Aced

“Go get Sammy.” Oh shit.

It’s too early.

The thought runs through my head, paralyzing me with a mixture of anxiety, fear, and worry, until a sniffle behind me snaps me to the here and now.

The baby’s not full term yet. In a pregnancy that has left me in a constant state of worry and fear, the thought is downright unnerving.

“I’m okay, Zand,” I say, hoping it’s the truth, fearing it’s not.

I look back to meet eyes welled with tears. “This is my fault,” he whispers.

No. No, that’s not true.

But for the first time in my life, I reach back and put my hand on top of his and don’t say a word to assuage his fears.

Because mine are greater right now.

And when I squeeze his hand, I’m not sure who I’m reassuring more, him or me.

SWING. WATCH. WALK. SCRATCH YOUR head and contemplate. Repeat.

Why anyone plays golf on a weekly basis beats the shit out of me. I’m so bored that watching paint dry would be more fucking interesting.

There’s a reason I race for a living. Adrenaline. Speed. Excitement. Too bad I can’t take the golf cart and open that baby up. Lay down some rubber on this boring green. Now that would be fun.

But sponsorships call. The dog and pony show must be performed. The ass-kissing must commence.

I slide a glance to Becks standing behind the head of Pennzoil and notice him giving me a lopsided smirk that says, “Quit being such a little bitch.” And he’s right. I need to, but I have so much shit to do and not enough time to do it in. Using my middle finger, I scratch the side of my head and give him the bird on the sly, causing his smirk to widen and his head to shake, obviously enjoying my misery.

The shrill sound of my cell disrupts the silence just as the Pennzoil rep is mid swing. He shanks the ball into the rough and immediately shoots me a glare for committing the cardinal sin of not silencing my cell on the green.

Fuck. Guess I screwed the pooch on that one.

I mumble an apology as Becks walks over to smooth over my error, and I pick up to see what Sammy needs.

“Sammy.”

“It’s time!” Rylee’s voice fills the line. Confused, I hold the phone out so I can look at the screen. Yep. Sam’s number all right.

“Time for . . . WHAT?” I shout, disturbing the silence on the green once again and not giving a fuck because my head is spinning and my heart is pounding.

“The baby,” she whispers, her voice a mixture of so many emotions I can’t place any of them.

“You sure?” I ask like a dumbfuck. Of course she’s sure.

“My water broke.”

Can’t get any more sure than that. Oh fuck. This is like real, real. “I’m on my way.”

I start to walk one way off the green and then stop and head the other way, hands shaking, mind reeling, and absolutely clueless about what to do now. The adrenaline I was begging for just moments ago is now coursing through me like jet fuel to the point I can’t focus on anything and yet need to do everything.

“Wood. You okay?” Becks asks, as I look like a goddamn ostrich walking back and forth with my head stuck up my ass.

“I gotta go.” I put my phone in my pocket. Take it out. Grab my club. Put it in my golf bag upside down. Start looking for my glove and can’t find it only to see it’s on my hand.

“Colton.” Becks’s stern voice breaks through the mosh pit of chaos in my head so that I stop pacing aimlessly.

“The baby . . . Ry’s in labor. I gotta go,” I say again as Becks throws his head back and starts laughing.

“Not so calm and collected now, are you?” He chuckles.

If looks could kill he’d be in a body bag right now as I start rifling through my golf bag for my keys before realizing we’re on the back nine and way too fucking far from the country club’s parking lot.

“Chill, dude.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “I’ll drive you to the clubhouse and then come back and deal with the suits,” he says, reading my crazed actions to know what I’m thinking. “Just promise me you’re stable enough to drive.”

That comment isn’t even worthy of a response.

Push the up button. Push it again. Pace three steps. Grumble. Push it again.

I’m not nervous. Not at all.

Door dings. Enter the elevator. Push the number three button. Smile politely to the man in the car, but keep my head down.

Scratch that. I’m freaking the fuck out now.

A stop on the first floor. The man walks off. Push close door. Push close door. Close the fucking door!

A baby. Holy shit.

Door closes.

I’m coming, Ryles.

Doors open just as my cell rings. I answer as I walk toward the nurses station.

“I don’t have much time, Shane. What’s up?”

“Is she okay?” he asks.

“Not sure yet. I’m almost there. I’ll text—”

“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

Come again? “What’s your fault?”

“I told Rylee I’d take care of Zander and then I called her and told her I was going there because the foster douchebag was meeting him and she was there. Zander told her lots of things and said he’d die if he went and that made her go into labor and now I’m worried I caused all of this—”

“Whoa! Slow down,” I say to stop his word vomit. What the fuck is he talking about? His words irritate my temper like an itch. How? Why?

Missing pieces fit together in my mind. Ry was at The House. Sammy was driving her to the hospital. Goddammit! Sammy drove her to The House to begin with. Against. My. Orders.