Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,85

Nothing more.”

Fine.

I had what I needed.

“Thank you. I understand.” I hesitated in the doorway. “You can all fuck yourselves, but I understand.”

I slammed the door behind me. I couldn’t run, but I hurried to my office and hid in the relative safety and silence.

I’d done it.

My hands trembled, but I pulled my phone from my pocket and stopped the recording.

The playback was clear.

I’d captured every disgusting word Coach Thompson had said.

And when the league listened to the recording, when they heard how willingly he disregarded player health and safety, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to endanger anyone.

But…

The recording continued, and my argument with Clayton replayed crystal clear.

If I outted Coach Thompson, the world would learn I obtained an exclusive fellowship position because I had an affair with my boss—and I secretly carried his child.

I’d never get another job. Never be able to support Genie.

I’d lose everything.

Worse of all—I’d lose Jude.

20

Jude

The vicious tackle silenced the stadium.

This time, I wasn’t the one hurt, limp and broken on the field. But I didn’t feel any relief.

Only dread.

The cornerback had raced around the outside in a quick blitz. I’d caught the ball and prepared for his strike, but he rocketed into me at a bad angle. His helmet struck my ribs and jammed his neck.

I’d gotten up. He didn’t.

And the trainers raced to help.

So this was what it was like, watching someone injured and lifeless on the field.

No wonder my family hated it, my friends were so terrified, and Rory worried more about my head than her baby.

The game stopped for fifteen minutes while the opposing team’s medical staff conferred with our trainers. Even Rory assisted the Tigers’ neurologist. She didn’t follow him to the locker room. Nothing could be done for the player in the stadium. An ambulance transported the cornerback to the hospital.

I tried to remember what that part was like, but I couldn’t relive the moments after my last concussion. Hell, I couldn’t recall anything that happened in the days—or weeks—that followed. No one had known if the hit was just career-threatening, or if it had significantly damaged my neck, my brain, my future. It took too long to figure that answer out.

The game ended, and a celebration surged through the team.

We’d won clear through the playoffs, and now we headed to the championship.

But I sat in the locker room, fingers clutching my helmet as my trembling hands nearly fumbled it from my grip. My fingers curled. The tremor didn’t stop.

It wasn’t fear shaking my hands. Something was screwed up in my head.

And it had been fucked for a long time.

I dropped the helmet, and it clattered to the floor. I didn’t even have the strength in my fingers to hold a two-pound piece of equipment. Cold sweat beaded on me.

Christ.

What if I had been holding the baby?

But Rory still had two weeks before the baby was due. Would that be enough time to heal? If I stopped now, could the headaches cease, trembling end, and fog clear?

Or was it too late?

The locker room bathed in cold, unforgiving light. The guys cheered and congratulated each other with raw excitement. But I hid in the shower while the men roared and beat on their chests. Elle snapped pictures. Families rushed inside. Leah leapt into Jack’s arms. Elle was hoisted over Lachlan’s shoulder. Piper even pushed Cole into the corner and stole a celebratory kiss.

No one came for me.

I’d never noticed this loneliness before.

Not until I fucked it up. Not until I deliberately ignored Rory and forced myself onto the field.

She had been right. About everything. About the injuries. The future. The prognosis. Until now, my life was the game, and I’d built a legacy between the hash marks. I thought that would be enough, but I’d denied the truth. No matter my accolades, my name would fade through the years. My records would be broken until I was just a meaningless statistic somewhere.

Eventually, only I would remember my accomplishments.

If I was lucky.

I’d spent twelve years in the league, and most of it was a blur. Was that because of a long career, or because the only memories that remained were the ones when I waited for that next hit, next pain, next problem that threatened to take me out of the game?

What would I have when I quit?

An empty penthouse. A life of therapy and rehabilitation.

No family. No warm body next to me in bed, stealing covers only to throw them away because the baby made her hot.

“All-Star.” Jack slapped my shoulder.