Page 98 of Irresistibly Risky

Joe curses. It’s the third player—including Asher—to have surgery this season, and they’re only heading into their fourth game on Monday night.

“When do you plan to operate?”

“I don’t. I’ve referred him to a hand specialist. I do mostly knees and shoulders. Hands are delicate.”

“Fine. You’re traveling with the team this weekend.”

I roll my eyes at him, loving how it makes his jaw tick. “No, I’m not. We’ve had this discussion already, Joe, and I told you then that I will not be traveling with the team. If you don’t like it, find someone else.”

The first game of the season was an away game, and he didn’t mention anything about traveling with the team that week. The last two weeks have been home games, so it wasn’t necessary. Now he’s back at this crap again apparently.

“And I already told you it’s part of your job requirement. What if a player is hurt when we’re on the road?”

“I feel as though we’re going around in circles. If a player is hurt while you’re traveling, he can be attended to by the team’s general physician, the training staff, or a local surgeon if need be. But I’m not traveling with the team,” I say firmly. “Fire me if you don’t like it.”

He sits forward, placing his folded hands on his desk. “I have no plans to fire you, Wynter, much to your dismay. How about you tell me why you won’t travel with us?”

Something in his tone gives me pause. “Hatred of football. Hatred of you. No desire to spend more of my time with a pack of meatheads.” I throw them out, ticking each one off on my fingers.

I’m stalling.

I can see it in his eyes. He knows about Mason. I don’t know how he knows, but he does.

“And what about your son? Does he enter into that decision at all?”

My breath hitches high in my chest, and I take an instinctive step forward, the mother in me needing to protect my son. And if he knows about Mason, does he also know that Asher is the father? It’s been more than six weeks since Mason and I moved in with him, and in all that time, we’ve been careful not to be seen together in public.

“How do you know about my son?” I grip the back of the empty chair facing him, half ready to strangle Joe yet again. He has a way of bringing out the worst side of me and reducing my patience and cool to nothing.

He doesn’t even blink or register any emotion. God, I hate this man.

“Limbick told me about him.”

Fucking Limpdick and his big mouth.

“What right did he have to tell you anything personal about me?”

“He assumed I already knew. Since he already knew I’m your father.”

“That’s simply DNA, Joe. You’re not my father. Gary is my father.”

His nostrils flaring is his only reaction.

“In any event,” he continues smoothly, “I told him I required you to travel with the team, and he told me he wouldn’t push that on you since you’re a single mother, and he can’t ask you to travel like that when you have an infant son to look after.”

Wow. Color me shocked that Limbick—now I feel a bit guilty for calling him Limpdick—stood up to Joe on my behalf.

“So I’m asking if that’s your reason for not wanting to travel with the team?” He finishes without missing a beat.

I grit my teeth. “Yes. My son is the reason I won’t travel with the team.”

“Were you ever going to tell me about him?”

“No,” I answer honestly, and that does something to him. I’m not even sure what, but in a flash, he’s on his feet and pacing to the window behind him. His hands meet his hips, and then he’s staring out at the field, and I can’t see his expression. For reasons beyond my comprehension, I feel a twinge of guilt and regret, but I quickly push that away in favor of needing answers. “Why am I here, Joe? Why did you bring me on? I’ve asked you before and you wouldn’t tell me.”

He releases an audible breath, keeping his back to me as he speaks. “Similar to how you weren’t going to tell me about my grandson, I won’t explain my reasons for having you here beyond what I’ve already told you.”

I shake my head. It hurts to hear him call Mason his grandson. He has no right to make such a personal claim to him.

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