One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(73)

My finger clicks on the top link.

Son of a bitch.

Angry with myself but also strangely pleased, I sit up and turn up the volume of my computer.

The first thing I notice in the video is Hayden’s posture. He’s hunched over, arms folded on the table in front of him, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His eyes are barely visible, his jaw pulsing, his shoulders tense.

Focusing on the interview, I listen intently, watching Hayden’s body language with each question asked and each answer he speaks into the microphone.

“Do you have any regrets about that fight with Marcus Miller?”

Leans into the microphone. Unapologetically. “No.”

Flashes of light instantly bounce off him. He doesn’t flinch.

Sips his water.

Looks around the room.

Tense and vacant.

“So you don’t think the fight cost you advancement in the playoffs?”

Flinch, flexes his forearms, bites his bottom lip.

Pulls on the brim of his hat. “The shots O’Reilly deflected cost us our advancement. He played a hell of a game and shut down our offense.”

“You were tied heading into the last five minutes of the game, right before you were sent to the penalty box, leaving your team short a man. You don’t think that has anything to do with the loss?” Shoulders tense even more and a different man appears.

The man I became accustomed to is no longer in sight. He’s morphed into an annoyed and bitter-looking man. Clenching his jaw, he works it back and forth, his knuckles white as ever, his fingers digging into his palms.

He clears his throat, pinches the microphone and then . . . right there, you can see the minute he loses his cool, the second his professional media training is thrown out the window. Lifting his eyes for the first time, he makes eye contact with the reporter asking the question, fury slicing through his pupils.

“Tell me, Bob, if someone came up to you and slapped a hockey stick across the back of your legs, would you bend over and ask for another? Or would you have retaliated? From the look of it”—Hayden gives the man a once-over—“you would have bent over, but that’s not how I handle things. Miller deserved to be brought down to the ice and I won’t apologize for my actions.” Hands digging into the table, he stands, his chair falling over. “Unless you have any other questions about the actual game, I’m done for the night.”

More lights flash at him. Reporters call after him.

But he retreats, looking ready to kill.

The video ends and I let out a long pent-up breath, my heart stuttering. Oh, Hayden.

Melting into my couch, I lean my head against the cushion and have a very bad thought. The kind of thought anyone watching me would shake their head at, scream, and say don’t do it!

But I’m feeling wild.

I’m feeling crazy.

I’m pregnant and have no sense of reason.

I’m doing it. I’m going to Google Hayden.

I know, I know, nothing good will come of this, but I never said I was smart.

Typing his name into the search bar, I have a small moment of pause, but before I can consider not doing this, my finger presses the enter button, once again being incredibly defiant.

Squinting, hand partially covering my eyes like blinds, I peek at my computer screen to be met with a small picture of Hayden holding a blonde woman’s hand.

Outraged, I bring the computer inches to my face, a gasp popping out of me. “Who is that?”

I click on the picture and start searching for names, trying to tell myself it could be old, it could be someone he used to date, it could be—

Noely Clark, Good Morning, Malibu host.

What?

Leaning back on the couch, I stare at the picture of them, the way they look so good together. Her California-blonde hair, perfect figure, and insanely cute high heels next to Hayden, who towers over her, his hand two times bigger than hers, his stride long but also protective . . . of her.

Oh hell.

This was a bad idea.

How could he? How could he date someone so soon?

I mean, I know, I was the one who called it off, I get that, but he looks so cozy with her, so comfortable. Where did he meet her? Did she interview him? Did a mutual friend set them up?

I need to know more or my mind will start making up stories, and that is not a good situation to be in. Taking a deep breath, I start to type Noely Clark into the search engine when there is a loud knock at my door. Startled, I close my computer quickly and stuff it under my couch, as if I was caught watching porn. Jesus Christ.

Taking a deep breath, calming my nerves, I open the door.

Outside, looking handsome as ever is Racer . . . who is giving me a death glare.

Uh-oh. Looks like I have other things to worry about other than Hayden moving on with . . . well, just moving on. Period.

Wanting to seem as casual as possible, I say, “Uh, hey there, buddy.”

“Don’t you hey buddy me.”

Stepping past me, he shuts the door and takes me to the couch, forcing me to sit. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Ignoring him, I ask, “How’s Georgiana?” Racer started dating a girl he met through a project he’s been working on. She’s lovely actually, and is helping Emma with her wedding plans. She is stubborn and driven, the perfect match for Racer.

“She’s great, testing my—” He pauses and gives me the raised-eyebrow-I-won’t-allow-you-to-sidetrack-me look. Yeah, it’s a thing. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t distract me with my girl.” Eyeing my stomach, he says, “Tell me.”