Page 8 of Irresistibly Risky

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By the time I walk into my parents’ house, I’m exhausted, and it’s late. I already know Mason is in bed, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my feet when I crack his door open and find him fast asleep. Being a mom is harder and sweeter than I thought it would be. I was so goal-oriented for so long, and then when I found out I was pregnant with him, everything had to be adjusted.

I was alone, living in a foreign country, working my ass off on my fellowship. I had dreams—big freaking dreams—and a baby didn’t enter into them. It wasn’t the first time my life had taken a drastic detour. I knew how to weather storms like that better than most.

But I also knew this was infinitely bigger than a blown-out knee and the end of my skating career.

My life was never going to be the same again.

It wasn’t just about me anymore, and some days, like today, that’s a harder burden to bear. I want my son to see me as a strong, capable woman who can do it all, but most of the time I feel like I’m drowning in an endless sea with no land in sight.

I don’t yet know how to balance this new job and be the mother I want to be.

I had him in Miami, literally working to finish my residency, right up until my water broke in the hospital. My mother flew down, and after my C-section, I took a grand total of six weeks off to heal and be with my son. I had to get back to work. I had boards to take and a program to complete.

It was hell, and I think I cried every damn day, and I still don’t know how we made it through. But we did, and now we’re here, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make his life the best I can for him.

He deserves that from me. He deserves the world.

I lean over the edge of his crib and run my hand along his soft, reddish-brown hair, a trait he must have gotten from his father—whoever the hell he is. I don’t remember much about that night. That was the most alcohol I had ever consumed in one sitting, and I’m not sure I could pick the guy out of a lineup.

I never even got his name.

After the bad sex and him running out of the bathroom, spewing crap about how that’s never happened to him before, I fled, went downstairs, drank two more shots—straight vodka that time—and then left the club. I was embarrassed and angry. I had put myself out there for the first time ever, done something so risky and out of my comfort zone, and it backfired on me.

The bastard didn’t even put on the condom. I knew it had all been a ploy, and that he had likely done the exact same thing with a hundred other women.

I felt used and dirty and miserable.

The next day, I woke up hungover, the details of the night before more than a little fuzzy. I left it all behind, flying to London to work with their national soccer—or football—team and the sports medicine orthopedic surgeons they have there. It was the shot of a lifetime, and I had beaten out hundreds of other surgeons for that fellowship.

I dove straight in, pushed aside that awful night, and was so busy that I didn’t realize I didn’t get my period, or that my breasts were a little tender, or that I had some nausea here or there. I didn’t discover I was pregnant until I was about ten weeks along and finally took a breath long enough to put it all together.

I kiss my fingertips and press them to his forehead. “Good night, baby boy. I love you.”

Closing the door to his room, I go downstairs and find my mother and stepfather in the kitchen, each having a cup of decaf coffee and splitting a piece of coffee cake along with their secret smiles. My mother met him when I was eight and married him two years later. Gary Hathaway didn’t hesitate to step into the role of my father, to the point where we both competed in the same Olympic games, cheering each other on as father and daughter and teammates.

We made national news for it.

Those were the best two weeks of my life.

“I tried to keep him up as long as I could,” my mother offers.

I wave her away and slice myself a piece of cake, taking a seat beside them. My fork impales the flaky pastry, and then I ask the question that’s been burning me since I left Limbick’s office. “Did you know Joe was in town?”

My mother’s hand freezes, fork in midair on the way to her mouth, and her gaze slingshots over to my stepfather’s. Gary clears his throat and then sits back in his chair as my mother lowers the fork back to the plate.

“Yes,” she says contritely with a slight wince. “We knew.”

The air leaves my lungs. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” I can’t contain my incredulous ire.

My mother gives me a troubled look and places her hand over mine. “We didn’t want you to turn down the opportunity simply because he’s living in the same city as you. We missed you and selfishly wanted you and Mason here with us. Plus,”—she shrugs—“we figured you’d never see him, even if you learned he was here.”

“How did you learn Joe was here?” Gary asks, giving me a sheepish grin, and I feel bad about snapping at them. I understand why they didn’t tell me, but I wish I had known so I wouldn’t have been blindsided by it either.

“He requested me,” I tell them both, still sickened as I say the words. “One of his players is having a shoulder issue, and Joe requested me to be the team physician.”

My mother worries her lip between her teeth and gives my hand a squeeze. “Did you say yes?”

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