20. Twenty

Twenty

In Nell's opinion, there were some things that were worth a bit of a broken heart.

Waking at the crack of dawn to the sound of a rooster crowing, snuggled up in a narrow bed that really wasn't wide enough for two people when one of those two people happened to be six-foot-three and two hundred pounds—strangely enough, that was one of them.

What that wasn't worth was forgoing her morning coffee, so she pried herself free from Whit and slipped out of bed, then rummaged around in her carry-on to locate a few necessary items, like pants. And underwear. The rest of her clothing from the night before, along with Whit's, lay discarded in a haphazard pile near the bed.

It was a good thing his grandfather was such a heavy sleeper.

She heard Whit stir and glanced toward him, trying to ignore the way her heart constricted as she watched him blink his eyes open and stretch his long, muscular body, still half covered by the bed quilt. It wasn't fair that he could look so gorgeous with his hair mussed and sweaty and sticking up on one side and his eyes bleary from sleep. He should at least have some defect. A puffy face. Maybe a little drool. But even the faint bruise beginning to show on the right side of his jaw just added a bit of rugged allure.

"Hey," he murmured drowsily .

And she should be feeling awkward, she thought. Or guilty. Not this giddy, foolish happiness that rushed into her chest when he smiled at her. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"The rooster pretty much took care of that." He yawned. "What time is it?"

"Caffeine o'clock. Want me to smuggle you some?"

"I've got a better idea." He leaned out of bed far enough to capture her wrist and yanked her back toward him.

Okay, given the choice between sex and coffee, coffee could probably wait.

Nell was running on borrowed time, and she knew it. Whit would be driving her back to Minneapolis Saturday evening after the groundbreaking festivities concluded, then bright and early Sunday morning she'd be headed to the airport, back to the real life she was so desperately keeping at bay. No lingering. No looking back. A clean break.

She'd spelled it out to him plainly the night before. They weren't going to have a relationship, not even the three-month blip that passed for a relationship in his distorted pro athlete worldview. This wasn't an affair, it was a fling , and it was ending the moment she got on that plane back to Chicago. He was still expected to follow through with his end of the bargain and carry out Paige's silly PR romance scheme—and if he ever breathed a word of what had gone on between them, she would make him regret being born.

"That's the most romantic speech I've ever heard," he'd told her, pretending to wipe away tears.

"I mean it, pal," she'd replied, poking him in the ribs. "You think you O'Rourkes are a vicious lot, wait till you meet a pissed off McLean."

"I've met one. She's hot." Then he'd dragged her on top of him, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

Since Skip needed to make a trip to Minneapolis to meet with investors, they had the next two days free—or they did once Whit finished helping with a sudden venue crisis. A ruptured pipe at a hotel ballroom necessitated a change of location for the Saturday night charity gala, which led Nell to discovering there was a Saturday night charity gala. And since she didn't have anything remotely approaching a dress among her recent clothing purchases, Whit whisked her off to Duluth for a bit of shopping… and booked a hotel where he proved to her just how much endurance pro athletes actually had.

Her plan to ignore reality as long as possible hit a snag Thursday evening when she received a series of texts from Gabi, who had taken Nell's recent evasiveness to mean something was going on with Paige. Nell didn't have time to worry about her sister's messed up love life when she was busy pretending the outside world didn't exist, but she had been lying to everyone for the past week, so she figured she was at least partially responsible for Gabi's current fears. It took a good twenty minutes of damage control to convince her that Paige hadn't already rebounded and was only in Cabo for work, and then another twenty minutes to think up an excuse for why she couldn't go out to brunch on Saturday. Then she made the mistake of mentioning the matter to Whit when they returned to their hotel after an early dinner.

His eyes flashed with instant outrage. "Wait a second. Paige was already in a relationship when she came up with her stupid scheme?"

"A stupid scheme you copied," Nell reminded him. "And they're currently broken up. Paige has commitment issues. And Grandmother issues."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"This coming from Mr. Casual."

"I don't have commitment issues. I have a realistic outlook when it comes to ballplayers and long-term relationships—and don't even start to give me shit about that. You're the one who decided on this three-days-and-done crap. Or are you looking to reopen negotiations?"

Not a chance. That was the problem with being in love: she wanted more than he could give, and she wasn't going to waste her energy on might-have-beens. She crossed her arms. "Take off your pants. I like you better when you're not talking."

"Don't think we're done with this," he said ominously. And then somehow she ended up being the one with her jeans around her ankles, gasping and incoherent while Whit's mouth wreaked havoc between her thighs .

The hotel suite Whit had booked for them was nearly the size of her apartment back home—and came equipped with a much nicer bathtub—and after indulging herself in a bubble bath (alone, since nice or not, there was no way that thing was going to fit both of them), she started quizzing Whit on a subject that had been bothering her most of the week.

"What do you do with all that money?" she asked, climbing onto the bed beside him after he'd finished up a few phone calls. "Aside from splurge on fancy hotel rooms."

"This really isn't all that fancy. And I'm not buying you a private jet." He turned an amused glance at her, his gaze traveling down her terrycloth robe to where her bare feet poked out at the end. "Have I mentioned I like your toenails?"

"Yes." She'd had to resist the urge to run out and buy a bottle of nail polish to apply a fresh coat. "I'm serious, though. Your house just seems so… normal. I was expecting, I don't know, koi ponds and fountains and multiple swimming pools."

"Or the High Church of Baseball, like Dad's?"

"Or that."

"Just a whim. It felt homey. It felt like what I needed at the time." He shrugged. "I'm not saying I'll live there forever. I'll be on the lookout for a couple of fountains next time."

She toyed with the baseball charm that was hanging around her neck. "So where does the rest of it go? You don't seem to be hiding a coke habit. That I've noticed."

Whit poked her in the stomach, making her squirm away from him. "I have some investments. I like to travel in the off-season. And a lot of it actually goes to charity."

Nell sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

"Charity's bad?"

"You're ruining my image of the spoiled, self-centered jock."

That made him grin. "I also partner with a couple of local animal shelters."

She rolled to her side and buried her face in a pillow. "Stop. "

"I did buy a ridiculously overpriced penthouse in Chicago that I only used for about six months, if that makes you feel any better."

Images of her cramped apartment with its closet-sized kitchen and leaky sink popped into her head. "No, that just makes me hate you."

"I really should sell the place, I just haven't been able to make myself do it."

"You still have it?" That surprised her, since he hadn't lived in Chicago for over a year. "How overpriced?"

"There's no way I'm telling you that. You have enough dirt on me as is. I need something on you."

"You already know how I got fired. And"—she smacked him in the head with her pillow—"you laughed about it!"

"Because it was hilarious. If you ever tell another parent to go fuck himself, please record it. Now, come on—what's the worst thing you've ever done? You already know mine. It's only fair."

But when she told him about leaving her ex-boyfriend at a campground with nothing but his boxers and a cell phone, Whit just started laughing again.

"So what happened to him?" he wanted to know.

"I have no idea. I blocked his number. If he didn't get eaten by bears, I assume he made it back home."

"I guess I really should beware of pissed off McLeans," he said, and kissed her.

Nell thought she'd be perfectly happy to never get out of bed again, but Friday morning, Whit informed her they couldn't just spend the entire day having sex—total waste, in her opinion—and made her get dressed so he could show her the sights around Minnesota's north shore.

"You do know I grew up next door to Lake Michigan, right?" she asked sulkily.

"And this lake is called…"

"Seen one, seen ‘em all," she retorted, though she loved the quick lighthouse tour he took her on, loved the old buildings smelling of dust and history, the low hum of the water as waves lapped the shore. They had to be back in town by six for dinner at Skip's, but that left them with most of the afternoon, and after a quick debate, Whit drove them to nearby Gooseberry Falls, where they hiked along the stream beds and picked their way up long wooden staircases that seemed to rise straight from the earth. When they stopped to eat lunch on a picturesque outcropping of rocks, Nell tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, trying to breathe everything in. She wanted to freeze this moment, keep it suspended in time. Whatever came after, she told herself, she had this one beautiful day where everything was perfect and none of it was pretend.

At least until Whit brought her back to reality. "I've been thinking about that prickly temper of yours," he said, nudging her foot with his. He was leaning back on his arms, his legs stretched before him, his aviators hiding his eyes.

Nell was enjoying herself too much to take that bait, but she tried to look huffy. "I don't have a prickly temper."

"Trust me on this one, sweetheart. You're the soul of kindness and patience until someone flips the outrage switch. Then it's time to run for cover. You're like… the Hulk."

"Very flattering."

"She-Hulk, then. Totally sexy. The point is—I think we should rehearse what you're going to say to Frank Grantham."

"We?"

"I'll be his stand-in." His roguish grin made an appearance. "Go ahead. Hit me."

She wasn't going to spend even a second of her precious borrowed time on Frank Grantham. "I rehearsed what I was going to say to you. Look how that turned out."

"Pretty damn well, from where I'm sitting."

"You don't believe he'll listen to me, anyway," she reminded him.

"Maybe you just need the right argument."

"This had better not be leading to another bet."

"It relates to our last bet. I have a vested interest in the outcome."

"You won't even know the outcome."

"Why, are you planning to block my number as soon as you get on the plane? "

What did he think three-days-and-done meant? That she'd want to stay friends? Watch him move from one lover to the next? Proof positive that whatever feelings he had for her didn't run very deep, otherwise he would realize what a painful prospect that was. But she didn't want him to think he'd struck a nerve, so she tossed him a teasing smile. "Maybe."

"Harsh. But just so you know, I have my ways."

Nell didn't even want to guess what that was supposed to mean, and she changed the subject. "Have you thought about what you're going to say to James and Sawyer?"

"Yeah. Nothing." Behind his sunglasses, his brow furrowed. "Like I said—all of that is ancient history."

Not if it still hurts you. "That doesn't mean you can't make peace."

"Why, so we can be pals? Reminisce about the good old days? Who cares? We used to be friends. Now we're not. End of story."

Not if you still miss them. "They should know why you were kicked off the team."

"It wouldn't change anything. I still set that fire."

He hauled himself to his feet and held out his hand, but Nell stayed where she was. "How will you know if you don't try?" she asked.

"I do know, so let's drop it."

"I just think—"

Whit's patience snapped. "Nell, stop. I don't need you to fix me, or rescue me, or whatever it is you're trying to do. I've gotten by just fine for twenty-nine years without your help. I think I can manage a little longer. We've had a great time the past few days, but you're not actually my girlfriend, and you're definitely not my therapist."

Nell thought a punch in the gut might actually have hurt less. Fitting that a cloud chose that exact moment to move across the sun. She stood, rubbing her arms. Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

"Shit. Nell—"

"You're right. It's none of my business." She forced another smile. "I guess the champion of the underdog just can't help herself." He started to speak again, and she lifted her hand, pressing two fingers lightly over his mouth. "Don't worry about it, okay? I was out of line. I won't mention it again."

***

It started to snow on the drive back to Fallen Oaks. And not big, fluffy, hang-in-the-air-like-a-holiday-movie flakes, either—the sort of wet, heavy snowfall that meant they were in for a couple of inches by morning, and within an hour or so the streets would be thoroughly covered. The trees along the highway already looked like they'd been sprinkled with powdered sugar, and the sudden drop in temperature had left a thin glaze of ice over everything. Probably not the best conditions for a groundbreaking, Whit thought, but if his dad wanted to build a stadium right when winter was set to make an appearance, well, that was on him.

He had his own problems to worry about. Specifically, the woman sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

He didn't have a damn clue what he was going to do about Nell. He knew what he didn't want to do, and that was drive her to the airport on Sunday morning and never see her again. He also knew she wouldn't want anything to do with him once she realized he had no intention of going along with Paige's rekindled romance idea. His best chance of smoothing that one over was to have a viable alternate plan for fixing—or at least reducing—the epic scandal Paige was about to find herself immersed in, but so far, the phone calls he'd had with his publicist hadn't been especially productive.

He hadn't dared mention that to Nell, since he already hurt her feelings once that day and he didn't feel like wasting what remained of their time arguing.

Which brought him back to… what the hell was he supposed to do about her? He wanted to yell at her for being such a stubborn idiot about the time limit thing, except that he knew she was doing it to protect herself. And with good reason. It was the exact same reason he'd set up his own rules about dating: keep it casual and no one gets hurt. They ended it here, and it became nothing but a fun week and a fond memory. They could enjoy their last two nights as lovers and then part as friends. That was a hell of a lot more than they'd had beforehand. It just… wasn't enough.

And it wasn't only the sex—though, god, the sex was incredible. Beyond incredible. Nell was everything he hadn't known he wanted in a lover: equal parts tender and bossy; shy at times and playful at others; all sass and sweetness and enthusiasm, with a little chaos thrown into the mix. He'd never laughed so much with a woman, or even wanted to. The night before, she'd made him laugh so hard he'd rolled right off of her. And then before he could fully recover, she'd climbed on top of him, riding him into oblivion while he was still trying to figure out what had happened. Afterward she'd lain nestled against him, her head on his chest, and he'd been shocked by how good it felt having her there. How the hell was he supposed to put her on a plane and give all of that up?

He stole a glance at her through the rearview mirror. The stupid thing was, he could just picture her sitting in the stands, leaping out of her seat to cheer when he struck out the side, her face flushed and her eyes laughing. Or coming to meet him after a game, driving home together, the two of them lying curled up in bed after a long night at the ballpark, warm and sleepy and serene. Absolute fantasy; that wasn't how his world worked. That first rush of excitement, that heady feeling of utter contentment? It faded fast. He knew the reality of it. He'd lived the reality of it. He'd seen the toll his father's career had taken on his mother, the way the separation had eaten at her nearly as much as the infidelity, the parts of herself she'd given up even before she'd started drinking. Theirs was an extreme example, Whit understood that—not every guy he played with kept his wife tucked away in another state, and not every guy he played with cheated. But none of them were ever free from temptation. Far too many of them eventually gave in.

Whit had never cheated on a woman and he never would, but that didn't erase all the other complications in his life. It didn't erase the hectic schedule or the media scrutiny. He had a full no-trade clause now, so that at least took care of the uncertainty factor a lot of players' girlfriends had to contend with, but how could he promise any woman that it would all be worth it in the end? The expectations and demands that came along with Major League Baseball could easily overwhelm someone unaccustomed to the rigors of professional sports, especially someone as sensitive and caring as Nell. Sure, some of his friends seemed blissfully happy with their wives and girlfriends and were cheerfully producing new additions to families they didn't see half the year, but how long could that last? There was too much at stake, too much risk involved, and Whit wasn't going to be responsible for anyone's broken heart.

But that didn't mean they had to end things quite so soon. He had three months yet before spring training started, and there was no reason he couldn't spend at least part of that time in Chicago. At a minimum, they could have a few more days of fun.

The trick would be somehow convincing Nell to agree to an extension.

He was busy trying to formulate a plan to persuade her—the first step of which would obviously involve getting her naked—when his phone rang. A quick glance at the screen told him it was Allie.

"Hey, what's up?" He assumed she was calling to complain that he was late, since the sudden snow and an unexpected stretch of road construction had delayed them. Ironic, considering Allie had never been on time for anything in her life. "We're about five minutes out."

Her words came out in a rush. "You're not at Dad's yet?"

"I thought you were at Dad's."

A pause. "Call me when you're done talking to him." Then she hung up.

That was odd.

What was even more odd was that his father wasn't in the house when they arrived. He was out in the backyard, hitting baseballs.

"Dad?" Whit called, following the telltale sound of a bat meeting a ball to where his father stood, faintly illuminated by the spill of light from the deck and the haze of cloud cover overhead. The snow was falling more softly now, thick flakes dusting his hair and melting into the fabric of the battered old O'Rourke 15 jersey he wore—his second-to-last game jersey, one of the few parts of his career he hadn't locked behind a glass case. That he was wearing it now signaled… something, though Whit was at a loss as to what.

He hesitated a moment, gazing out at his dad. From this distance, it was nearly impossible to tell how the passage of years had changed him. He could have been thirty again: tall, strong, indestructible, that same familiar silhouette Whit had seen countless times as a child—Skip standing alert and ready, the bat in his hands an extension of the body he'd honed through years of hard work and the relentless drive to win. Except that now he wasn't facing a rowdy stadium and a steely-eyed pitcher, and the baseballs he was launching into the ozone didn't come whipping over the plate, but from a large wire basket nestled at his feet. As Whit watched, his dad tossed one of the baseballs into the air, gripped the bat, and swung hard, sending the ball hurtling through the darkness. In a blink, it sailed out of the yard and disappeared somewhere in the woods beyond.

Whit's lips curved in a thin smile. Leave it to Skip to decide the first snowfall was the perfect time to head outside and take a few swings. Still, it wasn't exactly normal behavior—and Allie had been upset about something —so he asked Nell to wait for him in the house and then took a few steps toward his father.

"Nice one," he said, whistling as his dad hit another bomb that vanished into the line of trees. "But I seem to remember being grounded for a month when I tried that."

Skip turned, tucking the bat under one arm as he adjusted his batting gloves. He glanced at Whit, then bent down and reached into the basket to reload. "It was only a week, and you smacked a baseball straight into my windshield."

"A windshield you replaced the next day."

"Never did it again, though, did you?" Skip lobbed the next ball into the air, gripped, swung. "Goddamn, I love that sound," he murmured, watching the ball soar into the distance.

"What happened to dinner?" Whit asked, moving to his father's side. He wondered how long Skip had been out there. His jersey wasn't quite soaked through with snow, but it was getting there, and the basket at his feet was already half empty.

"I take it you haven't spoken to your sister."

"Assuming you mean Allie, she told me to talk to you."

"Well, I guess that's something." Skip's mouth twisted. "You came alone?"

"Nell's in the house."

"Good. Gerda can fuss over her for a bit." He paused, laying the bat over the top of the basket, then pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his back pockets. "Jerry Garwood flew in this morning. I'm giving him an interview tomorrow afternoon. I wanted you to hear this from me first."

The first prickle of unease crept up the back of Whit's neck. "We're having a talk out here ?"

"I like the ambiance." Skip shifted slightly, nudging the basket with his foot so that the bat rolled from one side to the other. Then he looked back at Whit, his expression unreadable. "Did you know I was almost a two-way player?"

"Yeah, Dad, you've mentioned it a few times." More like a few thousand, but who was counting?

"We decided against it after I threw a couple of innings in Low-A. My bat was stronger, and I didn't want to risk an injury that could put me out of the game altogether, so I chose to play it safe. Biggest regret of my entire career. Except how it ended, of course."

"I sense this leading to Rory."

"I was a damn good ballplayer, Whitney. Almost as good as you."

"Dad—"

"Off the field, that's where I fucked things up. I never apologized to you kids for that."

"Are you dying? Are we having a cancer talk right now? Because Grandpa is gonna be seriously pissed you made him quit smoking if he ends up outliving you."

Skip's eyebrows snapped together. "Would you shut up and let me talk? I'm not dying. I have something to tell you, and I need you to let me have my say before you jump down my throat." He snatched up the bat and pushed it at Whit. "Here. Take a swing, kid. You're too old to ground."

"You could ask me to throw for you," Whit pointed out, his fingers automatically sliding around the grip.

"Could, but won't. We both know you can smoke me. Now take a swing."

Whit bent, plucked one of the remaining baseballs from the basket, and bounced it lightly in his hand. "You're never going to find these things again."

"I'll pay a couple of neighborhood kids to collect them. Come on, let's see what you've got."

Whit hadn't done this in years and his timing was off, but he still hit the ball with enough force to launch it quickly out of sight, the hard crack of the impact reverberating in his ears. It was a good sound, he decided. As long as it didn't come directly after he'd tossed a meatball dead center over the plate, anyway.

"Not bad," Skip conceded. His lips twitched. "For a pitcher."

Whit flipped the bat to the ground. "You want to tell me what we're doing out here?"

"I'm getting there."

His dad's gaze met his, then flicked away. Those hard lines around his mouth, Whit thought—those were new. And the faint webbing that fanned out from his eyes had deepened in the past few years. But underneath it all he was still Skip O'Rourke, a man who never showed weakness or allowed it, and the fact that he was hesitating now worried Whit more than he wanted to admit.

"July 2002," Skip said finally, lifting his shoulders in a faint shrug.

The date meant nothing to Whit, but he tensed anyway. "What about it?"

"I told you the biggest regret of my career. This is another one." He raked a hand through his snow-dampened hair and exhaled softly. "You remember I had a shoulder injury that spring that landed me on the DL for two months? Bitch of a thing. I was going stir crazy watching the season slide by without me, so when I had a setback in July, I went to see a new trainer. A specialized trainer."

Whit went utterly still.

He stared at his father, unable to form words. Unable even to fathom them. A specialized trainer. Whit knew what that meant without either of them speaking it. You didn't seek out that sort of specialist for a minor change in your workout routine or a couple of quick rehab tips, and you didn't lie about it for over twenty years if you did. There was only one reason to keep this particular secret, and Whit knew it better than anyone.

The problem was, he didn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. It was impossible. Unthinkable. Not his father—not the great Skip O'Rourke, who preached about legacy, about respect for the game, who had once told him that winning meant nothing if you had to sacrifice your integrity in the process.

"No fucking way," he breathed. "You doped ?"

Skip flinched at the word. "Twice. That's it. Then I realized my recovery wasn't worth it if I couldn't do it clean, and I put a stop to it." He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "I didn't tell anyone, and I got lucky. I never tested positive, and Mitchell didn't name me."

The Mitchell Report, an independent investigation into steroids usage in baseball, had sent shockwaves through the community and destroyed the reputations of nearly a hundred players, and if Skip had been named on it, it might well have kept him out of Cooperstown. But at that particular moment, Whit didn't care about the Hall of Fame or his father's place in it. His entire universe had tilted, and he had no idea how the hell he was supposed to react. He was reeling. His dad had doped. His dad had doped.

Their conversation in the aftermath of his own scandal came roaring back to him. What the fuck were you thinking, kid? You had everything going for you, and you just threw it all away.

This is your legacy now. They won't remember you threw two no-hitters before you were twenty-five or care how many strikeouts you had. They'll only remember you cheated.

And that had been the polite part of it.

Something like a laugh caught in his throat. "Jesus, Dad. "

"I'm not proud of it," Skip said gruffly. "But I'm not ashamed, either. It was a mistake, but it didn't change who I was as a player."

Words Whit had been waiting four years to hear his father say—except with a different pronoun. How was that for irony?

And Whit had been ashamed. He still was. His breath skidded out of him. "You couldn't have told me that four years ago?"

That had always been the worst part of it, knowing how badly he'd let his father down. Forget the fans; forget the media backlash and the judgment from men and women who didn't know him and never would. It was the disappointment in his father's voice that had been the real knife twist. As much as he'd tried to deny it, tried to pretend that Skip's opinion of him no longer mattered—of course it had mattered. It had always mattered. It probably always would.

Skip's jaw tightened. "If you'd told me what you were planning, I'd have talked you out of it."

" After ," Whit answered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "You could have told me after . You could have told me I wasn't the only who had made a mistake, instead of letting me spend all this time believing that I'd failed you. Failed your legacy . That I was the lesser O'Rourke."

"I never said that."

"You never said I wasn't. I needed my dad, and all I got was another lecture from good ol' Number Fifteen." This time Whit did laugh. "All that bullshit about dragging the family name through the mud… but I guess it's all right to cheat as long as no one finds out."

"I didn't cheat," Skip growled. "I wasn't juicing to give myself an edge. I wasn't trying to leave the yard every time I made contact. I just wanted to get back in the game."

The same argument Whit had made to himself dozens of times, first to convince himself that it was all right to bend the rules, and then to absolve himself afterwards. He'd told himself it wasn't about breaking records or needing to be the best, it was about wanting to play. But that was only an excuse, and Whit was long past trying to justify it. "No, Dad, you cheated. You cheated and so did I, and if you think Jerry Garwood or anyone else is going to see it differently, you are seriously deluding yourself. "

Instead of firing back, his father seemed to deflate. His shoulders sagged. "I know. You're right, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. But I can't change the past, Whit. I can only try to do better in the future."

"And this is your idea of doing better? Blowing up your reputation?"

The enormity of just what his dad was planning finally hit him. Once Skip revealed his PEDs usage, the fallout would make Whit's scandal seem trivial in comparison. Everything Skip had ever done would be called into question. His two MVP awards, his thirteen All-Star berths… every stolen base, every jaw-dropping play, every home run… all of it, reduced to a single fact: Skip O'Rourke had doped. Those were the words that would define his legacy from now on. Two times or two dozen, no one would care; he had doped, and he'd lied about it for over twenty years. And unlike Whit, he wouldn't have the opportunity to move past it and prove his detractors wrong.

So why was he doing this? It was completely unprecedented. Almost no one admitted to using PEDs unless they had to, and Whit couldn't quite believe that his dad was suddenly eaten up with guilt, not after two decades of keeping silent. Not without reason. He was missing something here.

"You may as well tell me the rest of it," he said grimly. Though at this point, he couldn't imagine what else his father could possibly be hiding, since terminal illness was out. Tax fraud? Millions of dollars in gambling debt? An impending arrest on felony drug charges?

Skip's gaze sharpened. "What makes you think there's a rest of it?"

"Allie wouldn't care that you doped," Whit replied. And Rory… Rory would have stood by him, not faked an elopement with the man who ended his career. "So what other deep, dark secret are you waiting to confess?"

Skip turned, facing the backdrop of old pines that tangled together at the edge of the woods, veiled now with evening shadows and the frail dusting of snow. He shook his head slowly, his breath fogging the air as he exhaled. His voice went thick. "You know, I thought this would be easier. After Rory found out, and then Allie… I figured it couldn't get much worse than that. But you judge me harder than they ever did. Always have. "

Whit held up a hand. "Hold on a second. I judge you? "

"I'm not saying I blame you. God knows I deserve it." Skip sighed, kicking at a clump of snow that had begun to collect in the grass. "I've thought of a thousand different ways to tell you, and none of them felt right. So I'm just gonna say it. Straight up, no excuses. Then you can tell me to go to hell, or cut me out of your life, or do whatever it is you're gonna do."

"Come on, Dad—"

"It's Maggie."

"Maggie?" Whit echoed. Another laugh sputtered out of him. "You think I care who you date?"

The moment it was spoken, Whit realized he was wrong. No, he didn't care who his father was dating, and neither would his sisters. At least not who their dad was dating now .

But there had been a time when it had mattered a lot.

Skip twisted around again, gaze blank. "What are you talking about?"

"You and Maggie."

He stared at his father, sudden certainty warring with disbelief. He'd been so convinced Maggie was Skip's latest feminine diversion, he hadn't even considered that there were other possibilities.

That she might have some other connection to him.

To them.

No fucking way , Whit thought again.

The outrage that exploded on his father's face confirmed it before his words did.

"For Christ's sake, Whit," Skip choked out. "Maggie's not my girlfriend. She's my daughter."