Redeeming (Red Lips & White Lies Book 2)

The snow starts to fall as I look up at the jumbotron where my parents stand in the Kingston’s suite, smiling out at the field, and fuck if I’m not pretty damn sure my dad is holding our sonogram picture in his hand. And there, behind him, is my girl, wearing my Kings hoodie.

Not that anyone else would know. But I know, and that’s enough for me.

Mine.

My whole fucking world right there.

Her and the baby.

My soul screams it in a cadence for my heart.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when Lilah walks out onto the fifty-yard line and belts out the opening of the national anthem. I’ll never get tired of hearing her sing it at our games, something she’s done since we were kids.

For most men, this game is a sport.

For some it’s a way of life.

For me . . . it’s a family legacy.

Something we share on so many levels in so many ways.

And today, it’s my turn to step it up.

As I walk out with my co-captains for the coin toss, and the snow dusts the turf, I know without a shadow of a doubt, it’s going to be a nasty game.

A physical game.

The best kind of game.

And we’re going to win.

It’s 20–14, and the Wolves are winning with less than a minute to go in the fourth quarter.

It’s been a battle. A war of attrition. The only way to win this kind of monster game is to be flawless. Every play counts. Every move counts. And every penalty glaringly counts.

We need a touchdown and the extra point to put this bitch to bed.

I stand to the right of my quarterback in what could be our last huddle of the season—the fucking hardest season of my life—and look around at these ten other men.

Fuck. I’m not ready for this season to end this way.

“All right, boys,” Mason, our QB, tries to get us pumped. “It’s been a long fucking game. I’m tired, sore, and freezing my balls off. Let’s get our shit together and put these motherfuckers away, so we can go home, get warm, and get laid.”

Some days, it’s harder than others to get the guys worked up for the last few plays.

Today isn’t one of those days.

You can see it in their eyes.

We need this win.

Mason turns to me and smacks my helmet. “Sinclair—you’re going to be the workhorse we ride to the finish. So fucking buck up and get ready. The ball’s coming to you.”

He looks around the huddle with a thunderous clap. “Ready . . . Break.”

And it’s on.

I move into slot position, second in from the end of the line, ready to run through this shit-talking fucker across from me.

Let him talk shit. This ball is mine, and he’s never gonna touch me.

Mason and I are in sync, like two kids playing catch in the backyard, dreaming of a future in the NFL. A future most men never have the opportunity to enjoy. One I fucking love. And maybe this game just reminded me why.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see our center snap the ball, and I take off out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter straight down the field.

I’m twenty yards down before I look over my shoulder and see the beautiful fucking spiral arcing into my hands.

The defensive back pulling my jersey tries to intercept.

He’s got no chance.

I’m taller. I’m faster. I’m stronger. And I’m fucking better.

In a move so beautiful, it’s gonna be on everyone’s recap tomorrow, I catch the ball and beat his ass another thirty yards down the field, dragging him across the goal line as the clock runs out, and we tie up the game.

Mason points at me from where he’s been tackled to the turf, and I point back.

We fucking did it.

We’ve got one play left, and the guys and I are on the sidelines looking through what’s turned into a whiteout of snow as our field goal kicker takes his stance for the extra point.

We all hold our breath until the ball goes through the uprights.

“The rookie from Tennessee sets up for the extra point.” The announcers call out, and we all hold our breath as the kid kicks. “The ball is up . . . and the point is good. The Kings win the game. The Kings win the game. The Philadelphia Kings are the NFC East Conference Champions, and they’re going back to the Super Bowl. In a season muddled with injury and leadership changes, our Philadelphia Kings have managed to pull it together once again and show us why they’re the team to beat every time we doubt them.”

This game is the greatest goddamned game in the world.

And I’m a fucking king.

Thank fuck, Declan doesn’t make me do the press conference. We’re all well aware of what the questions would be if they put me in there and how salty the press would get with me when I refuse to discuss my father or my relationship status with Caitlin.

Not an option. No matter how much people want to know.

Fuck them.

Instead, I shower, change, and text Caitlin.

Callen

Hey do you need anything? I’m on my way home.

Kitten

. . . . . . . . .

Her dots start and stop a few times before the message finally appears.

Kitten

No. Just drive carefully, please. The roads are a mess.

Callen

Be home soon.

I think that was the nicest thing she’s said to me in a while, and hey, I’ll take it.

Beggars can’t be choosers and all that shit.

It takes longer to get home than usual because she’s right, the roads are a shit show, and traffic getting out of the stadium is at a standstill. By the time I walk through the door, my muscles ache, the ankle I rolled during the first quarter is sore as shit, and my fingers are still tingling from playing four quarters of football in a snowstorm.

I’m ready for a few days off before the shit show of Super Bowl prep and pregame media ensues.

The lights are off, and the house is quiet when I get home. At least, until Cupcake meets me in my bedroom. She whines as I change into my sweats and refuses to stop until I grab a treat for her from the extra stash I keep in here.

She’s trained me well.

“Hey, girl. You want a treat?” I make her sit before she can have it.

“You’re mean . . .” Cait whispers from the other side of the door, and I watch as she squats down, and Cupcake shakes her fat little ass as she trots over to her, forgetting who just gave her a cookie.

Cait squishes Cupcake’s face and kisses her nose, and it’s official—I’m jealous of a dog.

When she stands up, I get my first good look at her and swallow my damn tongue.

“Is that my shirt, kitten?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

That’s the shirt I made her sleep in on her birthday. The one I dressed her in after she drunkenly stripped. And just like that night, she’s beautiful and looks completely naked under it.

A beautiful flush washes over her gorgeous face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sinclair.”

“Did you give my dad a copy of the sonogram?” I ask, wanting her so damn bad, my hands are practically shaking with my need to touch her skin. To taste her. To fucking claim her. To make her mine. Permanently.

A nervous smile, one I don’t see often on this woman, tugs at her lips. “Yeah. He was really sweet about it. You should consider taking advice from him on how to treat women.” Her lips tip up as excitement sparks in her eyes. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” I ask like an asshole before thinking better of it and giving her my hand.

We’ve barely touched since that night last month.

We’ve talked a bit more. But not much. Barely more than Hey, can you get me a strawberry shake from The Busy Bee? Maybe more if it’s about the baby, but that’s about it.

As far as Caitlin was concerned, we went back to our new norm.

Her hating me. And me trying to earn back her trust.

But I’d be fucking lying if I denied how much I want her.

In my life. In my bed.

All of her. Everywhere.

She presses my hand against her flat stomach and pushes down. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” I ask, confused. “Are you okay?”

Her pale-blue eyes shine in the dark as she slides my hand under her shirt and rests it flat against her creamy skin. “Talk to her,” she whispers softly, and I drop my hand.

So fucking slowly, I grip the hem of her shirt in my hands, giving her plenty of time to resist of she wants to. When she doesn’t, I lift it over her head and toss it to the bed. She’s perfect.

What I thought was a still perfectly flat stomach is rounded ever so slightly, like the beginnings of a tiny basketball of a bump. Cheeky pink panties emphasize the barely there bump, and a pink lace bra pushes up boobs that are definitely a full cup fuller.

I drop to my knees in front of her and gently place my hands on her stomach. “Hey, baby girl,” I whisper as I brush my lips against her soft skin, and a shudder rolls over Caitlin’s body. “You being good for your momma?”

Caitlin takes my hand in hers and moves its positioning more to the side before she presses down again. This time, I feel the tiniest pressure pressing back against my hand. “Holy shit,” I whisper, awed. “Was that her?”

When I look up into Caitlin’s eyes, they’re full of happiness and unshed tears as she nods, unable to speak.

The tiny kicking stops, and I kiss her stomach again, wanting more, but just like her mother, it’s going to be on her time. Not mine. The women in my life are all destined to be stubborn.

I pepper kisses along her ribs. “I loved seeing you there tonight, kitten. You, in my clothes. Pregnant with my baby. There at my game. My family. So fucking hot.”

She’s torn.

It’s clear the way every muscle in her body is strung tight.

Hesitant. But not pulling away.

I get the feeling it’s now or never.

That this moment, right now, matters more than any other ever will.

This is where I win the real game.

“You hold all the power here. Only you can put us out of our misery. Please, baby, you’ve got to forgive me. “ I wrap my arms around her waist and rest my cheek against her bump. “I’m so fucking sorry for putting you through hell. I swear to you I’ll never do it again. Give us this chance.”

“You’re my life, Cait.” She cups my cheeks in her delicate hands and tilts my face up to her. “It’s you and me. In every life, in every fucking way, I’ll choose us every time. I’m so fucking sorry I made you doubt that, kitten. Give me one more chance, and I’ll never let you doubt it again.”