Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (6 page)

“Alright, mystery man. Let’s get to know each other.”

* * *

A
nd that’s
when I willingly, readily, and eagerly lose myself. It’s taking his hand and letting him pull me into the mass of swirling, dancing bodies as the music pounds around us. Because twenty-four hours after meeting this man – twenty-four hours after kissing him like a crazy person – I’m now in the middle of a Las Vegas club, feeling his body pressed against mine as we pulse and sway to the music.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m leaving the good, the groomed, and the proper girl named Natalie Ames behind - leaving her standing by the wall like some piece of pretty art, or a conversation piece.

Because
this
Natalie Ames just let go.
This
version of me is letting the thundering bass move through her like a live current, and undulating her hips against the tall dark and handsome with the body carved out of iron behind her.

This version of me is running her fingers through her hair as she tosses her head back against his broad, chiseled chest. This me is biting her lip and moving in time with his hands on my hips, his breath against my neck, and his lips against my ears.

And there’s still one lingering part of me that knows how crazy this is - one final part of me that knows I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be dancing with this stranger
like this, and letting his hands slide over my body.

But it feels too damn good.

All
of it does - the letting go, the freedom, the craziness and the music and the champagne pounding through my veins like fire. And of course,
him
. Him being my new fake husband, my wild-card draw, and my leap of faith.

His lips slide across my neck as the music moves us like lovers, his hands entwining in mine.

And I’m free.

I’m wild.

I’m hauling him to the bar, laughing when his brow shoots up at the shots I line up across the bar. And I’m laughing, and spinning, and falling into him at the feel of his mouth and his tongue tasting the salt and the lime from my skin. I’m feeling the charge of something raw and something wicked as I taste tequila on his lips.

This
is life. This is living.

And for the first time since I can really ever remember, I just
let go
.

T
he first thing
I’m aware of is the blinding pain lancing through my head.

I wince, blinking and feeling even worse when I do. I haltingly bring my hands up in font of my face, pawing at the light in some vain attempt at shutting it out, even if I’ve got at least a vague sense of it being sunlight.

Will someone turn that damn sun off?

I blink again, this time feeling the rolling wave of nausea oozing through me. I groan, feeling my tongue rasp like sandpaper across my parched mouth, feeling my lips brush together like crepe paper. I roll on to my side, the pulse in my head like a hammer blow
again and again.

Gotta turn that sun off.

I’m aware of the nonsensical phrasing of the thought in my head, but it’s the one thing I can think of that might help in that horrible nightmare of champagne and tequila hangover.

My lips part in silent agony, wishing for water that isn’t there as I slowly push the sheets from my body and move to-

Oh God.

And that’s when I’m aware of the
second
thing.

I’m completely naked.

More than that, I’m completely naked, in a bed, next to Austin.

I freeze, the roaring pain in my head almost forgotten as I cringe and turn towards him. I wince as I slowly lift the sheet from his sleeping body and peek under-

Oh, yep, yeah, he’s
definitely
naked too.

I flush red, feeling the panic shooting through me like an electric current.

Oh my God, what did I DO last night?

I can’t breathe.

There’s the feeling of weight pressing down on my chest, and I’m trying to suck in air as I bring my hands to my face to try and fan myself when-

Oh. My. God.

Because that’s when realization number three hits me, like a slap in the face. Or rather, like the glare from the
gigantic
rock sitting on a gleaming, gaudy ring on my finger.

And very quickly, I am
wide
awake.

I sit bolt upright in bed, staring at the diamond ring on my finger and trying to grasp for answers in the blank memory of my night.

Holy shit.

It comes back in vague flashes - a chapel, a bottle of tequila, a limo ride I think, with more tequila.

Good fucking God, what did I do last night?

My eyes slowly move from the ring on my hand to the carnage of the hotel room around us - the empty bottles of champagne leaking the last of their contents across a chair in the corner, both of our clothes strewn across the floor.

I need to get out of here.

I wince when the pain comes rushing back as I slide my leg out of the bed and stumble for the robe hanging off the back of the duvet by the window. I swallow thickly, tasting tequila and forcing myself not to vomit as I lurch on my feet and clutch at the side table next to me for support.

I look down, and it’s then that the last of my grasp on keeping calm drops out the damn window.

Please no.

I want it not to be real. I want the
very
vague fracture of memory to be a nightmare, and I want the piece of paper sitting on the table to be a figment of my imagination.

But the very real, very legal looking, very official looking document sitting there with both our names signed across the bottom says this is anything but a dream.

In fact, it says one Austin Taylor and one Natalie Ames are
legally married in the state of Nevada.

The marriage license falls from my hands as my head swirls and my feet move on autopilot. I’m grabbing my dress from the night before from the floor, along with one of my shoes, and stumbling for the door.

I clutch the bathrobe around myself as I yank the door to the room open.

I have to get out of here, I have to go home, I have to-

My eyes land on the complimentary morning paper, sitting there outside the hotel room door. And right there on the front page of the Los Angeles Daily Times is a picture of the man I just woke up naked next to.

The entire world goes still as I pick it up, my eyes flitting over the “NFL’s Hottest Bachelor Wed?” headline to the byline beneath it: “Wild man party-boy Austin Taylor rumored to be on vacation with mystery new bride - who says you can’t tie them down!”

It clicks right then, because very suddenly, I know
exactly
how I know the cocky Texan with the body made for sin.

The guy on the news from time-to-time.

The guy who was with that girl who was too young or something.

The guy who crashed his car into a coffee shop.

…The guy who’s naked and asleep in the bed I just crawled out of.

The paper drops from my hands, and my eyes suddenly drop in slow motion to the giant, flashing rock on my finger.

Oh, God.

Because this may have been fake yesterday, but I think I just
actually
married the biggest and most infamous man-whore in professional football.

I’m so screwed.

J
esus fucking Christ
.

My head feels like I just got sacked by the biggest linebacker in the NFL, without
wearing a damn helmet. I groan, rolling onto my side in the bed and clenching my jaw at the rolling waves of bile and nausea that boil up inside.

Holy fuck, mistakes were made.

Mistakes like that fourth bottle of Dom, or the who-the-fuck-knows how many shots of tequila strewn between them. I’ve also got a vague memory of smoking a joint somewhere - in a limousine I think - and judging from the acrid taste in my mouth, that’s probably not that far off from the truth.

I was in a damn limo last night?

The memory is
extremely
vague, which makes sense given what parts of the night I can actually remember. I grimace again at the thought of what I consumed last night, feeling my stomach turn at the mere thought of the word “tequila.”

I remember her kissing me.

Shit.
That
I damn well remember. I remember her lips on mine, her arms wrapped around my neck, and my hands on her body. There are flashes of laugher, and that smile, and the flick of fire in her eyes.

In the limo? I’m frowning, trying to think past the kiss to the surrounding and see if I can grab at more of my night.

Yeah, we kissed in the limo alright - that much is coming back to me. The limo and the private booth of that fourth club we went to. And then the limo again, followed by the hotel lobby, and the elevator, and I feel like I remember something about the suite’s couch, followed by-

Aww, shit
.

And it’s then that I realize I’m buck naked in the bed.

I sit bolt upright, my hands clutching at my pounding head as I glance across the destruction of the bedroom - at the knocked-over lamp, the empty bottles of champagne-

…Her panties laying on the floor next to the bed, and right next to them, like a final damning piece of evidence is a ripped-open box of condoms.

Oh holy fucking shit.

I got had.

It might sound like a shitty first assumption, but it’s spelled out as clear as can be. I’ve heard this story before, from dozens
of other high-profile players. I’ve seen this played out before in a hundred tabloid stories. The mysterious girl who seems too good to be true who just “happens” to fall into the rich young sports star’s lap. The coy remarks, the alluding to needing rescuing, followed by the drinks and the drugs, until you wake up with an eighteen-year financial commitment to a girl you don’t even know.

It’s the classic gold-digger scenario, and I fucking swallowed the whole thing - hook, line, and sinker.

And now I’m
sunk
.

Goddamnit, what was I thinking
?
A fake marriage? To a girl I met while drunk in a hotel bar? To a girl who I can see now obviously played me like a fucking chump with that whole damsel in distress shit, and the kiss at the elevator, and that little scene she staged in the lobby the next morning?

Yeah, she probably saw me coming a mile away. She probable heard my conversation with Derek in the bar and saw a golden fucking meal ticket.

Where is she
.

The bed is empty, although it’s still actually warm when I place my hand on the sheets. I stagger to my feet, feeling the room spin around me as the contents of my stomach churn.

Jesus, I might still be a little drunk.

I grab for a pair of boxers from the floor, slipping them on as I hold onto the wall for support. I’m blinking sawdust and regret out of my eyes when I look up, and suddenly, I spy her, sitting out on the balcony.

I frown.

Yeah, I’m gonna set this straight
right
now. I’m gonna give her a piece of my damn mind… if I can even speak right now, that is.

I stumble towards the sliding door, ready for whatever speech she’s dreamed up. Hell, I wonder if she’s “already late,” I mean, I’ve heard the horror stories.

The sliding door slams open as I stagger out, and I’m opening my mouth to say all sorts of horrible shit to this little gold digger, when she suddenly turns.

And she’s crying.

Wait, what?

“Hey, uh-”

She whirls back away from me, wiping her eyes and sniffling, and all at once, all my bravado and my righteousness shatters away.

“Go away,” she mutters out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

I swallow, running my hand through my hair and letting my fingers massage my aching temples. “Look, are you okay?”

She whirls back to me suddenly, fury on her face. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know!”

I blink at her outburst, frowning as I shake my head. “
Excuse
me? Says the girl that just fucking
used
me?”

She barks out a humorous laugh. “I didn’t
use you
, you asshole! You’re the one that got me
drunk
, and- and-”

“
Whooooaa
, hang on now.”

I hold my hands up, shaking my head.

“That is
not
how last night went down, and I think you damn well know that.”

Her face falls as her shoulders slump. “I- I don’t know
how
last night happened.”

The tension seems to drop out from between us as we both sag under the weight of our hangovers - her slumped into the chair, me easing back against the sliding door.

“Look, I don’t think we- uh, you know.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think we fucked.”

She wrinkles her brow, like I just fed her a lemon, and shakes her head. “Do you remember?”

“Not really.”

She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “Then what on earth makes you think that?”

Blind hope? Desperate optimism?

“Wait, hang on.”

The thought hits me suddenly, and I’m quickly ducking back inside and stumbling for the box of condoms. I snatch it off the floor, and I’m tearing the rest of the top off as I frantically start to count the contents.

Oh thank God…

I let out my breath in a woosh - they’re here, all twelve of them still in the foils.

Unless…

I yank my boxers down and peer at my cock for a solid thirty seconds before I shake my head and turn to head back out to the balcony.

“Look, I really don’t think we had sex.”

She looks up, chewing on her lip and wiping the back of her hands across her eyes again. “I- I don’t know if we did either, but-”

“Well great!” I momentarily forget my crippling hangover as I let out a whooping sound and pump my fist in the air.

Natalie scowls. “Well don’t get
too
happy about it, you prick.”

I roll my yes. “No, not that, just…you know.”

She still doesn’t look as happy as I think she should be as she makes a face and drags her eyes back to me.

I’m ecstatic though - the rush of realizing I’m
not
about to get raked over the coals on some paternity test somehow acting as the greatest hangover cure in the history of the world.

Bam
. I dodged a fucking bullet there, and as the grin spreads wide across my face, I can feel my body and my head feeling better already.

“There’s, uh- there’s more,” she says quietly, interrupting my elation.

I spread my arms wide, still grinning like an idiot. “Well cheer up, princess! What else matters?”

“This.”

And right then, as she holds her hand up to my face and as the morning sun glints like an accusation off the huge rock on her finger, the bottom drops right back out.

And just like that, I’m right
back to hangover, nightmare hell - the whole world spinning around me as I drop back against the sliding door.

“What the fuck is that.”

It’s a stupid question, because even a guy like me knows exactly
what a ring on that finger is.

“What do you
think
it is?” she mutters out, shaking her head and looking away. “Look at your hand.”

“Why, what’s on my-”

Oh, shit.

A gold, gleaming band that looks
suspiciously
like…

It starts to come back then - the shots, the dancing, the limo driver who’s hand I palmed a wad of cash into and promised season tickets to. I remember kissing her against the railing by the Bellagio fountains, and something about wishes, and some extremely sloppy-drunk talk about us being best friends.

Oh holy Christ.

“That’s not- I mean-”

I look away from the ring on my hand, pinching the bridge of nose in my fingers and squeezing my eyes shut - like that fucking ring and what it means might disappear if I close them hard enough.

“Real?” She spits out with a huff. “Side table, inside.”

I open my eyes to see her nodding glumly at the table just inside, and I quickly stumble back in and grab at the piece of paper laying there.

And that’s when the world goes still, as my eyes lock on the very real, very not-dreaming marriage license in my hand.

“Well,
shit
.”

Natalie groans from her chair behind me. “Yeah, ‘well shit’ is right, Austin - oh, or should I call you number thirty-three?”

I cock an eyebrow, a grin halfway teasing my lips. “Oh, so you know me now?”

“You really could have said something, you know,” she snaps.

I grin. “I did. I offered you five hundred grand to marry me, and you said yes.”

Her eyes narrow. “To
fake
marry you!”

I glare at her. “Well, yeah, no shit. But I think that was a two person job, princess.”

She scowls at me. “Well I’d have never in a million years said yes if I’d known who you were.”

“Oh, please, enlighten me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Because you’re
you!
” She flings a copy of the LA Times at me from the patio table, and I catch it in time to see some ridiculous opinion piece about my car crash with the junior commissioner’s daughter, along with some line calling me a “infamous philanderer.”

“I mean is there a girl you
haven’t
slept with in this country?”

I toss the paper over my shoulder and smirk. “You?”

Natalie’s face crumbles as she drops it into her hands and shakes her head. “Oh God, I’m going to be ill,” she groans. “I can’t believe we slept
naked
in the same bed, I probably have something now.”

I roll my eyes, glaring at her. “Alright, simmer down.”

Her shoulders start to hitch, her breath coming faster and faster as she rocks herself in the chair.

“Hey, hey!” I frown as I crouch next to her. “Stop, just breathe.”

This whole thing has spiraled way out of control, and suddenly, I hate Derek for even suggesting this ridiculous plan. The plan was something for show. Now? Now I’m
legally
married to little miss princess here - apparently the only girl in the damn world who actually and actively wants nothing to do with me.

I groan as the lancing pain in my head comes rushing back with a vengeance. I cringe and sit back on my heels, holding my head and trying to keep it together.

Fuck, I’m married.
Me -
the hottest, most in-demand bachelor in pro sports.

I need coffee.

Well, coffee or something ten times stronger. I need aspirin, or fucking Pedialyte or something. Fuck, I need something
nuclear
for this hangover.

But first thing’s first, I need coffee.

And then we need to sort this shit out,
fast.