Page 74 of The Secret Play

“No,” I said, my voice clipped.

“Just a couple of questions,” he pressed, stepping closer. “Rumors are swirling about you having an illegitimate child. Care to comment?”

“No comment,” I said firmly, unlocking my car.

“Come on, Coach,” he said, his tone turning sharp. “The public has a right to know. You’ve always come off as this uptight stiff, and now this? How long have you been hiding your kid in this neighborhood so far away from your posh condo? And how does it feel knowing you abandoned your child? That you’re living the high life, while your child lives here?”

I turned to face him, my blood boiling. I wanted to smack the taste out of his mouth. But I knew better. “I said no comment.”

Before I could say anything more, the front door opened, and Gemma stepped out in her robe and slippers, marching toward us with fury in her eyes. I’d never seen her so angry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Ian?”

The journalist smirked and flicked his device on. “My job. Care to comment?”

“Your job?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Your job is to harass people on their front lawn? To spread lies about things you know nothing about?”

“Lies?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you saying that Coach McConnell isn’t the father of your child? Because rumor has it, he’s Dear Old Dad.”

Gemma’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Leave. Now. While I still let you walk out of here.”

I stepped over to him, crossing my arms. I had no doubt she could take this guy on, but now that we were together, taking out the trash was my job. “You heard the lady. You leave on your feet or on your ass. It’s up to you. Ten seconds.”

“This is a public interest story,” he said, a little shaken. “And it’s going to make one hell of a headline.” With that, he jogged to his car parked on the street, climbing in and speeding off before either of us knew what else to do.

I let out a long breath, running a hand through my hair. I was almost disappointed that I didn’t get to feed him his teeth. But then I saw the look on her face. She was bereft. I put an arm around her shoulders and quietly uttered, “This is bad.”

“It’s more than bad,” Gemma said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Let me handle it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Call the best we’ve got.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing Whitney’s number.

She picked up on the second ring. “Casey? It’s early. What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got a problem,” I said, my voice grim. “A journalist showed up outside Gemma’s house this morning. He was asking questions about Winnie. It’s going to get out sooner rather than later, and?—”

“See you in twenty.” The line went dead.

I relayed the message and followed Gemma back inside. Winnie was up, and somehow, all the energy she had before was gone. My daughter was not a morning person.

My daughter. Those words filled me with inexplicable joy, even now, while everything else was falling to shit.

I helped get her ready for daycare—though I felt like I was in the way more than anything else. I didn’t know the routine yet. But I’d learn.

After that, Gemma poured us a pair of coffees just as Whitney arrived, stepping into the house with her usual brisk efficiency. She took one look at Gemma and me, then shook her head. “This is a mess.”

“We know,” I said. “Trust me, we know.”

She set her bag down and crossed her arms. “Okay, let’s talk options. Are you two sure about this relationship? Because if you’re not, now’s the time to say so.”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “I’m sure.”

Gemma glanced at me, her eyes softening. “So am I.”

Whitney nodded, her expression serious. “Then here’s what I think you should do. Go public. Take control of the narrative before that journalist can spin it into something salacious.”

Gemma frowned, crossing her arms. “Go public how?”

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