Page 15 of Striker's Foul
“I’ll have a couple of our men on it too,” Gambit says, and they discuss plans while I get my family upstairs to their apartment.
When I step over the threshold into their space, I catch her clean vanilla and lavender scent. The dog moves to a bed in the living room.
“I’m going to bed, Mom.” Jude kisses her cheek before heading to a room off the hallway.
“You don’t have to stay outside. You’re welcome to stay here. There’s a spare room back there,” Amelia says, pointing behind the kitchen.
I nod. “Go get in bed, angel. You look like you’re ready to drop. Take an anti-inflammatory, and I’ll bring you an ice pack.”
I step into the kitchen and open the freezer. Sure enough, my girl has ice packs ready. Having an athlete in the house means she’s always prepared. I grab one, wrap it in a dishcloth, and head toward the room she entered off the living room. I knock, and she answers.
When I step inside, I have to force myself to stay in control. She’s wearing silky shorts and a matching button-down top. It’s covered in steers, stars, cowboy hats, and boots. I shake my head and walk over to her.
“I was going to say don’t come in, but then I realized you’ve seen me in less.” She jokes.
I pull her into my body.
“Angel, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you in anything less than this. And your body has changed since you gave birth to our son.”
She starts to pull away and huffs.
“Not in a bad way,” I add quickly. “You’re sexier than I remember, even in my dreams.”
I slide my hand along her unbruised cheek. She leans into it, and I lower my head. I press a kiss to her forehead. Neither of us is ready for me to take her lips again. Because the second I taste her, I’ll want to bury myself in her completely.
I turn to walk out of the room.
“I’m scared,” she says softly.
I stop and turn back to her.
“Get in bed, angel,” I order, and she listens to me.
She presses the ice pack to her cheek and leans back against the pillow. I move to the other side of the bed, slip my boots off, and lie down on top of the blankets.
She turns out the light, and we lie there in the semi-dark. The parking lot lights cast a soft glow through the window.
“Why didn’t you go pro?” she asks, breaking the quiet.
“I had a choice to make, and soccer wasn’t on that list. I went with what felt like the lesser of two evils.”
“Why?” she asks, rolling toward me.
I want to tell her it all. But will she listen?
“Are you sure you’re ready to hear that? Why don’t you tell me why you didn’t tell me about Jude?”
She’s silent for so long, I begin to doubt she’s going to answer me.
“After Harold told me you didn’t want anything to do with me, that all you wanted was a fun month before leaving for training camp, I didn’t know what to do. I cried for days. When I thought I was sick from lack of food and crying so much, my mom knew better. She had me take a pregnancy test. You’d already been gone for a couple of weeks by then. I didn’t know how to find you.”
She pauses, and I want to tell her I never said that, but I need her to continue.
“Mama planned everything. She sent me to my grandparents in Texas. But before that, we told Harold.”
I notice she doesn’t call him Father.
“He disowned me. Called me a whore and told me to get an abortion. I refused. He said he should’ve never given you the money you asked him for. My mother put me on a plane the next day with a court document stating my name was legally Granville. Harold had signed off on it.”
