Quarterback's Unknown Baby Daughter: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Quarterback’s Unknown Baby Daughter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Quarterback’s Unknown Baby Daughter: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

  By Britney Brooke

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2018 Britney Brooke

  This story is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended.

  CLICK HERE

  to subscribe to my newsletter & get EXCLUSIVE updates on all offers, secret previews, and new releases!

  Chapter One

  Deanna

  THAT’S MY GIRL

  Permian High School Bowl, Odessa, Texas; Home of the Panthers

  “Go long, Grace!” I yell with my hands cupped around my mouth, a futile attempt to be heard on the field below.

  My daughter, Grace, like all the other players on her team, is oblivious to any sound but the roar of the crowd and their coach’s words echoing inside her head. It doesn’t matter. It won’t stop me from hollering encouragement to my girl, along with the hundreds of other parents and spectators that fill the stands for the Permian Basin Youth Football League’s division final, screaming our heads off in unison.

  The QB is already looking for her, the ball poised in his throwing arm. In her position as wide receiver, I see Grace move quickly into an open pocket, with defenders closing in fast. Her cleated feet dance out of their reach, maneuvering within the patch of field where the ball is destined, already airborne in a long-bomb, hail-Mary pass.

  Catch it, honey, catch it! I pray under my breath, my wish no less reverent than if I had been kneeling in church. It’s one of the things us born and bred Texans do best. Pray.

  Grace springs into the air to catch the slightly overthrown pass. As her arms encase it, the opposing defenders grab hold of her legs and drag her back to earth with a swift and bone-shattering thud. The hometown crowd sends up shrieks of joy, while I draw in a terrified breath.

  She’s caught it. Thank you, Lord, she’s caught it, and brought her team, the Permian Panther Cubs, to within inches of a touchdown. But my heart thunders with fear that the crushing tackle may have injured my sweet little Grace.

  In a moment, she emerges from the pile of football players, casually tossing the game ball to the nearby referee as if it were no big deal. I exhale in a nervous giggle. Sweet little Grace! Not so little anymore. At twelve years of age and five foot four, she’s lanky but strong, and the spitting image of me. Her long blonde hair that fans out from below her helmet is the only clue that she’s a girl and rightly so; she’s as fierce a competitor as any boy her age. I shake my head and smile in admiration of her athletic prowess. That part she doesn’t get from me. It’s her daddy showing.

  I guess it’s the second thing us Texans excel at. Football. Grace’s dad was a natural – an all-star on our high school team. He, of course, went on to play pro, and as far as I know, is still with the Jets out in New York. Thousands of miles away. Not knowing his daughter exists, and I’ve kept it that way on purpose. A faint but familiar pang of regret courses through me, but I shrug it off, repeating the well-worn mantra in my head.

  You and Wyatt just weren’t meant to be.

  A smile returns to my face as I watch the Cubs set up on the line of scrimmage for the next, and probably final, play of the game. There’s less than a minute on the clock, and no chance for the opposing team to mount a scoring drive to the other end of the field. Our team is already up by three points, and a touchdown will seal the deal.

  The ball snaps into the quarterback’s hands. He darts sideways, looking for the play; being so close to the goal line he could call his own number and launch himself over the tangled heap of scrimmaging players, but he doesn’t. He sees Grace in the open, already inside the end zone, and makes the pass just as he’s sacked from one side. It’s not perfect, the ball spinning awkwardly end over end, but makes the distance into Grace’s outstretched arms.

  Touchdown!

  The crowd is on their feet, cheering, and so am I. Though not surprised that my athletically inclined daughter would pursue a sport, her choice to join the co-ed youth football program did throw me for a loop at first. But watching her now, doing a celebratory chicken-dance in the end zone, I understand completely. Football is just plumb in her genes.

  I grin at the thought she might someday even make the Panthers team at my old alma mater, Permian High School. The Panthers are legends in Odessa and have spawned more than one NFL player in its history. Case in point: my old high school sweetheart and Grace’s secret father, Wyatt Connor.

  Try as I might to forget him, being on a football field – this particular football field –makes it next to impossible. They say there’s no love quite like your first, and over the years I’ve had to admit to the truth of that phrase.

  The horn sounds to end the game and the Cubs bench empties onto the field to join their teammates in a jubilant victory huddle.

  “Quite the fine player y’all got there, Deanna,” one of our team parents leans over to say.

  “You must be so proud,” says another, patting me on the shoulder.

  “Thank you,” I say, with an ear-to-ear smile, as if I’d actually done something to contribute to the win. But I’ll accept the praise on Grace’s behalf.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the PA system bellows. “The Permian Basin Youth Football League congratulates our division winners, the Permian Panther Cubs, and all players, coaches, and staff of both teams this evening, for a spectacular division final. As per tradition, we will now present the awards, as chosen by the players on the opposing teams, for best Offense and Defense players, as well as Player of the Game.”

  The crowd applauds as the players line up facing each other on either side of the center line and remove their helmets. I stifle a chuckle as I watch Grace shake out her long blonde locks with the aplomb of a shampoo commercial model. My little girl could also be a real ham sometimes.

  “Tonight, we are honored to have a special surprise guest join us to present these awards,” the announcer continues. “Please welcome, all the way from New York, and a Permian High School alumni from right here in Odessa… I think y’all know him; a football legend in his own right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the one, the only, Mr. Wyatt Connor.”

  My heart seems to freeze inside me, its beating arrested at the sound of his name. Wyatt. Oh my God. Wyatt. Bona fide NFL star Wyatt Connor, league MVP and the official face of the New York Jets, has come home to his tiny Texas roots for a little-league division championship? It’s unimaginable, yet there he is, striding in from the sidelines with that sexy swagger I’d recognize no matter how long I lived or how hard I tried to erase it from my memory. Dang it. Still a hunk.

  He waves to the crowd, flashing the smile that’s probably melted a thousand pairs of panties besides mine. He shakes hands with the coaches and steps up next to a small table laden with medals and certificates that’s been brought to the sidelines. A technician hands him a microphone.

  “
Thank you, it’s great to be here.”

  His voice rumbles across the stadium. A little deeper than I remember and curiously devoid of his natural Texas drawl, but the sound of it awakens feelings I thought I’d buried long ago. I fight to keep the unearthed emotions hidden from anyone who might be looking my way.

  “Wow, this field looks exactly how I left it,” Wyatt says. “Some things never change. And I’m thrilled to see that one thing that hasn’t changed is the tradition of fine football here in Odessa.”

  The crowd yells and whistles in agreement. I fix my sights on Grace to divert my attention from the man speaking; I have to until my pulse slows down and I can gain control of my senses. Even so, the sight of Grace jumping up and down in her place at the end of the line in excitement makes it difficult to ignore him. She’s a huge Jets fan. I’m sure she’s hoping for his autograph before the event is over. The whole scene is surreal.

  Wyatt dutifully hands out the D and O awards, the selected players bounding forward to accept their medals. The rest of the team applauds, even as disappointment flickers across their faces at not being chosen. But there’s one more to go.

  “And now,” the announcer goes on, “it’s time for the Player of the Game award. As mentioned, the winners have all been chosen by their peers, making every award extra special. The Permian Basin Youth Football League’s player of the game award goes to... The Panther Cubs number 72, Grace Murphy.”

  I feel as though a spear has gone through my heart. I can’t move; I’m paralyzed with shock and joy. My little girl has just won Player of the Game! My fellow parents are jostling me back and forth in acknowledgment, some of them wrapping me in hugs. This will mean so much to Grace, coming face-to-face with one of her idols, but the only thought in my head is what it’s going to mean to me.

  She will come face-to-face with her father.

  I can hardly breathe. I’m helpless to do anything but watch from the stands as Grace races toward him to accept the medal and the certificate Wyatt holds in his hands. Will he have any inkling? Any recollection? I never married, so Grace’s surname is Murphy just as mine still is. Will the name ring a bell for him?

  Wyatt’s tall, muscled frame leans forward to drape the medal around Grace’s neck and present her with the certificate. A photographer snaps a pic of the two of them holding the piece of parchment between them, and I think I’m going to cry. Father and daughter. Meeting, yet not meeting. It’s a scene too bittersweet to bear.

  Through my tear-blurred vision, I notice that Grace doesn’t return to the lineup immediately. Wyatt is talking to her, his hand on her shoulder in what would be a fatherly gesture if only he knew. Grace’s blonde head nods emphatically at whatever he’s just said and chatters back to him as though answering a question.

  In a moment, she trots back to her team as they all retrieve their helmets and gather together for a group photo. I can’t help but wonder what sort of exchange has taken place between her and Wyatt but am certain I will get the blow-by-blow, full-color commentary from Grace on the ride home. I’m curious, but nervous too. She’s never asked about her father much, as I’ve always told her that he and I were just very different people, wanted different things, and so went our separate ways.

  These statements weren’t lies, but they weren’t entirely truths either. I’d loved Wyatt deeply, as deeply as high school kids can, and he’d told me he loved me too. But ivy-league football scholarships came calling, and their siren song rang louder than my declarations of love ever could. Before I knew it, he was gone, and Grace was on her way. I never had the grades or money to follow him or to enroll at the same college and Wyatt knew that.

  We did try to stay in touch, but as usual, long distance relationships are ultimately doomed. My throat still constricts at the betrayal I felt when I broke it off with him a few months later. I never told him about the baby and never saw him again until today.

  I’m still in knots as I file out of the stands and make my way to the dressing room area below the stadium to wait for Grace. I may not have told her what happened between her daddy and me, but I hope I’ve instilled in her the idea that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who your parents are. What matters is what you make of yourself, and how you treat others.

  I felt the best thing was to lead by example. I wanted to own a business, and I do. The Yellow Rose in downtown Odessa, and it’s doing very well. Grace helps me on the weekends and is learning the tricks of the florist trade, but I know she’d much rather be on a sports field.

  For the first time, I feel like I’ve done my daughter a disservice – the opportunities she might have had because of her dad that I could never have provided. Coaching. Connections. Money. I’d denied her all of that for my own prideful reasons. Dang. Did you do the right thing?

  Seeing Wyatt Connor again, I suddenly feel more like a failure than a success. I grit my teeth as I approach the dressing room entrance. More than ever, I’m determined to keep Grace’s paternity a secret.

  Chapter Two

  Wyatt

  HIGH SCHOOL DÉJÀ VU

  The place hasn’t changed one bit. In fact, just walking through the aisles between the red and white painted bleachers to reach field level sends a spooky shiver down my spine. Friday Night Lights. There are times in your life that you never forget; those days certainly ranked among them for me.

  But I’d packed those memories away, in the same worn duffel bag as my football gear thirteen years ago when I left Odessa, and I haven’t looked back. At least, not until a few weeks ago, when my PR manager scheduled this gig of presenting awards to my hometown’s youth football club.

  “Optics,” he said. “Good publicity, perfect for the online newsfeeds, just as regular pro season is ramping up.”

  Even if it hadn’t been a good marketing move, I would have accepted the honor. The PBYFL is a top-notch organization, one I’m proud and privileged to be a part of. I wouldn’t be where I am today without this grassroots program, and I’ve been looking forward to this event; a chance to give back to a place and a sport that has given me so much.

  I smile as I stand on the sidelines, waiting for my cue. Even with their equipment on, the kids look small compared to the behemoth players of the NFL that I go toe-to-toe with. From tiny acorns do mighty oaks grow... or something like that. The stands are filled with the parents of these little seedlings, and for a moment a wave of regret washes over me. I’m certainly old enough to be the father of any of these kids, but my career had come first. Starting a family hadn’t been on my agenda.

  At all.

  Women, yes. Plenty of them; de rigueur for a pro football player. But marriage and children? Not even a blip on the radar. Have I missed the boat? I’m thirty-two, and from out of nowhere the thought hits me that if I do want to be a ‘young’ dad someday, time is slipping away.

  Looking out on the field before me, dotted with fifty or so pairs of little arms and legs in jerseys and cleats, makes my heart swell with a strange, wistful longing for something more; something I have missed out on.

  The nostalgic fog in my mind clears as I hear my name over the loudspeakers. Having just gotten off a flight a few hours ago I’ve only seen the last few minutes of the game. But what I did see was impressive. Especially that amazing catch in the end zone. So gratifying to see such athletically gifted boys and girls, with no prejudices or preconceptions, playing as equals in a game I love. I want to personally congratulate them all, though I will get to meet only a few up close.

  I wave and smile to the crowd, feeling the pride and exhilaration almost physically emanating from them all the way up the bowl. I say a few words into the microphone and wait for the winner announcements. A husky boy from the visiting team jogs up to me to receive the Best Defensive Player award. He’s sweaty and smiling, and pumps my hand so enthusiastically I think he might wrench it clean off. We have our picture taken and away he goes, too tongue-tied to say a word to me but leaping up and down as he returns to his circle
of teammates.

  The Best Offensive Player award goes to the Panther Cubs quarterback; the boy had thrown an impressive 200 passing yards in the game. There were days I didn’t even reach that mark myself.

  “Congratulations,” I tell him. “You’ve got a great arm there, son.”

  His freckled face breaks into a wide grin. “Not as great as yours,” he says, still breathing excitedly from the game’s exertion. “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Connor?”

  “Mr. Connor will be signing autographs outside the dressing rooms for a few minutes,” the team organizer leans over to say. “So the sooner we get off the field, the sooner you’ll have your chance.”

  “Okay.” The player nods and sprints back to his lineup.

  I’d agreed to a short appearance for that purpose, but judging by the boy’s reaction, I have a feeling I’m going to be swamped outside the dressing rooms for at least an hour. I don’t mind. I’m not due back in New York until the day after tomorrow. I’ll be happy to sign programs and jerseys all night long if necessary. It will be worth it to see such excitement on so many young faces.

  “... number 72, Grace Murphy,” I hear the announcer say, shaking me from my wandering thoughts.

  Right. The Player of the Game award.

  I snap to attention and gaze out onto the field again, where a tall, slim blonde girl steps away from the lineup and runs toward me in graceful strides, her long locks flowing out behind her like golden streamers.

  Wait. Did he just say Murphy? My eyes widen as she draws nearer. This is the very player that scored the last touchdown... and it’s a girl! She’s pretty and has a smile that could light up the entire gridiron if the field lights suddenly went out, but that’s not what has me taken aback. Suddenly the whole scene is muddled before my eyes, transforming into a whirling vortex of a flashback.

  A radiant, young blonde beauty is standing before me against the backdrop of a long-ago football field, looking just as I remember her.

  Deanna Murphy.

  But it can’t be Deanna. This girl’s name is Grace. Grace Murphy. How much of a coincidence can that be?