DIRTY PLAYER: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  “Right, okay,” Sam replies. “But you totally got his number, didn’t you?”

  I shake my head. “Actually, I didn’t.”

  Sam’s eyes go wide. “Ugh, you chickened out, didn’t you?”

  I think back to earlier that morning. “I snuck out, actually.”

  Amanda boos me. “I can’t believe you sometimes, Camille. The hottest guy ever bangs you and you still don’t want to date him. Ugh.”

  “Who’s to say he wanted to date me, even if I had asked?” I object.

  “You pushed him away first, before he had a chance to push you away,” Sam points out. “You always do that. You never open up to anybody, and here you have this Adonis who gives you mind-blowing sex – or at least, I can imagine he did – and you still don’t want to give it up.”

  “New subject, please,” I say, their words stinging me.

  “I say you go back to the hotel and slip your number under his door,” Amanda says. “Why not? At least you can try.”

  I shake my head. “No way am I doing that.”

  Sam sighs. “You have to loosen up someday, Cami. You can’t be some old spinster.”

  As we drive away from Miami later that day, I know that she’s right.

  I can’t hide from marriage and babies.

  One day, it’s all going to catch up to me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CAMILLE

  I pull up to my dad’s house, my car filled to the brim with all my possessions.

  “It’s only two weeks,” I say out loud to reassure myself. I only just finished my finals at the end of April. My brain is exhausted. But I’m ready to decompress here for some obligatory Dad time before I move away forever.

  All the way to Dallas, Texas.

  Okay, so that’s only two and a half hours north of here. But still.

  My dad’s place is like a mini-mansion. An Austin Warriors flag hangs from the massive front porch. I turn off my beater car and pull out my house keys.

  I grab my purse and approach the porch. I ring the doorbell twice.

  The housekeeper answers it.

  “Camille!” Eloise says, holding open her arms. She’s been a surrogate mother to me ever since my real one ran out on my dad fifteen years ago.

  “Eloise,” I say, relaxing into her embrace.

  “You look tired. I made you soup. It’s good for you. So good for you. I knew you’d need it, my girl.”

  I glance inside the house. “Is Dad home?”

  Eloise pats her grey hair. “He’s at the office, as usual.”

  “Good,” I reply.

  Eloise sighs. “Now, now, Camille. That’s no way to start your vacation, is it?” She glances at my car. “I’m surprised yours made it this far!” She makes a tsk tsk sound with her mouth. “I wish you’d stop being so stubborn and let your father buy you a new one. At least as a graduation present of sorts!”

  I shake my head and step inside the house.

  “Do you need help bringing anything in?” Eloise asks.

  “No, I’m leaving it all in the car.”

  Eloise sighs and shuts the door. “You want to be ready to make a quick getaway?”

  I nod. “Something like that.” I look at the sweeping, grand staircase. “Is my room still there? It hasn’t been turned into memorabilia storage?”

  Eloise sighs. “No, it hasn’t. I really wish you wouldn’t be so difficult.”

  I laugh. “Tell me what’s on my itinerary now that I’m here.”

  Eloise pauses. “I don’t know what you-“

  “Be honest with me. I know my dad has something planned for me now that I’m home. It’s how it always is. I’m used to it. Just spill the beans.”

  Eloise reaches into her pocket and hands me a folded-up printed schedule.

  “Ah, a grand dinner tonight for the first night of the draft, huh?”

  Eloise nods. “You know perfectly well how this goes, Camille. Your father is the owner of one of the most successful football teams in history. You have to play along.”

  “The price I pay for being the owner’s daughter, right?” I pause. “Do I need to be in full cotillion regalia for the entirety of the draft?”

  Eloise laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you and that smart mouth of yours home, Camille.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BLAKE

  “Dude, you’ve been on another planet all day today. What in the hell is going on with you, bro?” Thomas asks me, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I sigh. “It’s Camille.”

  Thomas rolls his eyes. “Did she give you some sort of love potion? You’ve been acting strange all fucking day every day since we got back from Miami.”

  “What can I say? She has a strange effect on me.”

  “Well, cure it, because it’s bumming me the fuck out.” Thomas pauses. “You’re wishing you got her phone number, aren’t you?”

  I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. It doesn’t work.

  “Oh, dude. Seriously? Oh, man. You are so fucked, brother. You only want her because she doesn’t want you.”

  He’s right. He’s completely right. But there is no way I am going to tell him that.

  “Can we just change the fucking topic, please?”

  A loudspeaker sounds from above us. “Flight 109 will be delayed for another three hours.” The entire terminal groans. “Please see the gate attendant if you need to reschedule your connecting flights.”

  Thomas puts his feet up on his duffel bag. “You nervous for this weekend?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “You should be,” he says. “What if nobody picks you?”

  I laugh. “You sure know how to make a guy feel better, don’t you?” I pull my own duffel bag over to use as a pillow, stretching out on the floor of the terminal. “It’ll be great. We’ll both get drafted and it’ll be great. The whole entire thing will be great.”

  “I wish I had your confidence, bro.”

  “You do have my confidence, Thomas,” I point out.

  “Oh, yeah. Well. That’s a good point.”

  I punch him in the shoulder and put an arm over my eyes. “Wake me up when our plane finally gets here.”

  I shut my eyes but I feel the butterflies in my stomach. No matter what I tell Thomas, I am nervous. This weekend is my entire future.

  I turn my thoughts back to Camille’s delicious body.

  The thought of fucking her again fills my dreams and makes me relax into a deep, deep slumber.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CAMILLE

  “You look lovely, Camille,” my father says as I walk down the grand staircase.

  I’ve washed my hair and put it into a low ponytail. I’m wearing a bright blue dress that hits my knees in a pouf of fabric. I look like someone’s doll, which is exactly what I’ll be tonight.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, stepping off the last step. My heels click on the tile floor of the main foyer.

  I walk past him as he checks his watch.

  “Car should be here in a minute. And Camille?”

  My hand is on the doorknob. This can mean nothing good. He always waits until the last minute to lambast me with some huge news. “Be good tonight. I don’t want there to be another incident.”

  My mind flashes to several years before where I pretended to be absolutely drunk around some of the other football team owners. I’d embarrassed my father. It was a childish prank, but one that I never did end up regretting.

  “Of course, Dad,” I reply smoothly. I want this night to go as well as he wants it to go. The easier these next two weeks are, the better it will be for both of us.

  An hour later, I’m walking through the ballroom of the nicest hotel in Austin, grinning at people and shaking hands with a warm smile. They all keep telling me how nice I look.

  The room smells like hairspray and perfume, the fog of it hanging in clouds above us. I stop a server and grab a glass of champagne. I sip it but it tastes like motor oil. I po
ur the contents into a cactus sitting in a round ceramic planter.

  “I saw that,” says a friendly voice.

  I look up to see Janet, my dad’s business partner, smiling at me.

  “Janet!” I exclaim, reaching out for a hug. I always did love her.

  “You look exquisite.” She kisses my cheek before whispering in my ear. “And don’t take this wrong way, but you also look entirely not like yourself. Did your dad order the dress for you?”

  I give her a fixed, sarcastic smile. “What makes you say that?”

  She chuckles. “I’m glad to see you out of jeans for once, but you do look strange. Strange and lovely.” She squeezes my upper arm in a motherly way. “I can’t wait until this night is over.”

  “That makes two of us,” I reply. “Did you try the champagne? It tastes terr-“

  Before I can finish, someone with a microphone calls out over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, you may now be seated in the dining room just through those double doors.”

  I take a deep breath. “Do you know if I’m at Dad’s table?”

  Janet shakes her head. “I didn’t get a good look at the seating chart. But do you really want to end up with some football player instead? All the rookies are coming tonight. They had a separate meeting during cocktail hour.”

  I groan. “I don’t know which is worse. Being stuck with rich assholes all night, or being stuck with deadbeat football players who have nothing to talk about other than football.”

  I say the word like it’s poison. And it is poison to me. I can’t stand any sport, but football takes the cake for me for being the absolute worst.

  Janet laughs. “Well, godspeed to both of us then. You can at least play the role of the disaffected poor little rich girl. I have to put on a business face and pretend that I actually enjoy what’s happening around me.” She takes a breath as if girding herself. “We better head in there.”

  Janet and I separate and I check the seating chart. Good. I’m not at Dad’s table. But it does look like I’ll be sitting with new, prospective players.

  The draft starts tomorrow, which I know means that the players will either be nervous, drunk, or a little bit of both. The thought of alcohol makes my stomach turn over and before I know it, I’m dashing for the bathroom.

  I vomit into the toilet four times, coming up for air shaking and sweaty.

  I walk out of the stall and splash my face with water. I dab it with a thick paper towel and throw it into an empty trashcan. The sight of it reminds me that I haven’t had to empty my dorm room trash can since before Miami.

  Oh no.

  Oh no no no no no.

  I pull out my phone and open up my period tracker app. I suddenly remember that I turned off the notifications during finals week. It kept popping up and distracting me.

  “Nine alerts” it says.

  I scroll through my chart.

  “Six weeks since your last period.”

  Six weeks.

  Six.

  And spring break was four weeks ago.

  That means I was ovulating when I was with Blake.

  And that means I’m two weeks late for my last period.

  I look at my face in the mirror, panicking. I pinch myself. It hurts. So, I’m not dreaming after all. This is all horrifyingly real.

  I run through the lobby and out the front doors.

  “Can I help you?” asks the bellhop behind the podium.

  “I need a cab,” I say.

  “Cabs are all taken, miss,” says the bellhop. “It’s graduation night for the university. It’ll be at least an hour until there’s another one available.”

  I groan into the thick Texas air. “Get me a pedi cab then.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  I tap my fingers against my purse nervously. It’s another five minutes before the shirtless pedi cab driver pulls up into the portico.

  “CVS,” I say to him. My puffy dress barely fits into the padded seat.

  “Right on,” the driver says, his long curly hair loose around his narrow shoulders. He pedals the bicycle through Austin traffic. Several people honk and wave at me. I know I must look ridiculous, like a lonely Cinderella shortly before the carriage turns back into the pumpkin.

  He stops in front of the corner store and I toss him a twenty-dollar bill, not pausing to thank him. I rush inside. I’m greeted by a bored looking clerk and an icy blast of air conditioning.

  I feel like I’m in someone else’s body as I walk through the store towards the pregnancy tests. They’re behind a metal cage. I glance around and wave over a clerk. He pages a manager on his walkie talkie and I’m forced to stand there for five minutes in my party dress, the fluorescent lights boring into my brain.

  Finally, she shows up, keys in tow.

  I pay for my purchase and double back into the store. The bathroom is along the back wall. It’s tiny but adequate for what I need. I nearly drop the plastic wand onto the cracked tile floor but catch it at the last possible second.

  Three minutes later, my life’s fortune is told in my hand.

  I’m pregnant.

  Pregnant with a man’s baby. A man I met once. A man whose last name I don’t even know. I don’t even know how I would go about finding him.

  I’m going to be a single mother.

  Oh, God.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BLAKE

  I sit in the green room behind the big stage on draft day. The dinner the night before was boring and I can’t shake the feeling that I was missing something the entire evening. I was so out of it I swore I saw Camille running through the hotel lobby wearing a blue dress.

  I don’t tell this to Thomas. He already thinks I’m losing it.

  The auditorium’s been transformed into a crowd of press, families, and League staff. About twenty guys have already gone ahead of me, each taking their turn to be given their fate. It’s my turn next.

  I tap my foot urgently, my rubber-soled sneakers not making any noise against the thick carpeting.

  “Stop doing that, you’re shaking the seat,” my agent says to me. He has slick-backed hair and a general fuck-you attitude that bothers me more than I can articulate. He’s a walking stereotype.

  “I’m paying you fifteen percent, let me jiggle my own fucking leg without you bothering me,” I snap back at him.

  The green room is abuzz with activity. There’s a completely untouched food bar with cheese, crackers, and alcohol. But everyone’s too nervous to eat much. This is the big day, after all. Nobody’s stomach is settled.

  “And up next, we have Blake Merriman!”

  My stomach turns over and I stand up straight.

  I hope Camille is watching right now. Is she a football fan? What are the odds of that? And why do I care?

  When did I get so fucking sappy?

  This woman does things to me I just cannot explain.

  “Please welcome the new San Francisco Sailors rookie!”

  I hear the news and my heart skips a few beats. San Francisco. I’m no longer going to be an East Coast guy.

  I paste on a smile and walk onstage, the lights of a hundred flashbulbs blinding me for a second.

  I shake hands and have t-shirts and hats draped over my body. This is the day I’ve been waiting for since I was a six-year-old boy watching football on television. I’m in shock.

  “…think about this?”

  I suddenly realize I’m standing in front of a blonde woman holding a microphone, the cameraman an inch behind her right shoulder.

  “Sorry, come again?”

  “I said, how do you feel about joining the Sailors? Good? Nervous? You signed one of the biggest contracts this year, or so rumor has it.”

  I stammer out a few textbook responses about me being happy, about being blessed with all of the money and press, and shove in the obligatory joke of me going to Fantasy Land to celebrate.

  I’m pushed back into more press.

  But all I have on my mind is Camille
.

  I hug my mom and dad and beg off for a few minutes, telling them I need some alone time to process.

  I just became a deca millionaire in the space of a minute.

  And all I can think about is some girl?

  CHAPTER TEN

  CAMILLE

  FOUR YEARS LATER

  “Okay, I’ll send the document over in a second. Yep. Yep. Alright. Thank you so much again for the extension, Professor. Right. Okay. Yes, thesis defense on Monday. Sounds great. I’ll be there. You too. Bye.” I hang up my phone and collapse onto the sofa. I want nothing more than to lay my head on my pillow and sleep for the next twelve hours.

  I reach over, knocking empty soda cans onto the dirty carpet. The maid didn’t come this week. Why is that?

  Oh, right. I told her not to.

  I pick up my laptop and my fingers fly across the keyboard as I send my dissertation to my major professor. This is it. A Ph.D. in chemistry in under four years since undergrad.

  “Mommy?”

  I look up to see Hazel, my brunette and blue-eyed baby girl standing in the hallway wearing her footie pajamas.

  “What is it, baby?”

  She wipes her eye with the back of one pudgy hand. “I had a bad dweam.”

  “Come here, baby.”

  I shove aside stacks of research documents and pat the sofa.

  She climbs next to me and lays her head on my lap, taking up the only remaining real estate there. I move my laptop until it’s only just resting on my knees. I hit send on the email.

  That’s when I realize, a second too late, that I didn’t attach the dissertation to it.

  Dammit.

  “Oh…crackers,” I say, nearly cursing in front of Hazel.

  “What is it, Mommy?”

  “Nothing, Mommy just made a boo boo mistake. It’s okay.” I send an apology email, this time with the dissertation attached. I’m so tired I can barely lift my finger to hit send.

  But I do.

  And it’s done.

  I lean back and pull Hazel onto my lap. She sighs and falls asleep within seconds.

  I’m right behind her, my stunningly boring Saturday evening as a single mother and grad student blissfully complete.