Page 55 of Player Misconduct
There’s no undoing this.
I’m pregnant.
And it’s his.
Chapter Ten
Kendall
The waiting room of my OBGYN is a collection of plastic chairs and half a dozen magazines with headlines that promise self-improvement. The TV in the corner is blaring some kind of morning news show but I don’t catch on to anything they’re saying. I’m too nervous for this appointment. My hands are folded tight in my lap like I can physically hold this together.
Ten weeks gestation.
I’ve been repeating that number like a prayer.
That’s why I’m here. Waiting for a measured, clinical answer. For someone else’s stethoscope to translate this private chaos into data I can trust.
After taking a handful of pregnancy tests–five, maybe six, plus the one Isla shoved into my hand, just to be sure–I’ve finally scheduled the appointment to confirm what all those little plastic sticks already told me.
Each one had the same two pink lines staring back at me from my bathroom counter.
Now I just need a doctor to tell me they weren’t some late April Fool’s joke gone wrong.
My phone buzzes giving me a small reprieve from my own thoughts. I glance at the screen and see the group thread light up: Vivi, Isla, Cammy, Peyton–my tiny, loud, gloriously nosy tribe.
Vivi: What the hell?? Did you know they took this photo?
A thumbnail pops up. I don’t click on it at first. I already have a hand in my abdomen, as if the baby’s a small thing I can steady with two fingers. Then I open the image.
There we are, me and Tarron, at the front of the restaurant when I first arrived to meet him. The warm glow of the restaurant's lighting washes us in flattering light. His hand rests at the small of my back. His lips press the side of my cheek in the exact angle they used in the photo the paparazzi love to exploit. My smile is that made-for-public smile, the one that covers a dozen softer, darker truths.
The nausea climbs like an elevator. I force my breath shallow and even.
The headline reads worse than the picture.
Is Tarron McCoy making a play for the Sentinels? And for his ex-wife?
Cammy: What an asshole. Do you think he planted this?
Isla:She’s at the doctor right now. Don’t stress her out.
Peyton:If outlets are posting this it must be one damned slow news week. Don’t worry about it. This will be yesterday’s headline by noon.
I’m about to type something, when the nurse comes out and my stomach flutters with nerves, but then she calls someone else in the waiting room. The fluorescent light over the reception area seems too bright all of a sudden. My knees go rubbery- but I stand, even if the world is tilting just enough to make me steady myself against the back of a chair.
I knew photos had been taken. I didn’t expect them to have this clarity, this timing. Cammy’s question circles like a vulture in the back of my skull: did he plant this? Would he; would he stoop that low for optics? I wouldn’t put it past him, not after everything. And certainly not if he still has the same agent who sold me down the river for a commission payday.
Vivi: Oh my God! Can we get rid of this guy? I’m not afraid of jail.
That earns her a grin and a slight chuckle from me. These girls are so protective and I appreciate it, even if it’s just for a laugh.
Then a new message drops into the thread. Another video link, it autoplays right there in the preview. It’s a clip from a charity last night, the kind with cameras, balloons, and forced warmth. There’s Tarron at the mic, the sports-friendly smile in place. He looks immaculate. He looks, most dangerously, practiced.
A reporter off-camera asks, “Tarron, the photos of you and your ex-wife that surfaced earlier today. Do you have a comment?”
He blinks as if surprised to be asked a personal question. For a beat, that arrogant curiosity of his is soft as velvet. Then he gives his practiced half-smile. “Kendall and I went through some hard things and a very public divorce,” he says. “At the end of the day, though, we still care for each other. Things are new, but—” he pauses, the camera catching the exact second he chooses his words—“we’re talking again. And there’s a little bundle of news to share once she’s ready to tell the world.”
My stomach flips over so violently I have to sit down before I fall. I can’t hear the rest of the clip. The video sounds like it’s coming from behind a door: distant, tinny, not quite real. My free hand goes hot and balls at my fist. I should have expected he would do something like this.
