“This time, when I come on your tits, you're going to sleep in it.”

“God, you're filthy.”

“You love it.”

“I know.”

~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 ...”