The Screw Ball (Indianapolis Lightning Book 3) Samantha Lind (story books to read .txt) 📖

can hop out now, take a quick shower, and then head up to her office, if that would be easier,” I tell him, not really liking the idea, but knowing that I can’t get out of talking to her today.

“I’ll let her know. Now, don’t waste her time, get a hop on it,” Coach calls over his shoulder as he makes his way back to the door. I do as I’m told and hop out of the ice bath. Instead of standing under the hot spray, letting it warm up my cold body, I quickly wash up, then get out and dressed. Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking through the halls of the team building toward Carmen’s office when my phone dings with a new email.

I stop in the doorway to her office, scanning over the subject line and sender information. My blood pressure rises as I see that it is the email I’ve been waiting for since my blood was drawn at eight this morning.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, coming to my side. She must be able to tell that something is going on from my stance.

“I just got the email,” I tell her, turning my phone so she can read what is showing on my screen.

“Oh!” she says, a little shocked. “How about you come in and sit down, then open it.”

I do as she suggests, taking a seat on the small couch in her office rather than one of the chairs across from her desk.

I turn the phone in the palms of my hands, not yet ready to read the results.

“Lucas,” she says, her voice warm and calming. I’ve never heard it like that, and it squeezes around my heart. She sits down on the couch next to me, placing her hand over my own. “Whatever the email says, you’ll be fine and will get through it.”

“She’s lying,” I tell her, looking straight into her eyes. I don’t know why I want her to believe me so bad, but I do. I want her to believe me so that maybe, just maybe, I can convince her to go out on a date with me. Convince her I’m not as bad as the media likes to portray me as. Make her see those few times she’s had to clean up my image were the minority and not my normal. Just a few stupid decisions I made in the past year.

“Do you want me to read it first?” she offers.

“Yes,” I tell her. I fumble with my phone, turning it around and swiping it open. I hand it over then grab her hand back, linking our fingers together. “Maybe read it to yourself, then tell me,” I suggest, gripping her fingers a little tighter.

“Sure,” she says. I watch as she taps the screen of my phone, opening the email up. It feels like an entire day lapse before she looks up at me. A small smile starts tugging at the corner of her mouth and I want to devour it.

“I’m ready,” I croak out, finding her eyes with my own and not letting that connection go.

“With an accuracy of ninety-nine percent, you are not the father,” she says and her smile now fills her face.

“Fuck yes!” I blurt out and pull her into my arms. My lips are against hers before I even know what the hell I’m doing, and I don’t even see the hand coming until it connects with my cheek. The sting of the slap has me pulling back and sucking in air like I just ran a marathon at a six-minute mile the entire way.

“What the ever-loving-fuck, Lucas?” Carmen screeches, her fingers covering her kiss-swollen lips.

“Shit,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. It just happened. I was shocked and happy over the results,” I tell her and hope that she’ll accept my apology.

“You can’t just go kissing women without their permission. I could have you written up for sexual harassment.”

“I said I’m sorry.” I take my hat off, running my fingers through my hair in my frustration. “It won’t happen again.”

“Damn straight it won’t,” she says, standing from the couch. She hands me my phone back before walking to the other side of her office and behind her desk. I watch every move she makes as she pulls her chair out and takes a seat. “Would you like me to put out any press releases or do you want to leave that up to your lawyer and manager?” she asks, turning right back to business.

“I’ll let Brent handle it,” I tell her. I tap on my phone, bringing up Brent’s contact and hitting the call button.

“Lucas, any word, yet?” he asks.

“Yep, the email came in just a few minutes ago. Just like I’ve been claiming since the beginning, I’m not the father.”

“Told you the truth would prevail, kid,” he says, and it grits on my nerves every time he refers to me as kid. I know the man has been in the athlete management business for a long time, maybe even longer than I’ve been alive, but I’m still no fucking kid. I’m a twenty-four-year-old man who makes millions of dollars a year.

“I knew it would. Just tell me what you need from me and let’s make all of this headache go away,” I tell him.

“Will do, Lucas. We might consider agreeing to a short interview in a week or two. Give your side of the story and explain what you went through, being thrown under the bus, all thanks to someone else lie and attempt at a money grab.”

“I don’t know about that. Won’t that just keep her in the spotlight longer, and this at the front of people’s minds?” I question.

“Possibly, but think about it, as it can be a good way to get your side of the story out. Let people hear directly from you what it was like stressing over this news and waiting for the results. Let them know that you would have stepped up and done the right thing had the results been