Page 47 of The Secret Play

“All right,” I said, crossing my arms. “I know you’ve heard the rumors. Let me make one thing clear. They’re not true.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions uncertain.

“Whatever you’ve heard, whatever you think you know—it’s not true,” I repeated firmly. “I didn’t abandon anyone. If you’ve got a problem with me, say it to my face. Otherwise, keep your focus on the game. The other guys look up to you. They’ll follow your lead. We’re here for the game and for each other. Remind them of that.”

There was a moment of silence before Nico nodded. “We hear you, Coach.”

By the time I got home that evening, I was exhausted at every level. The day pressed down on me as I sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

The anger in Gemma’s voice when I’d brought up the possibility of Winnie being mine, it burned me. I thought about Winnie, about the way she’d smiled at me at the park, the way she’d called me Casey like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The way I wished she’d one day call me Dad instead.

I had thought of it in a stepdad capacity, and I knew I’d gotten ahead of myself by thinking like that all by itself. But now? Now, I was convinced I’d been left behind.

I hadn’t done the abandoning in this equation. If Winnie was mine, that was.

Chapter 18

Gemma

My editor’s email had been sitting in my inbox for hours, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

“We need coverage on the Casey McConnell illegitimate child rumors. Given your access to the team, you’re the best person to write this piece. Let me know if you need additional resources.”

Each time I read it, my stomach turned. It wasn’t just an assignment. It was a direct hit to everything I’d been carefully balancing. Not only that—this would be a hit piece on Casey, which went against everything in my heart.

How could I write this? How could I possibly report on rumors that were, in some twisted way, tied to me?

The professional answer was simple. I couldn’t. No journalist could—or should—write about their own life disguised as someone else’s story. But I couldn’t exactly walk into my editor’s office and tell him, “Hey, I might actually be the mother of the rumored illegitimate child in question. So, as you can see, this might be a little awkward.”

No. I’d need to handle this myself before my boss ever found out. Before anyone found out. And that meant I had to talk to Casey.

The rest of the day felt surreal. I went through the motions of my job—reviewing notes, emailing sources, typing up drafts—but it all felt meaningless. The real task loomed ahead, and it made everything else seem small.

When I picked up Winnie from daycare, her joyful chatter barely registered. Normally, I’d hang on her every word, asking questions about her day and marveling at the way she saw the world. But this time, all I could manage was a few distracted nods.

“Mommy, are you okay?” she asked from the backseat, her voice small.

I forced a smile, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Iwastired—bone-tired, emotionally drained, and mentally running in circles. But how could I explain to a four-year-old that her entire world might be about to change?

When we got home, I focused on Winnie’s bedtime routine, desperate for the comfort of structure. Dinner, bath, bedtime story. Each step helped calm the whirlwind in my mind, but only slightly.

By the time she was tucked in and snoring softly, I’d made my decision. I grabbed my phone, my hands trembling as I typed out the message.

Want to come over for dinner tomorrow? Just the two of us.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. My heart pounded as I stared at the screen, waiting for his reply. It came almost instantly.

Sure. What time?

I exhaled shakily, typing out a quick response and setting my phone down. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’d tell him everything.

But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, doubt crept in. How could I say it? How could I sit across from Casey and admit that I’d been keeping the truth from him? I didn’t know how he’d react, and the fear of losing him—of losing whatever fragile connection we’d built—was almost paralyzing.

The next day was a blur. I avoided my boss’ email, ignored the gnawing sense of urgency at the back of my mind, and threw myself into preparing for dinner.

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