Page 5 of Tight End

A woman who wasn’t her.

So I stopped going out. If I wasn’t watching football or hockey, I was working out at home or the stadium. Football was there for me, and it didn’t take long for me to start making headlines. They compared me to the greats, said I had potential, and their words kept me from looking back and lingering in the past, in the things I couldn’t change. I needed to prove them right. I threw myself into the sport, the one thing that’s given me everything, and I tried so hard to move past the girl I knew I couldn’t find.

A woman who might have had my kid. Who’s been raising him for three years by herself because I agreed it was a great idea not to exchange names, not to tell her who I was or what I did. Because I wanted to feel like an ordinary fucking guy for one night.

One fucking mind-blowing night where I wasn’t a famous football player, where I didn’t have the fate of the season resting on my shoulders.

Look where it got me—us.

Fuck.

“Is he—” He’s mine, deep down in my gut I know he is, but I can’t get the words out. Not when a few fans gather around us, inching closer, intruding on a moment I really don’t want splashed across social media. Yeah, it’ll have to come out eventually, and I’m sure the press will have a field day. But not yet. Not right now. A few of them already have phones out, and I can’t be sure if they’re randomly texting ordiscreetly trying to get some footage. “Can we go somewhere a little more private to talk? Is that okay?”

Her eyes widen, looking back and forth, and as she edges away from the crowd gathering around us, she nods. “You wanna change? I don’t think you’re going to blend in anywhere in that uniform.”

Right. Shit. Totally forgot I was wearing this.

But she didn’t. Her eyes track up and down my body, snagging on the jersey pulled tight across my chest. I try to ignore the goose bumps that break out across my skin and the flutter in my chest. Try, but fail. What is it about this girl that makes me react like a teenage boy who just felt his first boob?

She’s not unaffected either. A pretty pink hue creeps up her neck and across her cheeks, her gaze falling to the ground between us.

“Actually ...” I point over my shoulder toward the field somewhere behind me. “If you want, I can probably hijack the coach’s office.”

“Well, um.” She drags her bottom lip through her teeth. Slow. Too slow. And I should absolutely not be noticing, not at a time like this. “I actually need to feed this little guy.” She pauses, studying my face, and I hope whatever she finds isn’t lacking. “Do you want to meet me at my place?”

“Yes.” My answer is quick, probably too quick, but I can’t find it in me to care.

The pink coloring her cheeks deepens. “It’s not much. Probably a lot smaller than what you’re used to.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.”

She nods, rubbing a hand up and down Oliver’s back while he turns the football over in his hands, studying it like it’s a rare treasure, and since it’s signed by Silas, I know it’s not.

We stand in silence for a few seconds and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from Oliver and how tiny his hands are. Would they be soft? Would they wrap around my finger and hold on tight? Or would he be afraid to lay his small hand in mine? He may have half my genetics, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a stranger.

“Do you want to give me your number and I’ll text the address?” Damn, I was so distracted by Oliver—by my potential son—I don’t see the phone until it’s practically shoved in my hands.

It’s already open, her address typed in, just waiting for my number. How did I miss all that? I pride myself for my awareness, for knowing everything going on around me on and off the field. But this? Her? Oliver? None of it was in the playbook, and I’m completely thrown off my game.

My fingers shake as I type in my number, delete the last four when I realize two of them are incorrect, and redo. Four. That’s the number of times I verify my phone number is correct before I hit the send button and hand her back her phone.

She slides it in her back pocket and turns away from me, but as she does Oliver’s eyes swing to mine. He’s wary, looking at me like he doesn’t quite know what to think.

That makes two of us.

She takes a step away from me, and I lay a hand on her shoulder. I can’t let her walk away this time, not without knowing who she is.

“What’s your name? I hardly think I can keep calling you ‘Princess.’”

She turns, her brows raised, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. “June. My name is June Morgan.”

“June Morgan.” I say her name slowly, letting it roll over my tongue. It suits her. Beautiful. Strong. Perfect for the mother of my child. Of my?—

Fuck.

THREE

June

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