Page 53 of Player Misconduct
“Do they really care about your reputation that much?” I ask.
“They do,” he says. “Especially when their GM used to run New York. He’s the one who had my coach fire me.” He looks at me, expression even. “They don’t play around.”
“They canned you because you were drinking and partying too much. You were missing practice–”
“I know. I was there,” he says, stopping me from continuing.
Did he think I forgot?
“How does this help you exactly?” I ask.
“You help me clean up my name, and I keep yours out of the medical board’s crosshairs.” His voice is clinical, almost rehearsed.
I can’t breathe. “You think pretending we’re back together will fix anything?”
He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers against mine. I freeze.
“I’m not exactly suggesting we pretend,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s temporary, until we both get what we need. Or maybe it’s fate. I know you want to be a mother. If it turns out you’re not pregnant… I could change that result for you too.”
I pull my hand back and let out a shaky laugh. “You really haven’t changed.”
“I have Kendall. More than you think. But I need a chance to prove it. This is my chance,” he says, smiling faintly. “I still care about you. And if I can protect you, why not let me?”
And damn him, he almost sounds sincere.
I take a long drink of my water and stare out at the rain-blurred window. “I’m not even sure I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
“If you’re not, and you want to be, my offer stands either way,” he says easily, as if we’re planning a vacation and not rewriting our lives.
The waiter reappears with our food. Tarron thanks him again, his polished charm on automatic, and I can’t decide if it’s worse that he’s being kind or that his offer would actually solve my immediate professional problem.
As he talks about training camp and rehab, I nod, letting his voice wash into the background. The knot in my stomach tightens with every second.
When I get home, I need to take that test. One way or another, I need to know.
If I’m pregnant, I’m probably about eight weeks gestational with them counting the time from my last period. I don’t know when I’ll start to show, but I need to be prepared. Thank God scrubs aren’t form-fitting, and neither are the Hawkeyes’ athletic sweats. That could buy me more time… if I need it.
Tarron’s offer gives me one other benefit I hadn’t intended to consider: if he claims paternity publicly, I don’t have to drop a bomb into Aleksi’s life now that he seems to have found someone who makes him genuinely happy. After how I shoved him awayafter the playoff loss and our night in Nevada—after everything—I don’t want to yank him back into chaos.
Maybe this is the best outcome for everyone.
Maybe I’m just rationalizing.
Either way, the test in my car is burning a hole in my glove compartment.
Dinner wraps in a blur. I don’t even remember the last thing Tarron said before the waiter cleared our plates.
Outside, the drizzle has turned into a fine mist. The valet jogs off to get my car while Tarron stands beside me under the awning, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place? It’s got a great view of Seattle,” he says, voice smooth, practiced, like he’s offering comfort instead of complication.
“You’re not asking me back to your place to check out the view.”
He shakes his head and looks down with a grin. “Okay, I’m not. I miss you and maybe I don’t want this night to end. I screwed up with you. I know that. Tonight was a start to fix it. And then you came to dinner dressed like that…” he takes a full scan of my body. “And we were always good in bed together.”
That makes me think of Aleksi. Now that I’ve had better than Tarron, I don’t share his same sentiment about our past sex life.
In some ways, it would be easy to fall back in bed with Tarron. He’s hurt me in the worst way, but there’s comfort in being with him too. Something that has more to do with me than him. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. But falling in bed with him just to not be alone tonight while I find out my fate about whether I’m pregnant or not isn’t what I need.
