Pregnant With The Douchebag Jock novel Chapter 8

8 /11

**The Killer Who Left No Footprints by Natalie Ford**
**Chapter 8**

Maddoc

“Please, just put me down…” Ellie’s voice is a small, flustered whisper, her third attempt to plead with me. She squirms in my arms like a frantic squirrel ensnared in a trap, and I can’t help but hold her as if she were some peculiar, squeaky trophy from a hunting trip.

She feels absurdly light, almost weightless. Seriously, what does she survive on—air and a diet of sadness? I could easily bench press her while simultaneously solving calculus problems with one hand. That thought is unsettling, twisting in my mind in ways I don’t want to explore. Clearly, my brain is having a moment of malfunction.

“This is so embarrassing! Please put me down, Maddoc…” she insists, her cheeks flushing a shade deeper with every word.

Embarrassing? Pfft. I couldn’t care less. I’ve already shot down every curious onlooker who dared to glance our way. Not one of them had the audacity to keep staring. Honestly, I don’t mind if we look like a couple.

…Well, maybe I do. There’s this twisted little part of me that wants us to appear as if we belong together, just to deter any other guy from making a move. It’s annoying, really.

Since when did I start caring about women this much?

“We’re almost at your apartment,” I grunt, trying to sound indifferent.

“P-put me down!” she stammers, her voice rising in pitch.

“No.”

“Maddoc… please… blood’s rushing to my head…”

With a sigh of resignation, I finally relent. “Fine.”

Carefully, I lower her to the ground, and as I do, her jacket shifts up slightly, revealing her flat stomach. My eyes linger longer than they should, captivated by the delicate hints of her form. Those tiny bumps on her chest hardly qualify as breasts—they’re more like playful whispers of femininity, cute and inviting.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Here,” I mutter, helping her adjust her jacket back down. “You’re giving the entire street a free show.”

Her cheeks turn a deep crimson. “Oh…”

I crouch down, smoothing the fabric to ensure her belly button isn’t on display. She freezes, looking at me as if I’ve just offered to do her taxes.

Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing. This isn’t my usual style. I’m not the guy who fusses over a girl’s jacket like some sort of Disney prince.

And yet, here I am, playing fashion assistant to the tiniest, sassiest introvert in existence.

“Do you usually help girls on the street, or am I just lucky?” she mutters, an edge of sarcasm in her tone.

“Only when they flash innocent bystanders with their belly buttons,” I reply, a smirk creeping onto my lips.

I glance up, and our eyes meet—her cheeks still flushed, her wild brown hair tousled as if she just survived a hurricane.

And she’s… adorable.

Ugh, did I really just think that?

“Th-thank you,” she says softly, her usual stammer returning. I’ve grown accustomed to it by now. It’s not fear; it’s just a nervous habit she can’t shake.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter, cracking my shoulders as I try to shake off this strange sensation. “Let’s get moving. Your apartment’s close, right?” I’ve brought her here before, but walking is a whole different experience compared to driving.

“I’m still mad at you.”

Of course, she is.

I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Obviously. You’re a woman. It’s part of the starter pack.”

“Wow. So respectful,” she retorts, her tone dripping with irony.

Okay, maybe she has a point. Perhaps I am an asshole. But I never signed up to be nice. We’re fake dating. Emphasis on FAKE.

Still… something niggles at me. A strange twinge of guilt, like my conscience is clawing its way out of the grave to deliver a lecture.

Maybe you should be nicer.

Pfft.

Nah.

…Then again, perhaps I should open up a bit?

“Listen,” I begin, my voice slower than usual since vulnerability isn’t my strong suit. “You’re not the only one with crappy parents. Mine want me to get married and take over the family business.”

Ellie narrows her eyes at me, skepticism etched on her face. “And that gives you the right to act like a grumpy caveman?”

“No! It just… makes me bitter, alright?” I grumble, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Football’s my entire life. I want to get into the NFL, but my parents think it’s just a phase. Like some emo haircut I’ll eventually grow out of.”

Her scowl softens, morphing into something resembling sympathy. “That actually sucks. Parents should support their kids.”

“Right?” I laugh bitterly, the sound escaping my lips like a deflated balloon. “People suck. Even the ones who claim to love you. That’s why football’s the only thing I trust. My parents want to marry me off to some girl named Vanya. A total stranger.”

She blinks, surprise flashing across her features. “Wait, that was real? I thought you were just being dramatic again.”

“Nope. Rich people are weird. My dad’s a billionaire. This arranged marriage thing? It’s all about making sure no gold digger gets the inheritance.”

“Wow… that’s messed up.”

My lips twitch at her swearing. “It sure is.”

We walk in silence for a moment, the scrape of our shoes against the sidewalk filling the quiet. It’s one of those strange in-between moments—heavy and still all at once. Usually, I don’t have to endure these with other girls. I don’t date. I just hook up. I just kiss. Nothing deeper.