Pregnant With The Douchebag Jock novel Chapter 11

11 /11

**TITLE: The Killer Who Left No Footprints by Natalie Ford**

**Chapter 11**

**Ellie**

Never in my wildest dreams did I envision myself seated in such an opulent restaurant, surrounded by polished silverware that sparkled like jewels and chandeliers that cast a warm, inviting glow over the room. It was a world far removed from my usual haunts, and yet, there was a strange comfort in knowing that Maddoc, despite his wealth and the almost mythical reputation he bore on campus, felt just as out of place as I did. He was dressed in his typical game-day attire—sweatpants and a hoodie—an ensemble that seemed to defy the elegance of our surroundings. It was the only outfit he had brought along, leaving all his other gear tucked away in the back of his car, as if he had no intention of conforming to the expectations of the elite diners around us.

As I sat across from him, I couldn’t help but steal furtive glances in his direction. My cheeks flushed with warmth as I realized he actually fit in better than I had initially thought. Even in his casual attire, Maddoc was breathtaking—his features so striking that they could easily grace the cover of a magazine. The way his hoodie clung to his broad chest only enhanced his effortless charm. I was taken aback by the intensity of my desire to look at him, to drink in every detail of his handsome face.

When our eyes finally locked, my blush deepened to an embarrassing degree, and I quickly averted my gaze, focusing intently on the intricate tile patterns beneath my feet. Were those swirls meant to resemble flowers? Probably. Fancy establishments always seem to feature perplexing designs on their floors, perhaps as a means to distract patrons from their own discomfort.

I found myself drifting back to just a few moments ago when Maddoc had pulled up in front of the restaurant. The glittering windows had captivated me, making it feel as though I was staring at the entrance to a different universe. “Th-this can’t be the place,” I had stammered, my mind racing with disbelief.

With a playful grin, he had shifted the car into park. “It is. Get out before I change my mind and take you to McDonald’s instead.”

And now, here we were—two souls adrift in a sea of luxury, worlds apart from the casual hangouts we were used to.

A waiter glided past us with an effortless grace, moving so smoothly that I half-expected him to be on rollerblades. He refilled our water glasses with a quiet elegance, treating us like royalty, while I felt like a fraud, waiting for someone to come along and escort me out for merely existing too loudly or making a misstep.

As we sat in silence, nursing our drinks, the absence of food stretched the tension between us like an elastic band ready to snap. The atmosphere was thick and stifling, awkward in a way that felt like we had skipped the playful banter and accidentally leaped straight into the realm of a first date.

“They usually aren’t this slow,” Maddoc muttered, casting a glance toward the kitchen. “Maybe they burned our food or something.”

Nervously, I fidgeted, and before I could reign in my thoughts, words tumbled out. “I b-bet it would still taste good even if they did. I’ve never been to a place this fancy before. The chefs here could probably serve me dog poop, and I’d still say it tasted amazing.”

To my surprise, Maddoc actually choked on his water, coughing and wheezing in disbelief. “Did prim and proper Ellie just say ‘dog poop’ in public? Seriously?”

My face flared with heat, feeling as if I could roast marshmallows on my forehead. “I’m not g-good at handling alcohol,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper.

With a smirk, he slid his glass toward me. “If I’d known alcohol could loosen you up like this, I’d have gotten you drunk ages ago. Here, take mine too.”

“Are y-you trying to get me drunk?” I asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into my voice.

“Maybe,” he replied, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to maintain a facade of seriousness. “You’re a terrible influence. Don’t inspire me to become an alcoholic.”

He leaned back, studying me intently—not just with his eyes, but with a weighty focus that made my heart race. “You don’t have to drink. That’s not why I brought you here.”

“Wait, you don’t want me to drink?” I asked, confusion knitting my brow.

His gaze softened, and he nodded slowly. “You can if you want, but I brought you here because I want to eat with you. Talk. Have fun.”

His words hung between us, simple yet laden with significance. My fork froze mid-air as I tried to decipher the depth of what he was really saying. There was a seriousness in his tone that caught me off guard.

Maddoc tilted his head, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. A spark of humor flickered in his eyes. “Are you scared of eating with me?”

“N-no,” I lied quickly, though inside I was trembling. I was terrified. This boy had kissed me like I mattered, held me like I was precious, and now he was pouring me wine and looking at me as if I wasn’t a complete disaster in sneakers.

He was far too charming right now. It felt like a trap, and here I was, seated at this fancy table with a napkin on my lap, walking straight into it.

“Then just enjoy the food and don’t overthink it,” he said, rolling his eyes and slipping into full Grumpasaurus mode.

Finally, something familiar. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Will do.”

When our food finally arrived, we initially avoided heavy topics. Maddoc asked quirky, oddly sweet questions—about my favorite flower, the music I enjoyed, whether I believed in aliens. We shared laughter over my childhood belief that the moon followed me wherever I went, and he recounted a time he attempted to bench press his best friend Jason, only to end up dislocating his shoulder.

Between bites of outrageously expensive pasta and my second stolen sip of his drink, I began to feel a sense of ease wash over me.

Then, out of the blue, he dropped the question that sent a chill down my spine.

“Do you have contact with your parents?”

My dessert spoon halted mid-air.

The room seemed to grow quieter, the weight of his question pressing heavily on my chest. A typical person wouldn’t just blurt out something so personal, but Maddoc had never been one for social niceties. Still, I trusted him enough to share.

“N-no…” I replied slowly, my fingers nervously toying with the whipped cream on my plate. “They chose alcohol over me. And they never really looked back. I cut them off.”

He appeared ready to let the topic slide, but Maddoc wasn’t one to easily drop a subject. “And you’re okay with that?”

My throat tightened painfully. “D-do you always ask such personal questions?”

“Do you always dodge the answer?”

Touché.

“No. I’m not okay. But I’m tired of being the parent when they were supposed to take care of me.”

He watched me intently—no judgment, just quiet understanding.

“How do you pay rent?”

I fidgeted again, feeling exposed. “I h-had a part-time job, but the hours were awful, so I quit. Now I’m looking for something new.” Realizing I had shared too much, I forced a smile. “Anyway, l-let’s talk about something else!”

But Maddoc wasn’t ready to change the subject.

“I think I understand you better now. Your parents… did they mistreat you? Is that why you’re so timid and easily frightened?”

Mistreat me?

Well, my dad had hit me a few times, but the real fear stemmed from when Laurent raped me. Back then, I had felt utterly powerless, and the nightmares still haunted me, waking me in a cold sweat.