The non-expired medicine Noah sent over really does the trick. I sleep a full nine hours and wake up the next morning feeling much better. My head no longer feels like it’s full of sand, and I can actually breathe through my nose again.
I’m still a little tired, so I stay in bed for a while after waking up, scrolling through social media and waiting for Noah to text me back. I sent him two messages last night, one right after the game, and one after I received the surprise medicine delivery, but he never responded to the second one.
He must’ve passed out early. I watched a highlight reel of the game last night, and he played his heart out. So even though it’s an hour later where he is, which means it’s already going on 9:30 his time, I’m not overly worried that I haven’t heard back from him yet.
Stretching the kinks out of my neck and shoulders, I crawl out of bed and throw on a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. I’m in the kitchen heating up some leftover soup and bread when my intercom buzzer goes off. Another delivery person is here with a package from Noah, and once they leave, I use a butter knife to cut through the tape on the box.
My brows pull together as I peek inside and try to decipher what I’m seeing. It looks like some kind of clothing made of bright colors and fuzzy fabric. I pull it out and hold it up to the light, then immediately start laughing. It’s one of those wearable blanket things, and it’s hideous.
I love it.
I put it on right away and take a picture with the hood up over my head and falling into my face. Then I sit down on the couch and start to send the photo to Noah—but before I can, my phone buzzes with a notification from the Aces’ Twitter account. I see Noah’s name, along with the words ‘some woman,’ and I know right away that it’s just dumb tabloid drama. Even though we’ve gone public with our relationship, some of the local gossip sites still haven’t been able to let go of their image of Noah as a total player.
I send the notification away with a flick of my finger, but then another one comes through right after it. And another one. And another one.
Whatever the story is this time, it’s blowing up.
Sighing, because I’m supposed to be having a day off but now I’m going to have to deal with this nonsense, I open up the account and am immediately greeted by a picture of Noah walking out of his hotel room. He’s wearing a t-shirt I bought for him, so I know it’s a photo that was taken recently. Underneath the picture, the headline reads, Playboy Noah Blake Caught Trying to Sneak Out of Hotel Room Unnoticed.
Is that it? Are people really up in arms because Noah tried to get away from the paparazzi after a long day of traveling and a hard-won game?
But then I see the comments, and I realize that’s not the full story.
Not by a long shot.
DramaLlama22: Oh my god, look at his face! Trying to act all innocent, like he doesn’t know what everyone is saying about him. Probably trying to hide so he doesn’t have to pay child support.
HannahR505: I can’t believe he would do this to that sweet girl! And he better not leave that baby hanging. Be a man and take responsibility, because you have no one to blame but yourself!
JujuBees_W: All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t mind being Noah Blake’s baby mama…
Baby mama? Child support? What on earth are these people talking about?
My stomach flips over on itself as I click out of the social media page and go to Google instead. I type Noah’s name into the search bar, and the results all come up with the same story—Noah Blake is having a baby with a woman named Rachel Travers.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
I try to call Noah, and when he doesn’t answer, I try again—three times. I’m doing my best to remain calm, assuming that this whole thing is just one big misunderstanding. Or if it is true, this Rachel Travers person must be someone Noah hooked up with before we met, and she’s only now told him that she’s pregnant. His past is catching up to him, but at least this woman and her unborn child are from his life before he met me.
Right?
I start crafting a long, rambling text to him, not even sure exactly what I’m saying or asking of him, when a call comes through. It’s Ted. I swipe across the screen to answer, and I’m painfully aware of how panicked I sound as I speak into the phone.
“Ted, oh my god, what’s going on?”
“Margo,” he says, his voice tight. “What have you heard?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” I stammer, hating how true that is. “I just got on my phone right now to see the internet losing its mind. What have you heard?”
“I don’t have the full story yet,” he admits. “But I called to tell you to stay away from this. I’m serious. You’re too close to all of this, and if you get involved, it’ll just add fuel to the fire. Don’t even think of yourself as the social media manager for the team right now, okay? At least, not when it comes to Noah Blake. I need you a million miles away from this drama. Take a few more sick days.”
“Okay.”
I nod slowly, feeling as if the world is tilting around me. After promising me that he’ll handle the social media accounts in my absence, Ted hangs up. As soon as the call ends, I grab my laptop and flip it open, my hands shaking as I type an entry into the search bar.
Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this, but I have to know. I need more answers.
Unfortunately, there’s plenty of online chatter and gossip about Noah and his supposed baby momma already. I end up going down a rabbit hole of comments and speculation, and one comment I find leads me to an actual picture of the two of them. It’s on a tabloid website, and splashed above the picture is the headline, Noah Blake’s Secret Life?
According to the tabloid, the picture was taken two and a half weeks ago, and I try to remember what happened on the listed date. My stomach drops as it occurs to me that I wasn’t with Noah that night. I was with Heather and a friend of ours, out for drinks with the girls.
And this is what he was doing?
The picture blurs as tears build in my eyes again, and I blink them away furiously. He and Rachel look like they’re outside a private residence, standing close together. His back is to the camera, but the side of his face is partially visible, and the woman’s face is absolutely clear.
She’s beautiful.
Her haircut and makeup are flawless, and she’s smiling flirtatiously at him.
Bile rises up in my throat, and I slam my laptop closed, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes as if I can somehow block out the sight that’s already been seared into my retinas. I drag in several breaths, forcing myself to inhale and exhale slowly.
Just call him, Margo. Give him a chance to explain.
I call Noah again, but again, he doesn’t answer. By this point, he may be in the air already, on the flight back to Denver with his team.
I pull my phone away from my ear as his voicemail message comes on, pressing the ‘end call’ button. Then I open up my personal account on TikTok, biting my lip so hard it aches as I do a search for his name. A lot of what comes up is clips from Aces games, but when I sort for more recent videos, the top result that pops up has thousands of views.
When I press on it and it starts to play, my breath catches. It’s a video of Noah, and it was posted earlier today.
It looks like whoever’s recording caught Noah as he was walking down the street, because the camera shakes a bit as whoever’s holding it runs to catch up with him.
“Hey,” a male voice calls from behind the camera. “Noah Blake! Is it true you knocked up some woman?”
Noah doesn’t answer, ducking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets as he picks up his pace. But the guy is persistent, and he pulls up alongside Noah, then gets a little bit ahead of him, still filming.
“Come on, dude, the people want to know. Are you the father?”
Noah glances up. He looks awful, like he hasn’t slept at all. Dark shadows are visible under his eyes, and his hair is unkempt. He swallows, licking his lips, and my heart stutters in my chest.
Then he says, “Yes.”
And my heart stops beating.
“Fuuuuck,” the guy behind the camera breathes, sounding disappointed and scandalized. Noah’s jaw clenches, and he turns away, cutting across the street to escape the guy who accosted him. The camera flips around to reveal a young man, probably in his early twenties. He makes a face, his eyes wide. “Damn, bro. He’s gonna be a daddy.”
The video loops, starting over from the beginning, and I keep staring at the screen, seeing—hearing—that single moment over and over.
Yes.
Up until this point, part of me was still hoping it was some kind of misunderstanding or mistake. That it would all be cleared up and make sense somehow. That it would turn out the press was making shit up, and Noah hadn’t actually gotten some other woman pregnant while he was dating me.
But it’s not a mistake. It’s not a lie.
Noah confirmed it himself.
That thought lodges in my heart like an ice pick, and something inside me breaks.
I’ve been standing outside Noah’s building for an hour now, my arms wrapped around myself as if that will keep me from falling apart. It took me most of the morning to pull myself together, and once I did, I realized what I needed to do.
I have to confront him. I have to speak to him, face to face.
So I took a shower, put on some clean clothes, and headed across town. It’s cold out, and my hair is still damp, so standing here waiting for him is probably going to make my cold worse, but I don’t give a shit.
I need him to look me in the eye and tell me the truth.
He hasn’t answered a single one of my texts or calls, but I’m not going to let him slink into the shadows and not own up to what he did. No fucking way.
I tuck my coat a little tighter around myself and shift my weight from one foot to the other to try to warm up, and that’s when I see a black Mercedes pulling around the corner. It’s him. I don’t know how I know, but I just do. There are plenty of other people who live in this fancy building who might drive a car like that, but I have a feeling deep in my gut that it’s Noah.
I step forward, my body moving of its own accord as my pulse picks up, my heart racing so fast that it almost makes me lightheaded. He’s driving down the street toward the garage entrance of his building, and when he glances over and sees me, his eyes widen.
Our gazes lock as shock registers on his handsome, familiar face.
And that’s when I lose my nerve.
Shaking my head, I turn and stride down the street in the direction of my car, my stomach twisting itself into a knot.
It’s too soon. I’m not ready to face him.
Behind me, there’s a screech of brakes. The engine cuts off, and I hear Noah get out of the car, but I don’t turn around.
“Wait! Margo, wait!”
Something about hearing my name on his lips shatters the last piece of my heart. I stop suddenly, wheeling around to face him as he hurries to catch up to me. He looks even more haggard in person than he did in that video, but even his rough state isn’t enough to make me feel bad for him.
“How could you, Noah?” I hiss. “How could you do this? Are you some sort of sociopath? Huh?” When he reaches me, I shove against his chest. “I told you I didn’t want to date someone who was going to break my heart, and you promised me! You swore you weren’t that guy anymore, but it turns out you were just fucking with me.”
I shove at his chest again, although not hard. I don’t have that kind of physical violence in me, and Noah’s nearly twice my size, so it’s not like I have the strength to knock him off his feet. But even so, he staggers backward a step, giving way under my fury.
“Is that what gets you off?” I demand, all the hurt and anger that’s been building up inside me spilling over. “Fucking with my head? Turning my life upside down and then ripping my heart out?”
“Margo,” he says again, and hearing my name come out of his mouth is truly heartbreaking. I used to light up every time he said it, but now, all it does is twist the knife in my chest.
“Tell me it isn’t true.” I wish I didn’t sound like I was begging, but I am. “Please, Noah. Tell me. Look me in the eyes and say that you didn’t sleep with that woman while we were together.”
He doesn’t answer.
And he doesn’t look me in the eyes.
Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, balling up his hands at his sides as if the tension in his body has nowhere else to go. I can tell that this conversation is hurting him, and a sick part of me likes that it is. He should have to hurt a little, after what he’s put me through.
I stay quiet for a full agonizing minute, waiting. Hoping. Praying for him to say anything that will bind the splintered pieces of my heart into a whole, beating organ again.
The noises of the city fall away around us, and I stare at Noah’s face. Every line and curve of it. His strong nose, his full lips, his cheekbones, his forehead. When his eyes finally open again, revealing those startling blue irises that drew me in from the first day I met him, I shake my head.
“So that’s it, then,” I whisper, tears spilling from my eyes.
I take a step backward, dragging in a gulp of air as a sob threatens to burst out of me. He moves like he’s going to follow me, and I hold up a hand, stopping him. He freezes, a muscle in his cheek jumping as his jaw clenches.
“You want to know the worst thing about all of this?” I ask, not even bothering to wipe away the tears as more fall. “I was ready to be there for you. When I first heard that you had gotten someone else pregnant, I thought maybe it was someone from before we met, and I was ready to support you. Whole-heartedly. I wouldn’t have held that against you or made you feel like you needed to choose between me or your child. I would’ve kept my chin up and taken on the consequences of your past, because that’s how much I loved you.”
He’s crying now too, although he still hasn’t said a thing to me except my name. We stare at each other for a long moment, and in the space of that moment, I can feel the entire future I built for us in my mind—the love, the laughter, the family—falling away.
“We’re done, Noah,” I say in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “I’m done.”
My limbs feel numb and heavy as I get into my car, turn the key, and drive away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk behind me.
