Page 21 of The Home Grown
“I had camp. I was in an intensive training schedule with the kids. I texted you when I got home, and you never texted me back.”
I can’t even fathom this. Because I definitely did not know, and why would I do such a thing? Why would I lure someone into marriage?
Yeah, I was massively into this girl, but there’s an enormous difference between wanting to sleep with someone and forcing them to marry you without their knowledge.
But Ellie’s reeling.
“Then you were going out with Julie Goldsworthy. You got back from Germany, and you were hooking up with her…” she says.
Julie Goldsworthy? I don’t even remember a Julie Goldsworthy.
“Honestly, I wish I never—” She stops. Instead of finishing her sentence, she sniffs loudly and wipes her hand over her eyes as she steps backwards.
Shit. Is she crying?
“I thought you ghosted me,” I say, but she’s not listening anymore.
“Contact Greg. He’s expecting you to reach out,” she says before backing away.
And for the first time in my entire life, I’m genuinely lost for words.
Chapter Five
BETTSY
“Did your friend find you?”Hutch asks.
He pops up from the sofa when I enter our apartment. He’s in exactly the same place he was when I left him this morning, sprawled out, and sinking into a box set marathon. Today is a non-practice day, which means Hutch has morphed into lazy mode, apart from a run he likely has planned for later this evening, because he’s weird like that.
I head straight for the dining table, grabbing my laptop before striding into the kitchen, where I set it down on the breakfast bar.
“I need a drink,” I say. “Do you need a drink?”
Hutch stares at me, then watches on as I grab a whisky glass from the kitchen cupboard before rooting for a bottle of whatever I can find. I have a feeling there’s a rogue half of a bottle of something at the back of the cupboard from Christmas.
“Shit, what’s going on?” he says.
I find a bottle of whisky, dust off the cap and the liquor hits the glass and then my throat in less than five seconds. I slam thetumbler down on the worktop then I flip open the lid of my computer—pouring myself another drink while I wait for it to boot up.
“What’s going on?” Hutch says again, getting to his feet. “Did something happen?” He walks over to the counter and leans against it, trying to make eye contact with me.
I do everything in my power to avoid him, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and focusing on my laptop instead.
“Shit—she didn’t tell you that you’ve fathered a child, did she?” Hutch says.
I huff in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake. Why does everyone think I’m going around getting people pregnant? No.”
“What then? Who was she? Because you’ve never headed straight for the bottle before … except when—shit. It was Rochelle faking an accent, wasn’t it? Oh, mate. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It wasn’t Rochelle,” I say, genuinely relieved it wasn’t.
Whatever shit Ellie brought to my door is nothing compared to the crap from Rochelle in the past.
Hutch continues to watch me as I log onto to my computer, and as I pull up a browser, his glare intensifies.
I let my fingers hover over the keyboard, but I type nothing. I don’t even know where to begin. This morning, I was going about my business, worrying about the next couple of weeks with Team GB and now, I’m sitting here wondering if I’m married or not.
Fucking married. I mean … I’m not sure I actually believe it.
