Page 283 of Vegas Heat

“Will you be there for the delivery of your child?”

“Are you back together with the mother?”

I stare at the reporters for a second like they’ve all grown two heads, and maybe they have.

“What?” I finally ask.

The questions come firing off at me again. I’m helpless as I stand there taking the bullets.

“Noah, get on the bus,” Danny says from beside me as if ignoring any of this will make it go away.

I shake my head, and I look at the reporters. “Stacy is my ex. We broke up years ago and I have not been with her since the break-up. So if she’s pregnant with my child, it’s some sort of divine intervention. I am not back together with her nor will I be. Excuse me.”

I’m proud of myself as I walk away.

A weaker man might’ve pointed out that the baby belongs to Alex Hamilton, who she cheated on me with. But I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true—even though I’m sure there will be headlines tomorrow telling the world I’m denying the child my ex is carrying.

Whatever.

I can’t be moved enough to care.

Tonight’s for drinking.

I head out with the crew to the bar we’ve been frequenting, and tonight, the bar is filled with players from the team. I spot Troy across the way, and Dylan the intern is hanging out with some of the guys from the minor league. And I even see GM Mike hanging out with some of the coaching staff.

Everybody’s here, and for a second it just makes me want to crawl into the corner and hide.

With the big brass here along with the intern who’s my only direct connection back to Gabby aside from Troy, I should be on my best behavior, right?

I’m not in the mood to be good tonight.

I’m not in the mood to be the team leader. I’m not in the mood to impress Troy or Mike.

I’m in the mood to get fucked up and to try to numb some of the constant ache in my chest.

And that’s why I opt for tequila shots.

It’s stupid. It’s immature. It’s ridiculous.

But it also works quickly, and that’s what I’m going for right now.

After a shit game, shit headlines, and a shit love life, it’s the least I can do. Except I know I’m not doing myself any favors. As I toss back the second shot and wince at the horrible taste, I know I’ll play even worse tomorrow—if I can drag my ass out of bed to play.

But as it turns out, Ihaveto drag my ass out of bed.

I hear loud knocking, and as I peel open my eyes, I’m not exactly sure where I am for a split second. Then I remember we’re renting this house in Arizona, but I’m not exactly sure how I got into the bed in my bedroom.

I glance to my left.

At least the other side of the bed is empty.

The knocking won’t subside.

“Dude, are you alive in there?” It’s Danny’s voice, and he’s yelling. “Are you naked?”

I lift the covers to check. Nope, not naked. I slept in jeans, which I never do unless I pass out cold and I’m too wasted to take them off.

“Come in,” I croak, and my mouth feels like I chewed on cotton balls all night.

---