Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Read online

  “She—”

  “Dead?”

  “Cancer,” I say quickly, so I don’t have to sink into the memories for too long. “She was diagnosed soon after she had Lily. She lived about nine months after that.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I know.” Despite my attempts, I tear up anyway and use the cuff of my denim jacket to swipe them away. It only manages to smear streaks across my cheeks.

  “That fucking sucks,” he says.

  I dig my nails into the denim. If it were possible for a single glare to open a hole underneath a person and send them into a demon realm, mine just did.

  “More than you could ever know,” I grit out. Then I clear my throat. “Paige’s parents are both dead. Same with her grandparents. She was an only child. Her parents had no family. You see where I’m going here.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Lachlan blinks. “But what about you? You’re here.”

  I nod. Can’t help but picture Lily holding her hands out to me so she can be picked up. Squishing her cheeks with my kisses. Squeezing her chunky, adorable thighs and letting her rip out of my hold so she could crawl to her mother, little legs and hands smacking across the floorboards.

  “I’m not family according to the courts,” I say. “The law says you’re the next of kin. Of course, a DNA test will have to be done to prove you’re the father, since Paige never put you on the birth certificate and there wasn’t time to deal with government bullshit while she was so sick, but—”

  “Wait. Hold up. Stop right there.” Lachlan spears out a hand, palm out like he could physically keep me from saying anything more. “I’m not…no way. I can’t have her. You can’t bring her here.” His voice is getting higher the longer he talks. “I’m no father.”

  “Lachlan,” I say quietly. “You’re all she has.”

  “Locke, call me Locke.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. Locke. You’re all she has.”

  “No, I’m not. There’s you. Let me sign whatever I need to sign, and I’ll hand her over to you. You can be her new mom.”

  I am zero-point-two seconds away from flinging myself into his face, claws out, maybe using my teeth to chew off his nose. I expect Lachlan—sorry, Locke—to be shocked, upset, deny, deny, deny. But I didn’t think he’d be so cavalier as to dismiss Lily’s mom and want to hand Lily over to someone else like she was a trophy he didn’t want, then go on about his day.

  “Hey—ow!”

  I throw the half empty can of soda at him instead.

  “You haven’t even met Lily, never mind seen her,” I say, coming to a stand and seething. “You have no clue what a wonderful, vivacious, incredibly gorgeous baby you made, and I was willing to give you credit for that. How could you know when Paige never clued you in? But here? Now? Lily is with a foster family. You got that? Strangers who didn’t raise her, people who the state employs to take care of a baby until a family member can get her. And believe me when I say I wish, with everything I have left in me, that I could be the one to take her. That it could be me to hold her, tell her everything’s okay.” My voice cracks. “But I can’t. Some judge in Gainesville tells me I can’t because of a dying letter my best friend wrote naming you as the legal guardian. So here I am, trying to find Lily a person who wants her as badly as I do.”

  Suddenly, a cool, collected calm falls across my shoulders, and I level Locke with a look. “You know what? You’re right. You don’t deserve her.”

  His brows jump like I’d tossed so many words at him and he was still collecting the meanings.

  “You want to sign away your parental rights, fine. But here.” I fumble in my back pocket, pulling out my phone and angrily tapping until I find what I need. “This is her.”

  Lily was almost six months old on her playroom floor in the picture, stubby legs splayed out in a V, her favorite toy bunny in her hands, gumming it up for the camera with a toothless smile. Her blonde ringlets were just coming in, little curlicues around her ears. Her eyes, a stunning blue, were no less bright even while crinkled with a grin.

  “I…” Locke lifts his hand for the phone as if programmed on automatic. “Oh, my God.”

  “This is who you want to pass off to strangers. This little girl who has done nothing but bring light into our lives, who did nothing to deserve losing her mom. All she asks is to be loved.” I smack my chest. “And I love her. Which is why I’m here, before CPS comes, before you’re given some official document instead of Lily’s face to decide whether you want her, to tell you that Lily…” I glance around Locke’s space, cringing outwardly and deep down in my soul. I can’t give her up like this.

  “You’re terrible for her,” I admit.

  Locke peels his eyes away from my phone’s screen. “Huh?”

  “You’re a bad idea.” I nod, cross my arms, swallow, and pretend not to notice how his expression has softened, how he strokes the screen like he’s bringing Lily to life. “But you’re her father. And Lily doesn’t need a new family. She needs her father.”

  “I can’t…” He blacks out the screen and gives it back to me, but is still bemused. “This is a lot to take in, you understand. I need time to figure this out. You have to give me the decency of a minute.”

  I release a breath, sails billowing closed. “You’re right. Of course. Coming at you like this, throwing a baby in your face.” I rub my face, tangle my fingers in my hair as I hold it at the back of my neck and look at the ceiling for answers. “I’m scared, Locke. That’s why I’m here, why I’m yelling at you. I’m so scared for that baby.”

  “Hey.” Locke reaches out, strokes my arm. Then, as if afraid I’d bite it off, quickly draws it back. “It’s a lot for both of us. But…you said Gainesville. Florida. So how long are you here?” He audibly gulps. “How long do I have? To decide?”

  “I’m here for another twenty-four hours.” I throw my hands out. “But I can be a tourist in New York City for a few days while you figure stuff out.”

  “Okay. Good.” He pulls out his phone from his shorts. “Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

  I do as he asks, but my stomach plummets over the idea that Lily’s life will be decided when this guy calls me. A man who probably says those exact words to a hundred women, less than a third of whom he follows through with. A booty call. A sext. A sorry-not-sorry excuse.

  “As soon as you can,” I say to Locke, and make sure he’s looking into my eyes, that I’m drilling in the consequences of his decision into Lily’s mirror blues.

  “Yep,” he replies.

  I’m ushered out the door, his large palm hovering near my back. He’s tall, tanned, with a full head of sand-brown hair that would appear mussed with sex even if he were a virgin. True masculine beauty, but he’s not enough for my Lil.

  I pray he can be enough.

  4

  Locke

  As soon as I shut the door behind Carter, I stare at the woodgrain, mouth going dry because I can’t close it.

  Fuck this. I go in search of a beer.

  Hell, I need a keg. Since my apartment can barely hold a couch and a table, I have to find cool relief elsewhere, so I call my good buddy Ben. We’d grown up together during college, played on the Gators—me as a running back, him as a wide receiver. Only other difference is, his stint with the NFL is still going.

  We meet at a bar a few blocks over. Ben’s already there, slurping soda water with lime in preparation for the upcoming season. We smack palms before I take a seat beside him.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks. “You sounded pretty shitty on the phone. And not hungover shitty.” He stabs his ice with a straw. Ben can never sit still. In class, at a bar, especially before games. It’s like a fireball lives inside him, and for Ben to maintain the heat, he has to expel the extra energy by using an appendage at any given time.

  An excellent talent to employ on the field. A not-so-great trait when in need of a serious conversation.

  “Didn’t you bring home whatsherface?” Ben pauses in his st
abbing. “The cocktail waitress from the club?”

  “Candy. Tara. Yeah. That’s not what’s got me, though.”

  “No? Good, ‘cause she was smokin’, man. She show you too much of a good time?”

  The bartender comes over, and I order a draft while he assures Ben his nachos are coming. During that exchange, a screech wails out behind us. I turn to see two mothers coming inside with mini-luxury cars that are holding a lifetime’s worth of weight, plus a tiny infant in each, located somewhere within those blanket folds.

  That’s the thing about Williamsburg. Even bars host playgroups.

  The two moms are laughing as they bump strollers, one gesturing with her cell while the other is rifling through a purse the size of a volcano hanging over one of the stroller’s handle.

  One kid lets out a wail, and after looking over and assessing the situation, the other joins in. Music can’t pierce eardrums like that.

  “You okay, man? You’re looking a little pale.”

  I turn to Ben. No need to peer into the mirror behind the bar, because I can feel how green I look.

  “I have one of those,” I say.

  Ben’s in the middle of noshing on the nachos that were just plopped in front of him, but he stops mid crunch and says out one side of his mouth, “If you want one, just take one. Don’t ask permission like a sissy.”

  For a minute I think he’s talking about kidnapping one of those terror-dolls, but he pushes his plate, so it’s between us.

  “I have a baby,” I clarify.

  This time, Ben chokes on a pickled jalapeño. I clap him on the back, but it’s a half-assed effort. I’m still listening to the kids’ wails and one of the moms assuring, “He pooped! It’s fine. I’ll change him, then we can order.”

  “Did I just hear you right?” Ben asks once he gulps down half his soda. The lime accidentally went in, so he spits it back into the cup. At my silence, he asks, “When did you knock up a chick?”

  At last, a beer is slid over to me, and I take a long swig. “You know, I didn’t even think to ask how old the baby was. She might’ve told me, though. Everything’s going a bit gray around the edges.”

  Ben nearly chokes again. “How old? The baby’s already here? How do you even know it’s yours?”

  I swallow grimly, remembering Carter standing in the middle of my den, her eyes shining brighter than my spit-shined Heisman Trophy. I’m so afraid for that baby.

  “I’m pretty sure, in this situation, it’s mine.”

  “You need to talk to your sister, man.”

  The mere mention of Astor has me searching for my glass again. “No way. I’m not telling her yet.”

  “But she can help you. Use her lawyer powers, represent you, make sure this is legit and not some chick looking to score some cash.”

  Laughter barks out of me, and while surprising, it feels good. “She’s not a lawyer yet, though she acts like it. And what cash? I’m a washed-up pro athlete, not even staying in the game long enough for the ink to dry on my contract.”

  “Yeah, but your family. Your inheritance.”

  “Means nothing,” I say. “Doesn’t kick in till I’m thirty.”

  “This is so suspicious, though, dude. Yesterday we were knocking back drinks at a club before season starts, and now we’re sitting here in the middle of the day with”—one of the kids shrieks and Ben waits for it to finish—“with a hipster parent meet-up behind us and you telling me you have a secret baby.”

  “Yeah, it’s complicated, which is why I called you.”

  “What kind of help am I?”

  “Just…talk me through it.” I clasp my glass tighter. “Help me understand why a girl showed up at my doorstep saying there was a baby waiting for me in Florida.”

  “Wait, Florida? Slow down. I’m not awake enough for this shit.”

  So, I tell him. He contemplatively chews on his nachos, hanging on to every word. From the minute Carter said, you have a daughter, to the mom being dead.

  “Dead?” Ben cuts in. “How?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Oh.” Ben leans back, brushing his hands together. “How are you coping with that?”

  I ignore his question and say instead, “So, now there’s a kid who’ll be an orphan if not for me. And this girl…shit, Ben.” I pause for another swig, then swipe at my mouth. “You shoulda seen her. Hair all over the place. Eyes on fire. A mouth that honestly had me thinking, how can I not remember those lips? Angry, though. Really, really mad. If she could’ve stabbed me with her eyeballs, she would’ve.”

  “Woulda paid to see that.”

  “She beaned me with a can of coke.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ben says.

  “It was mostly full.”

  Ben cracks a smile. “Sounds like a regular Saturday morning for you, eh, bud? Sorry, bad joke.”

  I don’t have the energy to knock his teeth out.

  “So clearly you haven’t slept with—what’s her name?” Ben pauses. “Or maybe you have.”

  “Carter.” I shake my head. “And like I said, I’d remember this girl. It wasn’t only her words that were unforgettable.”

  “And those words, they’ll change your life.”

  I slump my shoulders over the bar. “What do I do, here?”

  Ben chooses his next sentences carefully. “This baby shares your blood, man. It doesn’t mean she has to share your family.”

  I lick my lips, gnaw on a loose, dry flake. Then I pull out my phone and swipe until I find the picture, the one I sent to myself when I had Carter’s phone. She didn’t know, will likely be pissed when she figures it out, but as soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. I slide the phone over to Ben.

  “Well, shit,” Ben says while rubbing at his mouth. He doesn’t take his attention off the picture of the little girl, happy for the camera like she’d just been in the middle of squealing and giggling. “That’ll get a testicle to drop.”

  “I know.” I’m looking at the picture, too. “She has my eyes.”

  Ben seems to shake himself out of it, because he palms my phone, covering the picture. “Stay smart, man. You need DNA first, before getting any paternal feelings.”

  “I got that. Carter said people would be contacting me. Government types. That there’s some sort of verification process before this baby gets to me.”

  Ben lets out a long, hard breath. “This is so fucked up. Are you saying you want this? This baby girl to live with you?”

  “No,” I blurt, then add, “yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know, man. A few hours ago, I was told I was a dad. Not only that, but I’m also told that she’s coming to me. A baby I never knew existed is coming over here, and I’m supposed to know what to do with it. Her. Do I need one of those?” I point to the black BMWs parked in the center of the restaurant, laden with toys and bottles and diapers and things. “Am I gonna become one of those?”

  “Okay, stay calm.” Ben pats me on the shoulder and locks eyes with me the way we did when we were in a team huddle. “We will figure this shit out. We will. I don’t know much about the law, but I do know you can say no. You haven’t been in this kid’s life at all.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Don’t feel responsible for the fucked-up reasons this baby mama kept your fatherhood from you.”

  I nod again, lean back, and take another long draw of beer. “The baby’s better off without me.”

  Ben doesn’t give his opinion. Instead, he asks, “What’s her name, anyway? The kid?”

  “Lily,” I say automatically. My tongue is still curled on the y when I realize that’s the first time I’ve said it. With my voice. Her name flew out of my mouth, but then stuck like toffee. A staying sweetness I’m not expecting. “Lily James Tobias.”

  Ben gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Pretty.”

  I hunch over the bar with him, finishing my beer and respecting the fact that Ben won’t be invested until I am, that he’ll dismiss this ki
d the minute I give the go ahead. But as I take back my phone, Lily’s face flashes up at me, and I feel a clog in my throat, a tiny stone I can’t dislodge until I black out my screen and shove it into my pocket.

  5

  Carter

  I run out of Locke’s apartment, and I don’t know what to do.

  The hotel I’ve booked is in Times Square because never having visited New York before, it felt like the safest, most understandable area. I’d had no concept of where Locke lived. Turns out, he wasn’t even on the island of Manhattan.

  A long cab ride later, and I was plopped in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a fairly low-key place with few high rises and a lot of little dogs on leashes and independent cafes.

  Now that the confrontation with Locke is over, my lungs, which had been air balloons floating me through the fear, stress, and anxiety throughout this entire trip, have shriveled with a tangible pfffffffff as soon as Locke shut his door on my back.

  I choose the closest cafe because I need coffee. A red eye. A black eye with more espresso shots than coffee.

  I step in, enjoying the tin ceiling with cute patterns resembling royal crests and the small maroon lounges arranged among regular tables and chairs. A local artist adorns the wall, this one with a penchant for portraits of women in various cultures. I settle into the atmosphere, using the external, creative environment as a sieve against my inner turmoil and worry—a constant emotion that hasn’t waned despite the weeks separating me from Paige’s death.

  My fingers itch to call the foster family, but I order my coffee instead. A nervous habit is to tuck my hair behind my ears, and I do it constantly as I wait, the waves falling into my face because I keep lowering my head to stare at the floor.

  I don’t have the family’s number. I’m not privy to that kind of information.

  I haven’t seen Lily in weeks.

  After watching Lily grow from a poppyseed to a nine-month-old, I’m aware that two weeks is an eternity of missed time. She could be talking right now, said her first words. She could have learned to walk because she hadn’t done that yet when I had to say good-bye. She hadn’t cried when I left because she wasn’t aware I was leaving for good. I helped raise her with Paige, from the birthing room to the moment CPS showed up at our shared apartment and told me they had to take her.