Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

ZACH

T he hardwood flooring in my apartment has almost fully disintegrated.

I've been pacing it for the last two days. After I finished packing to head back home, I fell down an internet rabbit hole—desperately trying to work out how likely the baby is to be mine. The trouble is, I'm relying on a very unreliable Amie. More lies than truth leave those pouty red lips. The only decent thing to come of this whole mess is the spell she had me under has finally been broken, and I see her for who she really is.

A scheming bitch.

Today is allegedly results day, and I've had my email on auto-refresh. I'm tempted to call the clinic and find out what's taking them so long. It's only ten in the morning, but seriously, how long can this shit take?

I pause my pacing when I hear a knock at the door. Swinging it open, I find Jon on the other side. It's good to see him, and jeez, I need the distraction.

"You look like hell. Has your shaver broken?"

I cast a hand across my chin. Yeah, I'm letting myself go. "Too busy refreshing my email." I turn and walk toward my living space; my apartment is completely open-plan, so at least I've had plenty of room to do laps. "Why didn't you use your key, and why are you here so early?"

Jon steps in and shuts the door behind him. "Haven't got your fob on me, and Felicity needed to head back early. Her boss has a disaster case on his hands and wants his best team. I swear all she does is work and study for the bar."

"She's driven that's for sure," I reply.

"Definitely, and it's fucking hot," he says, smoothing a palm across his mouth.

I hold up a hand. "Yeah, alright man, I don't need details on what makes your cock twitch. We all know you get it more than you ever did when you were out fucking anything that moved."

Jon's shoulders shake with silent laughter. If I said that to him last year, his reaction would've been totally different. His anxiety filled playboy days are way behind him, and I'm fucking proud of how far he's come, with help from his wife-to-be.

"How are you holding up?"

I shrug and collapse on my couch. "How do you think?"

"Well, judging by the state of this place and the state of you—not great. How about I help?"

"Not sure you can, but thanks for coming over early."

"When was the last time you ate a decent meal?"

Truthfully, days ago. My stomach's been too anxious to digest anything.

He takes my silence as my answer. Rising from the usual couch he sits on when he comes over, he thumbs over his shoulder to my door. "Come on. Let's grab pancakes and talk some shit; I'm good at that."

I really don't want pancakes, but fresh air might do me some good.

Twenty minutes later we're down at the pancake house. I've lost count of the number of cheat days we've spent here. A stack of blueberry pancakes is set in front of me. Usually, I have an appetite that if hockey hadn't worked out, I could've made a career out of competitive eating. At six foot five and with an in-season weight of two hundred forty pounds, I make the ideal defenseman and enforcer and have the appetite to match. But as I take my first bite, I know I'll barely finish half.

Jon points his fork at me from where he's inhaling his boring maple syrup and butter stack. "If you don't eat that, I will. Your body's still healing from the hit, and it needs energy. Not eating isn't going to change the outcome."

"I think I preferred you when you were less sensible."

"Yeah, this straight-talking British girl whipped my ass into shape."

I've got a fork of blueberry pancakes halfway to my mouth when there's a ping. Jon pauses and looks at me, and I know it's the email.

Pulling my phone out the pocket of my hoodie, I hand it over. "You read it, but if it's another text from Amie asking me to meet her to talk, just delete it."

"You sure, buddy?"

I rest my elbow on the table and drop my head in my hands. "Yeah, because I think I'm gonna hurl."

There are a few beats of silence, and I don't know what he's doing. I can't see his face since my eyes are covered by my palms. The seconds feel like decades.

Finally, I feel a hand land on my shoulder and slowly, I turn my head. Jon comes into focus; he's standing over me with a beaming smile. "It's over man. It's not yours."

Don't get me wrong, I want to be a dad someday, but never like this and like hell with a girl like Amie. Although with the way I'm planning to be celibate, that might be hard. The news that's just been delivered floats in the air, refusing to sink into my consciousness. "Sorry, come again?"

"I said, you're not the dad."

It isn't me. I'm fucking free of her.

On instinct, I jump out of the booth and grab Jon by the waist, lifting him off the floor. With a one-inch height difference and a ten-pound weight advantage, I've always had the physical edge. "Yeah, yeah, alright, man. I'm stoked for you and all, but can you just, you know, stop cuddling me in public?"

My phone pings again right as I set him back down.

Number one GK

Any news?

Really? Has everyone been messing with my contacts?

It's Jensen Jones, our crazy Canadian goalkeeper. He's the finest in the league, and we're blessed to have him playing for the Scorpions. He's also incredibly humble…

Me

I'm sorry who is this?

Might as well fuck with him.

There can be no doubt as to who the best keeper is. Have you heard? Come on, I'm a mess.

Yeah, and it's not fucking mine. Found out two minutes ago.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

This calls for drinks and celebrations.

I look up at Jon. "Jensen wants to head out tonight to celebrate."

He drains the last of his coffee. "You know how I feel about going out, but hell yeah. One last blowout before you head home."

You're on.

Nights out arranged by Jensen should come with a hazard label.

My head is pounding.

I'm still in last night's shirt, but thankfully, I managed to remove my shoes and pants. My memory is hazy, but the last thing I recall was Jensen relaxing on a loveseat with two leggy blondes sprawled across him while Jon sat opposite, shooting daggers at any girl who looked his way. I wasn't far behind him—don't touch me; don't even look at me.

My flight home leaves midday. My bags have been packed for days, so all I need to focus on is getting my stomach to stop retching, and eyesight would be good.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and inwardly groan, the home screen is loaded with messages from Amie.

Amie

I haven't heard from you since the results were confirmed.

I know you aren't the dad.

I swear, I thought you were.

Hello?

Zach, why are you ignoring me?

Let me guess, you're out getting drunk and laid.

Fuck you.

I keep scrolling down on the thread and notice she texted me again two hours later.

Look, I'm sorry for what happened.

I still love you.

She really is a piece of work. The only reason I kept lines of communication open with her was because she could have been carrying my child, and I'm not a dick who's about to shrug off my responsibilities. But since I got solid proof I have none, I tap on her contact and hit "block." I spend the next five minutes finding her on every social media platform and even bring up her email hitting "block" on that too.

Goodbye, Amie.

Good luck raising a child with Alex asshole Schneider. I really feel for that kid. Doesn't stand a chance with parents like them.