“Why’s she calling?”
I should tell him, right? He should know he’s going to be a grandfather, even though I can guarantee I’ll never let him be alone with my kid if he can’t change his tune about Ainsley.
“She’s in town.”
“You need to stay away from her.”
I shake my head adamantly. “Not gonna happen, Dad. She’s pregnant and—”
“It’s not yours,” he interrupts.
“Excuse me?” I clench my teeth and grind out the words.
“Are you stupid? You’re a rising star, with Rookie of the Year mentions and a multimillion-dollar contract. She’s pregnant and in Boston? Even I can see the trap coming a mile away, Cooper.”
Before I can say anything, he’s on the phone and barking out orders to someone. I hear paternity suit, and that’s when I walk away. I don’t need to hear anymore.
I don’t want to think my dad is right, but now that he’s mentioned it, what if the baby isn’t mine and she’s playing me for a fool? What if I fall in love with the baby, raise him or her as my own, only to find out that I’m not the father? What happens then? Where does that leave me? What will that do to the baby?
* * *
I contemplate calling Ainsley all night but don’t have the guts to actually do it. Instead, I pace the floor thinking the same thought over and over again: Ainsley’s pregnant. That thought turns into others; some are of us raising this baby while others have us fighting constantly and never getting along. Each one has the same outcome, though—the baby is mine.
But what if she’s pinning this on me because I was there around the time she got pregnant? How do I know she wasn’t with someone else? I can ask that, right?
Yesterday when I was talking to Ainsley, I knew the baby was mine. Standing here now, looking out through my window, I’m not so sure. We haven’t seen each other in months, and I have no way of knowing if she didn’t hook up with someone else. There are too many unknowns right now and I don’t know what to do.
There’s a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that she wouldn’t lie about this—not after everything she’s been through. But I can’t help but feel like she would do the same thing her mother did and just raise the child on her own, without any fatherly help, and I don’t know if I want that, if I could be that type of man.
Late in the morning, I’m summoned to Wilson’s office, no doubt to explain my fucked-up performance last night. With my tail between my legs and my pride on the line, I knock on his door before entering.
He’s glaring; his face morphed into something I’ve only seen when he doesn’t agree with a call, and now it’s directed toward me. He stands and slams the door behind me. “Sit down,” he barks as he sits back down behind his desk. “I’ve known you a long time, and I never expected you to lack character, but this is over the top. It’s unacceptable behavior, and I won’t stand for it.”
I’m confused by his tone and the aggression behind his words. I had one bad game, which can easily be rectified.
I swallow hard and lift my chin so he can see that I’m serious. “It won’t happen again,” I tell him, even though it’s not like I can prevent a loss; I can control only my performance.
“You’re damn straight this won’t happen again, especially on my watch. If you think I’m going to let you go around sticking your dick in whatever walks while you have a baby on the way, you’ve got another thing coming.”
My mouth drops open, and he stands with his finger pointed at me. “You need to man up, Bailey.”
“Um…”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says, slamming his hand down on the table. “Ainsley’s pregnant, and you need to take responsibly for your actions.”
“Did my father call you?”
“No,” he scoffs.
I put my hands up in the air, calling a truce. “With all due respect, Skipper, how do you know about Ainsley and the baby? I just found out myself yesterday before the game, which is why I thought you called me in here, to talk about my game performance, not some chick I banged in Florida.”
My poor choice of words does not sit well with Wilson as his face turns red and his fingers clutch the ends of his desk. I’m starting to get pissed off wondering how he knows. If Aisnley somehow contacted my manager, she and I are going to have an exchange of words that isn’t going to end up in her favor.
“Ainsley is my daughter,” he says, sitting back down in his chair. I let his words sink in as my mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. “You have nothing to say?”
I shake my head. “She never told me that you’re her father. In fact, she told me she didn’t have one.”
“Well, she does, and it seems my starting center fielder has gotten himself into a pickle.”