~10~

“Spring training officially starts in a couple days.”

“I know, Nick,” Tate replied. “You tell me that every time we talk.”

From across the room, Jameson made a sound in the back of his throat. It had been a little over a week since his trip to Berlin. She was back to living in paradise. Living in orgasm-city, as Ang liked to call it. Things almost felt the way they had last fall. Almost ..., perfect, she hesitated to say.

Everything was awesome. She and Ang were great, saw each other every couple days. Sanders seemed happier than ever, though a person couldn't really tell with him. Jameson even seemed lighter, easier. So when she sat down in the library to check in with Nick, it was with a feeling that all was right in the world.

Which is usually when things go wrong.

“Do you have to talk to your boyfriend in here? I'm working,” Jameson snapped in a loud tone. She laughed and grabbed a remote, turning on his TV.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” she asked, turning it to a random channel and turning up the volume.

“What's going on?” Nick's voice could barely be heard over the television. There was the sound of drawers being opened, and then the TV was put on mute. She glanced over the couch. Jameson was sitting behind his desk, and he waved a remote at her. She crossed her eyes at him.

“Jameson's being a bitch,” she said loudly. Jameson glared at her for a second, then looked back at his work.

“Oh my, those are fighting words,” Nick laughed. She laughed along with him.

“I'm counting on it.”

“Anyway,” he steered her back to their earlier conversation. “I'm just saying, I assume you're not coming out here. It'll be hard after training starts.”

“I just don't think so. Things here are ..., don't count on it. I don't wanna say sure, and then something happens, and we don't come,” Tate tried to explained, sitting back against the armrest and stretching her legs out.

“I notice you say 'we' more often now,” Nick pointed out, his voice soft. She curled her toes.

“Jameson would have to pay for my ticket, I couldn't not invite him,” she chuckled. There was another snort from behind her.

“I'm never fucking going to Arizona,” his voice warned.

She laughed and glanced at the TV screen. Some under-dressed, bleached blonde woman was sitting behind a sort of news desk, the large E! Entertainment logo next to her. When Jameson had put the TV on mute, the closed captioning for the program had immediately started working. The blonde bobblehead was talking about Leonardo DiCaprio vacationing in Brazil.

“What if I bought your ticket?” Nick suggested. Tate snickered, her eyes following the lettering. She swore she had ADD, sometimes.

“Good lord. A year ago, if anyone had asked me if I thought several devastatingly handsome men would ever be trying to pay for everything for me, I would tell them they were cut off and I'd kick them out of the bar,” she joked.

“You're spoiled, that's your problem.”

“I know.”

Nick rambled a little after that, talking about his adventures with his teammates. She laughed at his funny quips, but she was halfway distracted by the TV. Madonna said something else inappropriate on Twitter. Naomi Campbell threw her cell phone at another assistant. Kanye West had offended somebody. Petrushka Ivanovic was pregnant.

Tate sat up so fast, she almost got dizzy. Her eyeballs ate up the words. Paparazzis had caught the Ukranian-Danish model while she had been walking out of a clinic. She was wearing skin tight leggings and a tank top, so it was easy to see her tiny baby bump. E! Entertainment had gotten the official release from Petrushka's publicist. The supermodel was almost three months pregnant. The phone dropped from Tate's hand, clattered to the floor.

Almost three months. November. She got pregnant at the end of November.

She was vaguely aware of Jameson asking her what was wrong. Of Nick's voice squeaking up from the floor. She couldn't say anything, she just kept staring at the screen. Ms. Ivanovic had gotten pregnant in Spain. Yes, she knew who the father was; of course she did. It was her on-again-off-again boyfriend, financial tycoon Jameson Kane.

“Holy shit,” Jameson's voice said from behind her, and the television's sound came on, loudly.

“... Ms. Ivanovic is said to be thrilled, excited to have her first child. It's too early to know the sex, but it has been reported that she is hoping for a boy. We can only hope the little tyke will have his father's striking blue eyes and his mother's stunning good looks ...”

And of course a picture of Jameson was splashed across the screen.

The picture of him beside my bed is better. Our bed. Fuck. I am so fucking stupid.

“Stop fucking listening to it, right now!” Jameson demanded, hurrying across the room and opening the door. He hollered for Sanders.

“How can I not?” Tate whispered.

“... Ivanovic and Kane were vacationing in the South of Spain in late November. Reports were flying about an American visiting him on his yacht, the same American he has been spotted with around Boston – Tatum O'Shea, the daughter of Mathias O'Shea, former CEO for Koch Industries. When asked about Ms. O'Shea, Ms. Ivanovic said she was aware of the American, but didn't 'waste much thought' on her ...”

“Tatum, listen to me,” Jameson came around the couch, squatting down in front of her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the television screen. “She is lying. If she's pregnant – if – it's not mine.”

Aaaaaand cue the ugly truth ...

“... it would be the first child for both twenty-seven year old Ivanovic and thirty-one year old Kane. There were reports of their break up last year, but they have been spotted together several times since then, in New York, and they spent most of October together, in Berlin. Several people report seeing them together in Spain ...”

And there it was, a picture of him and Pet together. In Spain. It was taken from a distance, probably with some huge telescopic lens. They were standing in a parking space, in front of the marina where his boat was docked. They were facing each, obviously in some sort of conversation.

So much for not having contact with her. You got one wrong, Sandy.

“Stop thinking whatever it is you're fucking thinking!” Jameson shouted. Sanders walked in the room and Jameson leapt to his feet.

If he would have just said it in the beginning, that he wanted to sleep with her, couldn't not sleep with her, we could've been cool. One conversation. One sentence. There would have been no us. No hurt. No burning. No scars. God, why does this hurt so much? You knew it was coming.

“What's going on?” Sanders demanded.

“I don't know,” Tate managed to say. “He's freaking out.”

They both stared at her like she was insane.

“Tate, stop it. I have never -,” Jameson started, when she barked out a laugh.

“I'm not mad. Why would I be mad? It's not a big deal,” she assured him.

“Shut up, Tate. You're freaking out about something that I -,”

“I'm not freaking out!” she insisted, holding up her hands. “Do I look like I'm freaking out? Why would I freak out? I mean, it's fine. We're allowed to -,”

“Shut her up. Just shut her the fuck up, I have to call my lawyers!” Jameson barked, striding back towards his desk. Sanders knelt in front of her. She was still babbling.

“Honestly, I don't care. I mean, it's not like we were together right? We're not together now. We weren't together then. I have no right to ...,” she continued, talking at light speed. Sanders put his hand on her knee.

“Tatum. It's not true,” he insisted. She shook her head.

“... he can sleep with whoever he wants, I'm not the boss of him. I'm not even his girlfriend. It's just fun right, Sandy? Fun, fun, fun. Though it can't call me Auntie. The baby. That would just be weird ...”

“Shut up!” Jameson roared from behind her.

“Tatum, please,” Sanders whispered.

“... but I hope it does have his eyes. God, he has amazing eyes. And her bone structure. It would rule the world with those kind of looks. But it can't call me Auntie. Probably best if I'm not here when it comes over for visitation rights. That would be double weird. I'm not mad, Sandy. Do I sound mad? I'm fine. I'm fine.”

Sanders actually picked her up. Scooped her up off the couch, like she was a baby. Jameson was yelling into his phone while she was carried away. He had his back to the room, slicing an arm angrily through the air.

“No! No! I want this stopped, now! Any kind of lawsuit you can think of, just shut this bullshit up! I want a paternity test. I don't care, she can't claim it's mine without pro-,” he was ranting, but then Sanders whisked Tate through the door.

“You're awfully strong, Sandy. Do you work out?” she asked, resting her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Pilates. I also run every morning. Weight training in the evenings.”

“Pilates, huh. I wish I would've known. I love pilates.”

“I would be very glad to work out with you sometime.”

“Can we stop talking now?”

“Of course.”

Tate closed her eyes while he carried her up the stairs. Clung tighter to his shoulders. When they got to the bedroom, he tried to sit her down, but she wouldn't let go. He wound up sitting on the side of the bed, resting her against his chest.

“He has never lied to you,” Sanders whispered.

“Except one very important time.”

“Technically, he -,”

“A lie by omission is still a lie, Sanders,” she snapped. He took a deep breath, and his arms around her got tight.

“He is not lying,” he insisted. She took a deep breath.

“I know. I know, I'm just ..., upset. I'll be fine,” she whispered.

“Please. Please, just talk to him,” Sanders urged. She nodded, not lifting her head from his chest.

“Of course. Of course I will,” she replied.

“You need to trust him. You said you loved him,” he reminded her.

“I know what I said.”

That's what makes it so much worse. Why did I have to say it out loud?

By the time Jameson stormed up the stairs, she had gotten off Sanders' lap. Though she was holding his hand. Jameson burst into the room, glanced at them, and continued on into his closet. Sanders and Tate glanced at each other.

“We're going to New York!” he shouted.

“Excuse me?” Tate asked.

“You fucking heard me. Pack a goddamn bag,” he growled. She let go of Sanders and stood up. Took a deep breath. Walked into the closet.

“What's in New York?” she asked.

“My lawyers.”

“I don't need to be there for that, I can just -,” she started in a calm voice. He whirled around and he was so angry, she was actually startled. As he stalked towards her, she quickly backed away, bumping into shelving.

“Pack. A fucking. Bag,” he hissed. “I don't have time for this, for any of your crazy shit. I will deal with us later, but for right now, this moment, I have to stop this fucking publicity train. Got it!?”

He was leaning over her. Looming. She stared right up at him. Licked her lips, then pressed her hand against his chest. Jameson had always been a little psychic, so she knew she really had to sell it. She let her eyes wander over his features, cementing them in her memory. She always loved him best when he looked angry.

Always loved him, always.

“Jameson, I'm fine. I'll just slow you down. I'll be here when you get back,” she insisted in a soft voice, gently rubbing her hand over his chest. He narrowed his eyes.

“No, you won't. You always run away,” he said. She shook her head.

“I will be here, I promise. I'm fine. Go, do what you need to do. Like you said, we'll deal with us later,” she assured him, pressing herself against him.

“I don't believe you.”

“I don't really care. You're wasting time right now, arguing with me. Go,” she urged.

He suddenly leaned down and kissed her, and it was all she could do not to cry. She had always loved his kisses. This one was soft, his lips pressing against hers, his tongue gentle against her own. His hands came up to cup her jaw, molding her to him. She sighed into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Promise me you'll be here when I come back,” he breathed against her, resting his forehead to hers.

“I promise.”

Note he never said anything about later ...

 

*

 

Jameson was only gone for two days. Long enough to slap Petrushka with so many lawsuits, her management team was spinning in circles. A cease and desist was first and foremost. She could not talk about him in connection with her pregnancy, or she would be sued. But that didn't really matter, because there was nothing he could do about the media. He was requesting a paternity test, to see if she was telling the truth. She was fighting it. That one would take a bit longer.

Requesting a paternity test to see IF it's true. Requesting proof to prove that it IS true. Doesn't sounds like he's as positive as he likes to pretend ...

Jameson was wary of her. Eyeing Tate as if she was going to explode at any minute. Fair assumption to make. She teased him and laughed at him about the whole thing. Even Sanders looked at her like she was a little crazy.

“Do you want me to freak out? I mean, it can be arranged,” she laughed one day. Jameson put his forearms on his desk.

“I want you to be truthful,” he insisted. She swallowed thickly.

“I don't think either of us is ready for that right now. Later,” she replied. And he nodded.

Petrushka even called one day. That was some awesome icing on the cake. Tate answered his phone. Syrupy sweet German words dripped down the line, laced in venom. Tate just shrugged and handed the phone over to Jameson. He looked astounded at her for a minute, then like he was going to strangle the phone in the next. He called Petrushka so many impressive names, Tate almost thought it was foreplay.

Maybe it is.

The final straw came a couple days after he had gotten back. Everyone had settled into the library for a nice, awkward evening of not speaking to each other, when Tate's cell phone started ringing. It was Ang. She hadn't told him about everything that had gone down. She answered the phone, worried that he would hear it in her voice.

“Hey, how are -,” she started.

“It's time.”

“Huh?” she asked.

“Ellie. Having the baby. Driving to the hospital,” he spat out. Tate leapt out of her seat.

“But she's got like another month, or something!” she yelled.

“I know. Apparently no one told the baby. Get down here.”

She was halfway out the door when Jameson stopped her.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. She laughed, hopping into a shoe.

“Apparently the whole fucking world is having a baby, not just your girlfriend. Ellie's in labor.”

She really didn't want him there, but he had become like her shadow. Afraid to let her out of his sight. He insisted on going with her, so Sanders drove them both to the hospital. When Tate got to the waiting area, Ang was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.

“She called you?” Tate asked, hurrying up to his side. He looked up at her.

“She was actually at my place. She had left some stuff, from before, and had come to get it all. We were just kinda chatting, whatever, you know, stuff, and she went into labor. Fucking scared the shit out of me,” he breathed. Tate laughed.

“'Stuff'!? Ang, were you two getting it on?” she asked. He groaned.

“I'm scarred for life.”

Normally, a first time birth took hours. Not Ellie Carmichael. That baby wanted out, and it wanted out now. Ellie didn't want anyone in the room while it happened, her modesty was firmly in place. Tate wasn't exactly surprised. What did surprise her, though, was seeing her mother and father strolling down the hallway.

“Fuck,” she whispered under her breath. Jameson went to hold her hand, and without thinking, she yanked away from his touch. He cut his eyes to hers, but before he could saying anything, her father was upon them.

“Kane. Surprised to see you here,” Mathias O'Shea barked out. Her father did not look happy to see them – the last time they had parted ways, Jameson had said some very choice words. But money talked, and Jameson had more of it than her father. Mr. O'Shea knew when to eat shit.

“Yes. Tatum got the phone call, we came straight here,” Jameson stood up, shaking hands with the other man. Her father didn't even look at her. Tate glanced at her mother, who appeared to be swaying. Classy.

“Ah, yes. Tatum. You two are still ...,” her father grumbled. Tate was tempted to shout 'fucking', but Jameson beat her to it.

“Yes. We just got back from an extended vacation in Spain, last month,” Jameson filled in.

Not dating. Not together. Just got back. So perfect.

“Been a long time now. I never thought you'd put up with -,” her father started.

“Yes, it has been a long time. And time well spent.”

The innuendo was not lost on anyone. Tatum dropped her head into her hands.

She wondered how her life had gotten to that point. Jameson Kane on one side of her. Her father on the other. Neither of them speaking to her. Her feeling small. Insignificant. A mistake. That's what she felt like; like one big mistake. It was horrible.

“Tate,” Jameson suddenly said. She glanced over to find him staring at her. “I want you to know, I meant -,”

“Is there a Tatum here?” an important looking nurse shouted out. Tate leapt to her feet.

“That's me! Thank god,” she groaned, trailing after the woman.

“The baby is fine. Ten fingers, ten toes, a beautiful little boy. Your sister said you could see her now, but only you,” the nurse informed her.

“Oh. Okay.”

Ellie looked tired. A kind of bone weary tired that Tate couldn't even begin to imagine. But she also kinda looked relaxed, and happy. She smiled at Tatum and gestured for her to sit down on the side of the bed.

“I'm glad you're here,” Ellie said through a yawn. Tate smiled.

“Of course I'm here. Everyone's here. Sanders is passing out water like we're at a cocktail party,” she joked.

“Good, I'm glad. Ang? Is he okay? He looked kinda green,” Ellie told her.

“Yeah, he was a little upset. Tell me, did your water break when you were on top of him?” Tate teased.

“God, you two are disgusting. No,” Ellie grumbled. But then she smiled. “But a minute or two later, and it would have.”

“Good for you.”

“Do you want to see him?” Ellie asked softly. Tate nodded, and Ellie gestured to a sterile looking crib that sat against the wall.

“Is he okay? Isn't he early?” Tate asked, walking towards it.

“Only a little bit, the doctors said I was farther along than they nthought,” Ellie replied.

He was beautiful. So beautiful. Tate picked him up and cuddled him to her chest. She normally wasn't a baby kind of person, not much into kids. But when he stared up at her with his dusky blue eyes, she felt her soul melt a little. A tear splashed onto his baby blanket, followed by another.

“Did you name him?” she managed to ask through her sniffles.

“I was thinking Shamus, after Daddy's brother. I always liked him. Shamus O'Shea Carmichael,” Ellie said, yawning again.

“Christ, he's never gonna be able to pronounce it,” Tate snorted, stroking her finger down one of Shamus' fingers.

“Don't use that kind of language in front of my son,” Ellie corrected her.

“God, he's perfect, El. Good job, good for you,” Tate breathed.

“At least I did something right,” Ellie laughed.

The baby had big eyes. Beautiful eyes. Both Tate and Ellie had brown eyes, so he must have gotten his eyes from his daddy. A misty blue, almost like Sanders', but huge. He was very quiet, too, and he stared right into Tate's eyes. She felt like he was staring straight through her, straight into her soul.

I want this.

The thought came out of nowhere, and some more tears fell. She had never thought about having kids before, it was always more of a “someday” kind of thing. But she was twenty-six. “Someday” really wasn't that far away. And here she was, caught on repeat with Jameson. He would never want to have kids. He wouldn't even call her his girlfriend, how could he have kids with her? He would never marry her, he had said so himself. It would never be anything more than what it was, right then.

What if I want more?

She'd had the thought before, and now she knew it would keep coming back. Keep coming, until it ripped them apart. Just as bad as Petrushka, if not worse. Yes, Jameson liked her. Yes, he cared about her, to a certain extent. But not as much as she wanted. As much as she needed. She laid the baby back down in the crib. Wiped at her eyes.

“Yes, Ellie, you did something very right with this little guy.”

When she wandered back down the hall, everyone was standing. Her father was demanding to know how the baby was doing. Ang was demanding to know how Ellie was doing. Her mother was demanding to know where the bathroom was, and Jameson was demanding that everyone calm the fuck down. Standing apart from everyone was Sanders, calm and quiet.

She burst out crying and fell into his arms. Pandemonium broke out around her. Was the baby sick? Was Ellie hurt? What the fuck was wrong with Tatum? What was going on? Say something, say something!

“She's fine,” Tate managed to choke out. “The baby is beautiful.”

Then Sanders led her off down the hall, hugging her to his side. She cried harder, so hard she could barely walk right.

“I know, Tatum. I know,” he said softly.

“You ..., always ..., do,” she managed to get out.

He chuckled, then led her further away from everyone else.