“I can help,” Nichole offered. “Maybe a massage?”
Not from her. Chase usually ignored boundary lines, however, that was one he’d heed like a fully charged electric fence. “Why?”
“You’re in obvious pain, Chase.” Nichole pressed her palms on the pillow wall, smashing the feathers down and demanding his full attention. “You’re struggling to get comfortable right now. You keep moving, small shifts to the left, then the right. Small bend forward, then back. Your eyes narrow with every move. You’re in more than a little pain.”
“It hurts.” He’d give her that much. He kept his arm behind his head, refused to flinch. “It’s nothing that won’t heal.” If he kept reciting those words, it would come true.
“Well, I can also fix a mean ice pack. You just have to let me know if you prefer frozen peas or frozen steak.” Nichole flopped onto her side of the divide. “As you know I’ve had some experience with physical therapy routines.”
“That’s right.” Chase flipped through his memories and moved away from his shoulder. “You tripped on the bleachers, broke two toes and ended up in that bootie for over a month.”
“Don’t remind me.” But she laughed. The sound low and beguiling as if her disbelief still made the whole thing hard to process. “It was on the auditorium stairs during the regional debate finals. Three toes broke, not two.”
She’d shown up at his house in the walking boot. He’d wished he’d been there to help her. “Break anything recently?”
“Only my heart.” She flattened her lips together. The truth was already settling on the pillows between them. “But it wasn’t recent. I’ve healed.”
The fire snapped and crackled. The warmth expanded into the corners of the room. Everywhere except Nicole’s bronze gaze. Her heart may have been broken years ago, but she hadn’t forgotten the anguish. He said, “Wesley’s father broke your heart, didn’t he?”
“Professor Myles Dillon, PhD, is Wesley’s biological father.” Her voice was remote, as if distance, not time, healed pain. “I took his business econ and economic theory classes. Then I became his teacher’s assistant and a cliché.”
He disliked Professor Dillon for hurting Nichole. Still, Wesley’s real father had earned a PhD and was a college professor. A professor was the right kind of guy for Nichole. Not a football player, facing the possible end of his career, who knew more about being alone than being a couple. Chase cleared his throat. “If you loved each other, how was it a cliché?”
“I loved him, hence the broken heart.” Nichole traced her finger over the snowflake design on the pillowcase. “I don’t think his heart was even bruised after things ended.”
“You were having his child.” Chase wanted to believe he’d act differently. Wanted to believe he’d welcome the news. Be a good father. But his own father had failed on the good part. On doing the right thing. Chase had never wanted to test if he’d inherited more than his green eyes from his own dad.
“Not all fathers are created equal.” Nichole’s frown deepened.
Chase knew those words quite well. Chase’s father had left long before Chase had met Nichole. But she’d witnessed Chase’s father’s return. Days before the football draft, his father had walked back into Chase’s life and asked to be a permanent part of Chase’s world again. Seemed Chase was finally worthy enough of his father’s attention.
Nichole had argued his father deserved a second chance for simply being Chase’s dad. Chase had replied: not all fathers are created equal.
He’d never wanted Nichole to gain that kind of clarity, especially at Wesley’s expense. A different ache settled into his chest. One for a young boy who’d deserved so much more. So much better. He wanted to find Professor Dillon and lecture him. Right now, he wanted to pull Nichole into his arms and hold her until she forgot her pain. “Wesley is a really terrific kid.”
“I know.” A bitterness constricted her voice, squeezing her words together. “His biological father wasn’t interested in knowing anything about his own child.”
“He never met Wesley.” Even Chase’s father had a few years with his own children. He at least knew their names. Chase’s lecture for the professor intensified. That ache in his chest—the same one he knew Wesley felt—worsened, and he wanted to take care of a boy he hardly knew but understood.
“Myles doesn’t even know if he has a son or daughter.” The bitterness seized control of her words. “That was entirely his choice.”
Chase’s mother had glowed in the early photographs of her pregnancy with Ivy, framed by his father and a young Mallory. Nichole would’ve glowed too. Chase had seen her love for Wesley at the school. That same love would’ve already lit her from the inside at the very first news of her pregnancy. How could Professor Dillon not have been captivated by an excited Nichole? “You told the professor you were pregnant, and he walked away?”
“I told him I was pregnant.” Nichole focused on Chase. Strength in tone. “Then I walked away.”
“He never came after you.” Chase would’ve gone after Nichole. If he loved her. If he loved her, he’d have to show her his true self. But Chase’s love hadn’t been enough for his father to stick around.
“We wanted different things,” Nichole said. “It’s much better this way. Wesley doesn’t have to deal with the disappointment of a disinterested father.”
Chase had finally stopped dealing with his own disappointment one year after his father had left. He’d forced himself to concentrate on football. On the field, the physical pain was real. Every tackle, sack and collision strengthened him. “What did you tell Wesley?”
“I told him the truth. His biological father never wanted to be a dad.” Her voice sounded waterlogged. She’d accepted her own broken heart, but not Wesley’s. She’d found strength for her son. She added, “I didn’t want him to have illusions about his father.”
Chase understood. He’d spent his entire first grade believing his own dad would realize everything—everyone—he’d left behind was worth
