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Rumors travel quickly, and there had to be at least one or two players out in that hallway when Dixon yelled at me to get to his office. Everyone saw that we were both late to practice.
But nobody knows why, and I’m not close enough to anybody here for them to actually confront me about it.
Except my brother.
“We need to talk,” Lincoln demands as he makes the rounds during practice.
Just fucking great. I guess the secret’s about to be out now, but clearly Lincoln wants to know why his OC demanded to talk to his star tight end right before practice.
I’m dreading that conversation. I’m dreading the end of practice, and at the same time, I can’t make it go by fast enough so I can get to my phone and explain to Des what’s going on.
I run drills with the tight ends, doing my absolute best to remain focused, and Desiree’s father walks over to Coach Bruce toward the end of our drills.
“Extra leg drills for Nash,” he barks at Coach Bruce.
He knows what he’s doing.
It’s going to be a late night for me, and he’s not even giving me the chance to give Desiree a fair warning about what’s to come for her—if he hasn’t already told her that he knows.
He’s setting us up to fail, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.
Chapter 52: Desiree Dixon
Picking Out Paintings
“What do you think about this one?” my mom asks, flashing her phone at me to show me a painting she wants to buy me for the baby’s room once I figure out what house I want to buy. We’re standing in her kitchen, and I tilt my head as I study the painting.
I think part of the reason why I can’t find a place is because I keep thinking about what the future holds. I can’t move into a house where I can’t picture Asher, me, and our baby, but there are so many uncertainties right now.
It’s easier to stay with my parents for now.
Truth be told, the painting she’s showing me is a little gaudy. We have completely different styles, I guess, and I’m trying to figure out a diplomatic way of saying that when I see an incoming call on her phone. “Oh, Dad’s calling.”
Her brows push together as she looks at me with a bit of worry. “He should be at practice. Why would he be calling me?”
She scrambles to pick up the call. “Bill?”
I hear his voice as plain as day through her phone in the silence of the house.
“Are you with Desiree?” he asks.
Her eyes edge to me. “Yes. Why?”
“Ask her about Asher Nash,” he says, and his voice may be a bit tinny and muffled through the wrong side of the phone speaker, but I can still hear the anger in his voice.
Oh, shit.
He knows.
How does he know?
And why on earth would Asher tell him the truth without me there?
“I need to get to practice,” he says, and the anger is still there through the gruffness.
“Wait! What’s going on, Bill?” my mom asks.
“Just ask her.” He ends the call, and she slowly lowers the phone as I close my eyes and brace myself.
