Page 100 of Clear Shot
I’m in no condition to have a conversation like this, and frankly, there’s nothing to say.
“Let’s not do this,” I say, opening the door a few inches. “Not now.”
“We are doing it.” Johan pushes past me, striding into my house like he owns it.
“Look, I’ve got my agent working on a trade,” I say. “We don’t need to make this ugly. I’ll hopefully be gone in a few days and?—”
“You know who’s going to be gone in a few days?” Johan asks, whirling to face me. “Hana. She’s leaving for Slovakia.”
“That has nothing to do with me,” I say, though for some reason my stomach drops.
She cheated.
Every time I have a visceral reaction to something to do with Hana, I remind myself of that.
“Maybe not, but what about your child?” he asks.
“Not my kid,” I say quietly.
He explodes in a torrent of what I assume is Slovak, his face turning red as he glares at me.
“What my friend here is trying to say,” Anders interjects smoothly, “is that she insists it is. So until you agree to a cheek swab for the paternity test, you should reserve judgment.”
“Paternity test?” I’m confused. “You can do a DNA test while she’s pregnant?”
“It’s a blood test and cheek swabs and stuff,” Anders says. “So yes, you can.”
I feel a moment of hope and then?—
She cheated.
I can’t have gotten her pregnant.
Can I?
Would she be pushing for a paternity test this early in her pregnancy if she was sure of that?
The first wave of doubt nibbles at the edge of my subconscious.
“You do understand that when the paternity test comes back showing that the child is yours, it doesn’t matter where you get traded to,” Johan says, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Calgary or Russia or the fucking arctic circle, you will have a responsibility to the child. And I will chase you to the ends of the earth to make sure you pay, even if you don’t want to be part of his or her life.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I yell. “It can’t be my kid. I had a motherfucking vasectomy years ago!”
“Then something went wrong!” he yells back.
We glare at each other.
“You look like you’re about to fall over,” Jordan says quietly. “Why don’t we take this to the living room or something?”
“There’s no furniture,” I mutter.
“The kitchen then.” Anders tugs me in that direction, and I let him because I don’t know what else to do.
“Jesus, you reek,” Anders mutters under his breath. “When was the last time you had a shower?”
“When was the last time you ate?” Jordan interjects, staring at the whiskey bottles on the island.
“I’m fine!” I snap. “I’m just waiting for news about the trade. Then I’ll be out of everybody’s hair.”
