I’m sure you have people who will want all the proper documentation.” She takes a deep breath, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. “If you want to beinvolved in his life, we’ll figure out what that looks like. But I have to let you know, there’s no way I’m letting you take custody from me. My mom practices family law, and when it comes to my son, I’m not afraid to call in the cavalry.”

My lips twitch, and it’s a struggle to keep the smile from my face, but I manage. Barely.

God help me but I like this side of June, the protective mama bear who isn’t afraid to ride into battle, anything to protect our son.Our son. Shit. Shit. Shit. I have a son, and this woman thinks there’s a possibility I’m going to take him from her.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to take your son. Our son. Sorry, I just ...” I shake my head, words failing me. I’m already messing this up. I haven’t been a dad more than ten minutes, and I already have zero fucking clue.

Is this what parenting feels like?

“Yeah.” She gives me a small smile, glancing quickly to Oliver. “It’s a lot, I know. I had nine months to deal with the fact my life was going to change, and you’ve had less than an hour.”

“I’ll do the paternity test, not that I don’t trust you, but I’m sure my agent would freak if I didn’t.” Which isn’t a lie. There’s a good chance Nick is going to flip out anyway. And then I have to tell my mom, my older half-brother Dean, the whole freaking team. Hell, not to be dramatic, but the whole damn world. It’ll be worth it, though. I know it will. I look back over at Oliver, watching him turn the page and pick a different color—this time it’s a bright red. “He has my eyes.”

“He likes dinosaurs too.” Her smile widens. “The velociraptors are his favorite.”

“Oliver Morgan?”

“Oliver Patrick Morgan. He was born June eighteenth,seven pounds and eleven ounces. He also has your taste in music. He loves country music despite my influence.”

I huff a laugh, but it dies quickly on my lips. “Does he know who I am? Who his dad is?”

“Not yet.” She shakes her head, her eyes on the table between us. “I told him a friend was coming over to talk. I didn’t want to get his hopes up if you didn’t want to be involved. He hasn’t asked about his dad yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time before he noticed he didn’t have a father like the other kids at day care.”

My breath stutters, and there’s a sharp pain in my chest. I think I was four or five when I asked my mom about my father. She told me he loved me but couldn’t be with us. I didn’t understand. If he loved me, why wouldn’t he be there to take care of me? Why wouldn’t he read me bedtime stories? Why wouldn’t he pick me up from day care and take me to the park, push me on the swings like all the other dads? It didn’t make sense, and I convinced myself I’d done something wrong. I’d somehow made him mad.

For years I tried to be better. I tried to be good.

But every time I thought that day might be different, that he might show up for me, another piece of me died.

He never came.

I refuse to be like him. My father wasn’t there for me or for Dean. He was never there to dust us off when we fell down, to teach us how to ride a bike or catch a ball. He never gave us birthday presents. Or told us he was proud.

He never gave a single flying fuck about either of us.

And as I grew older, I didn’t care anymore.

My dad was a paycheck, a means to an end until the money he gave my mom could be replaced. I don’t want to be anything like him.

She’s worried I don’t want to be involved in my son’s life, but I’ll be involved as much as my time allows. He will know he has a dad, that there’s someone looking out for him, caring for him.

He won’t have a life of disappointment and resentment like I did.

“I do.” I lower my voice and lean toward her. “I want to be involved. I just ... I don’t know ... I have no idea how to be a dad.”

It’s the truth, but I want to try.

FIVE

June

I get it.It’s a legitimate concern. When I found out I was pregnant, I cried on and off for about two weeks. It was my senior year of college, and instead of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, I was becoming a mom—a very single mom. I wasn’t ready to be in charge of another person. Heck, most of the time I had trouble taking care of myself.

I was absolutely petrified.

But then Oliver was born, and somehow we managed to get through each day. Some had more tears than others, his and mine, but we survived. We had each other and he didn’t know how absolutely clueless I was.

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