Bad Boy's Baby Part 29

The whistle blew immediately. I resisted the urge to spike the ball in frustration. Bryon slapped my shoulder.

"He's getting in your head, man," he said. "Let it roll off."

"Can't."

He smirked. "You need a drink and blow-job in no particular order."

"No kidding."

He pointed to the sidelines. "Have that little baby-momma of yours take care of you tonight."

Of course Leah would be here now. I told her to come by and cheer me on. Figured it'd pump my ego if she stroked it as good as she stroked my c.o.c.k.

It was a selfish request though. I shouldn't have made her come out in this heat. I only hoped she'd see me at work. If she understood how hard I tried, how rigorously I trained, maybe she'd cut me a break. Let me in. Take me to the doctor's appointments.

Maybe she'd trust me.

I shouldn't have felt the things I did for the woman I knocked up for my own personal gain. And I didn't understand the raging possession that coiled through me when I looked at her with that little b.u.mp. G.o.d, it made me proud.

I had a lot of pride in myself, but not much in anything else that I had done. Except that. Except her. And I wanted everyone to see that b.u.mp and know what I did. Maybe then they'd understand there was more to me than getting in trouble.

That G.o.dd.a.m.ned whistle blew again.

He was lucky I didn't force him to swallow it.

I swore and refused the water from the trainers. The defensive coach settled his men down, letting Coach Thompson stop the play for the fifth time in a row. I rubbed the sweat from my eyes with fingers itching to throw the d.a.m.n ball.

It didn't help that the play called was a simple run for Bryon. Straight up the middle, nothing complicated. Not even a play-action to give me a chance to do something besides hand the ball off.

Another whistle. Bryon caught me before I went nuclear. A hush fell over the crowd, loud enough to hear my frustrated profanity. I didn't even bother looking at Leah. I knew what she'd say.

Stay positive. Imagine there's a camera on you. Be more patient.

Well, I wasn't patient. No sense hiding that from the crowd.

The coach called us to formation again. Bryon pushed me back to the line.

"Don't let him f.u.c.k you over. He'll kick you off the team the instant you pop."

I'd like to see him try. Coach Thompson antagonized me for a reason. Every move I took, decision I made, and call I shouted was questioned, ridiculed, and denied.

So be it. I ignored him and counted to ten-Leah's suggestion for when my temper got the best of me. h.e.l.l, she even moved closer to the sidelines, holding up her hand and counting one-two-three-four on her delicate fingers.

I heaved a breath.

It worked, but it wasn't the counting that steadied me.

It was her.

Leah's chocolate eyes studied me from across the field, and the tug of her smile chased the adrenaline from my veins. She gave me a cute little wave, as though she didn't know what her place was or why she was there for me. She cupped her hands over her tummy and cheered me on.

And holy h.e.l.l, I never saw anything greater.

I lined myself under center again. No whistle yet. I took it as a good sign and scouted the defense. They lined up to trick me, but I read through it. I grunted the snap-count to lure the line off-sides-a particular specialty of mine.

It worked.

The corner jumped, and he didn't make it across the line before the snap.

I expected Coach Thompson to whistle and b.i.t.c.h him out. So did my center. He was slow to rise and even slower to block. But the play didn't stop, and the defensive line roared over my men in a wave of testosterone-violent and angry and looking to prove how big their d.i.c.ks were before the end of camp.

I dropped back, but the center got in my way. I saw it happening. There wasn't a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing I could do about it. I clenched my jaw for the sack.

The defense rode over the line. I grunted as I slammed into the ground. My leg planted.

Twisted.

Popped.

I felt nothing but pain.

Then shock.

The field silenced as my agonized shout ripped through every single man, woman, and child in earshot.

I fell on my back, but I couldn't have risen again if I wanted. My leg screamed with pain, not broken but something equally bad. My knee instantly swelled.

And I knew right then I was f.u.c.ked.

My vison blurred into pained halos as the trainers sprinted onto the field. My offense crowded tight around me, trying to help. Nothing they could do. Not now.

It couldn't end like this.

Terror cracked through me. I had to get up. I had to walk it off. I had to- Pain. Blinding, frustrating, enraging pain.

I rolled. The trainers rushed to my side, ripping off my helmet and shoulder pads. Did it really matter if I was hot? The knee injury laced my body in a chilled dread. I'd be lucky if I didn't puke.

Now there was a headline.

"Gotta get you to the locker room, Jack." The red-headed trainer who had once helped Leah stared at me, her eyes wide with worry. I didn't like that look. I hated even more that she prevented me from rising up. "Wait for the cart."

"No, no, no." Now I was dizzy. The pain had me nauseous. "No cart. I can walk."

"No, you really can't."

"I'm not getting in the cart."

"Jack-"

"f.u.c.k off, I'm not getting in the cart!"

Everyone heard that. Figured. I was lucky I didn't blaspheme every Abrahamic religion when I went down. The team parted, and I figured it was because of Coach Thompson.

It wasn't. His a.s.s hadn't moved from the bench.

But Leah ran to my side-something profoundly stupid for a woman in her condition. She was already weepy with hormones. This would be worse than the empty peanut b.u.t.ter jar fiasco.

"Jack, are you okay?" Her voice wavered.

She wasn't supposed to be on the field, but no one was moving her. She took my hand, her eyes welling with tears. G.o.d d.a.m.n. She was really upset. Honestly worried for me.

My chest tightened. I couldn't deal with that thought, not when I wanted to rip my own leg off. I hated that I couldn't comfort her, even as I writhed in pain.

"I'll be fine." I lied. My knee looked like a softball grew out of it. "Just gotta get up."

"Why won't you get in the cart?"

Oh, she was cute when she only studied enough football to release a press statement. I called for my guys to help me to my feet. The trainers protested. I ignored them. Bryon and someone else could help me walk to the locker room. I didn't need a cart.

"Jack." Leah flittered at my side. I wasn't used to a feminine voice on the field, much less her beautiful whisper. "Listen to the trainers. Get on the cart."

"Kiss, get off the field."

"I'm going with you! Just take the ride."

"It's not a ride." I stared at her, snapping at a woman who didn't deserve my anger. "It's the cart. You don't understand."

"Then tell me. Please."

Fine. Plain and simple. Her favorite language.

"You only get on the cart if it's a season-ending injury." The pain cracked my voice. The fear took the rest. "I just f.u.c.ked my chances of playing this year."

Chapter Eighteen Leah.

Jack's injury tortured him beyond the pain of a sprained knee. It stole his purpose in life.

It broke my heart to see him so upset, frustrated, and panicked. I couldn't even help.

I never felt more helpless than watching when his teammates had picked him up off the field. The pain overwhelmed him by the time he reached the locker room. He'd rested on the exam table, hands covering his face during the a.s.sessment.

And what scared me the most?

He didn't fight when they immediately sent him to the hospital.

Fortunately, he'd suffered only a sprain. Unfortunately, it would force him onto crutches and off the field for the rest of training camp.

Not a good way to start the season.

But he was still working his a.s.s off, even when the doctors and I told him to take it easy. He couldn't run the drills, but he trained his upper body in the weight room, studied the playbook, and helped to call the plays at practice to a.s.sist the team.

Jack was full of surprises.

His car pulled into the garage, but it took him longer to move now. I stood as he limped into the kitchen. He aimed for the den, but he gave up after only one step downstairs. His fingers curled into the bannister, and I darted to his side to help before he did something stupid.

"Can I get you anything?" I pointed to the fridge. "I made some dinner...but the baby didn't like the smell of chicken tonight. I can pop it into the oven for you though. It'll be ready in twenty. Can I get you something more comfortable to wear than the suit? Sweats okay?"

Jack set his jaw. His duffle bag crashed at his feet. "I don't wear sweats unless I'm sick. I'm not sick. I'll find my workout stuff."

I took the step instead of him, pressing my hands into his chest. I wasn't eye-level to him, not even close. And I wasn't anywhere near intimidating, especially with my tummy swelling enough to be noticeable under the tank top, but he would listen to me. I'd make him.

"Jack Carson, go sit on the couch and rest."

"Not in the mood to rest."

"It's only been a week. You can't rush healing. Stop moping, sit down, and rest your knee."

Jack's eyes narrowed. I never thought I'd miss his condescending smile. This welling anger wasn't him. The moody, irritable, disheartened man wasn't the same one who could charm with a whisper and delight with a kiss.

It wasn't just the injury, it was everything. The coaching staff riding him. The media. The pain.

Me.

How could I bring him back?

He tried to push past. "I should do some core work."

"You're not working out now."

"I have to, Kiss." His words were too sharp. He apologized. "Look, the team is depending on me. They need me to be healthy. I have to keep training on whatever I can or else..."

He spoke so painfully, and his expression twisted.

G.o.d, he was guilty.

Jack was guilty for getting hurt.

And everyone accused him of being selfish. Including me. How wrong was I about this man?

I brushed my hands along his face, touching his hardened jaw line and the angles of his cheeks. Nothing on Jack was ever soft-not his body, never his c.o.c.k-but, for once, I saw something that was.

His heart.