Page 9 of Irresistibly Risky

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I defend. “The asshole was adamant it be me. Have you spoken with him?”

She shakes her head.

“Then how does he know about me, Mom? How could he possibly know?”

“I’m sorry.” She sighs, her features lined with regret. “I don’t know what to say because I don’t have any real answers for you. The last time I spoke to him was through an attorney after I married Gary because he stopped paying child support for you then. It was a fight. Anyway, I’m not sure what his motive is for reaching out to you now after all this time. What are you going to do?”

I didn’t know about the child support thing. He really is a piece of work.

“The only thing I can do. Go to the stadium and meet him and his player tomorrow.”

3

The only good thing about today is that training camp doesn’t start before 10:00 a.m., which means I was able to wake up and spend my morning playing with Mason. I made him eggs—his new favorite food—and watched a baby sign language video, and then we played with the color stacking toy he can’t get enough of.

It was absolute heaven. Heaven for a solid hour and a half until I had to leave him.

I keep telling myself that when I can get him into the daycare at the hospital, I’ll see him more during the day. He’s on the waitlist, but they were hopeful it wouldn’t be too much longer before he got in. Once that happens, I’ll find us a place to live closer to the hospital, and then things will finally settle down and we’ll get into a more stable groove.

And hopefully, I’ll be done with football and Joe freaking Cardone by then.

Last night, I laid awake for hours trying to work this all out in my head.

At the end of the day, he’s simply a case of biology and nothing more. He doesn’t deserve my reaction or my time. He hasn’t earned anything from me, and by the time I fell asleep, I had convinced myself I would go into today equipped with a solid battle plan of indifference.

But now as I walk into the stadium, giving my name to the security guard positioned by the player’s entrance, my heart in my throat and blood thrashing through my ears, I’m not sure I can do this. My pace slows and my steps falter as a burst of adrenaline hits my veins, making my muscles antsy for me to flee.

Don’t let him win. You’re not a quitter. You’re a fighter. You’re a winner.

Only my stomach doesn’t agree as it roils and revolts. Instead of fleeing for the exit, I’m racing into the first bathroom I see, straight for the stall, as eggs fight their way up my esophagus. I throw up violently, ejecting everything in my stomach, and even after that’s done, I continue with dry heaves until there’s nothing left in me.

With a groan, I flush the toilet and drag myself to the sink, washing my mouth out with cold water and patting my forehead with the excess on my hands before pressing them into the counter. I haven’t thrown up since before I took the ice at my first world championship. I haven’t even seen him yet, and it’s like I’m a kid all over again.

The door flings open, and in walks a tall, broad man wearing red track shorts, a white Dri-FIT shirt, and bright blue sneakers. He’s probably one of the players.

“Are you in the wrong room or am I?” He has the grace to ask, even though it’s pretty damn obvious from the urinals on my right that I’m clearly the one in the wrong room.

“Sorry,” I murmur, grabbing some towels from the dispenser to wipe my hands and mouth with. “My mistake.”

“Not a problem.” He takes another step toward me, but I haven’t dared look up at him yet. “Take all the time you need. Are you okay? You look a little… pale.”

I scowl, glancing up at my reflection through my lashes. He’s right. I do look pale.

“Sorry,” he rushes on. “If that was rude or insulting, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” I cut him off quickly. “It’s fine. I am pale. My breakfast didn’t agree with me.”

Just as I go to throw out the paper towels, I peek up at him, but the moment our eyes meet, his grow comically wide, and he sucks in a giant breath. “It’s you,” he says breathily on the exhale.

I scrunch my brow at the way he says that. Before I can respond, he’s taking another step until he’s right before me, large and muscular and filling up my entire field of vision.

He laughs, almost disbelieving, a huge smile erupting across his face, showing off his pearly white teeth and making his gray eyes sparkle silver. Not just a nice body but a pretty face too, I absently muse, only to mentally smack myself. Though there is something about him that strikes me as familiar in a way I can’t place.

“I can’t believe I’m running into you like this,” he rushes on. “What are the odds? Are you here for me?” he asks, his voice rising, and I stare up at him, bewildered, unable to make sense of his words or reaction. “You must be, right?”

“That depends if you’re Asher Reyes, since I know you’re not Joe Cardone,” I answer without thinking.

That seems to pull him up short. “Is that a joke?”

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