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“What’s up?”
“Who the fuck is Mercedes Fleet? Where did you meet her?”
“Who?” I press the phone to my ear and struggle to catch my breath.
“Mercedes Fleet.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Apparently you know her well enough to have knocked her up, at least according to her. TMZ broke the story an hour ago. They just called me for comment.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. This is one more problem I don’t need. I search through my memory bank, trying to remember the last woman I had sex with before Harlow. I have to go back about three months. The party after my final Super Bowl win. I don’t remember her name. Shit. I gloved up, but…nothing is foolproof.
Is it possible? What do I do now? And given what’s up with her father right now, what will Harlow think?
“What does this woman look like?” I’ve been accused more than once of sleeping with some chick I’ve never touched. Some women like to brag about bagging someone famous, and I have to set the record straight. Or try. The truth is, too many people don’t believe the denial. It sounds like weaseling, reeks of not manning up.
“There’s a nice picture of her on TMZ, front and center.”
“Hang on.” I launch my browser and surf to the tabloid site.
Weston’s Love Child on the Way!screams the headline.
The picture below shows a woman standing behind a podium, microphones reaching to her lips and reporters leaning close as if no one wants to miss a word of her story. She’s a beautiful woman with long, light brown hair, a slender frame, and stoic blue eyes. I scan the article. She claims we met at a Super Bowl after party at the St. Regis in Houston. I can’t deny I was there. I was also stone-cold sober, so I know damn well she is not the anonymous brown-eyed blonde I fucked that night.
But several bystanders and even a former teammate place me at the scene and say they remember us talking before disappearing into one of the suite’s bedrooms together. I’m baffled.
I lift the phone to my ear again. “I swear I don’t know her. I certainly didn’t get her pregnant.”
“It doesn’t look good, buddy. The network isn’t happy. First that Harlow chick and now Mercedes. They’re all for you being the man in the broadcasting booth, but women are a growing segment of NFL viewers, and they don’t want to hear a guy led around by his dick, even if he is a football legend.”
“Listen!” I growl. “I swear to god that I don’t know her and I didn’t fuck her. Why don’t you try being on my side, goddamn it. I pay you enough.” I huff in frustration. “Handle the PR on this. I’ve got to go.”
Without waiting for a reply, I hang up on Cliff. If it’s all over TMZ, then it’s hitting other news outlets, too. It will be the talk of ESPN and other sports-dominated channels. It may even make mainstream news. Which means Harlow will hear about it soon…if she hasn’t already. I can just imagine how she’s going to take this. She’ll lump me in with her sleazebag father and Simon. She’ll assume I’m a man whore and an asshole. My denials will fall on deaf ears. She’ll turn her back on me because she’ll be too afraid to trust people, much less the guy she’s known for barely a week.
I hold in a roar of frustration. What the fuck? I’ve got to get to her now, before the news reaches her. I need to explain. If I tell her I need her help… Yeah, inciting her sweet, natural empathy by asking for her assistance might keep her close. Maybe.
Shit.
I full-out sprint back to the house. There’s a growing gaggle of reporters waiting for some scoop at the gate. They shout questions about this woman supposedly carrying my baby. The new guard, who understands his role, opens the gate. The tabloid press is still haranguing me as I dash through with a “no comment.” The guy in uniform shuts the barricade behind me quickly.
The sun beats down on me as I run the last quarter-mile up to the house and crash through the front door. As soon as I step inside the entryway, I nearly trip over Harlow’s suitcases. I hear her cursing from across the room and look up to see her dragging another piece of luggage down the stairs, her motions jerky and flustered. I step over the heap of her things and approach her. She almost collides with me, then shoots me a glare that’s grim and red-eyed and resolute.
“Where are you going?” I demand.
“Anywhere that’s not here. I’ll stay with Griff and Britta until I can get back to California.”
Like hell. “So you’ve heard the rumors? And you’re believing this woman who says I met her at a party and knocked her up without first talking to me?”
“I’m not leaving because of you, Weston. Look, you’ve got your hands full, and frankly I don’t need more drama. I’m not mad. You met her long before me, so what you did with her in February is none of my business. I don’t think your mom is going to be thrilled that you’ve indiscriminately spread your DNA around, but…” She shrugs and reaches for her purse. “You’ll figure that out, I guess.”
I wrap my fingers around her arm. “I am not your father. Or your ex. I didn’t do this.”
She seems to lose some of her composure as she jerks from my grip. “Did you hear me? It doesn’t matter. I didn’t know you then. The truth is, I woke up this morning and realized I was done processing what happened a few days ago in the shower. I think this…fling means more to you than it does to me, and I’d rather not hurt you. So I’m going to do you a favor and leave. You’re going to be great. I left the names of some fantastic therapists on the island—both speech and psychological. You may need both since anxiety seems to be a real trigger for you. Any of these people would be really qualified to help you.” She gives me an entirely false smile as she gathers her luggage. “I wish you the best.”
“This is bullshit.” I jerk the bags out of her hands as fast as she can pick them up. “You’re absolutely running away from me because you think I got that woman pregnant. You’re scared to trust that I’m not Barclay or Simon.”
“No.”
