Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Sosie Frost

  Who could resist a pregnant pumpkin?

  I skipped dessert and gave her a kiss instead. This woman was sweeter than cake.

  The party gave a cheer, and Rory stroked my cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I wasn’t done yet.

  Once the cake was sufficiently circumcised and the coffee served, the guys called it a night. In less than three days we were set to face one of the most dangerous and explosive teams in the league. Rest was a priority.

  If I could sleep.

  We packed the Jeep and headed home, but I didn’t let Rory unload. I’d managed to keep my present for her a secret. I covered her eyes as I led her into the guest room.

  The crib was pure crafted luxury, imported from a European country and carved from some special wood somehow worth the exorbitant price tag. I had the crib made with ridiculously expensive hypoallergenic sheets and blankets. All pink. All perfect.

  A teddy bear wore my Rivets’ jersey. He waited for his new best friend in the corner of the crib. Still had eleven weeks to go, but it’d be worth the wait for little Genie.

  Rory brushed her fingers along the wood. She sniffled once and turned to me, shaking her head.

  “Thank you, Jude.”

  “I’m just…” I didn’t know how to say it. “I want to help. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  She fell into my arms, struggling to get close enough with her rounding tummy.

  It wasn’t the first time the baby would come between us, and I couldn’t have been happier for it. I wanted to help Genie too. I dreamt about being there for her, holding her, letting my life change for her.

  My hand fell to Rory’s tummy, rubbing the lamp.

  I was owed a second wish. I could think of nothing I needed more.

  I wished the baby were mine.

  17

  Rory

  The only thing worse than being one million weeks pregnant was being one million weeks pregnant and uncomfortable.

  At first, I thought it was the baby kicking. Then I assumed it was hunger pains.

  Wrongo.

  Fortunately, it was just me and Phillip in the room, but he didn’t have to look so damn hurt. Wasn’t like I blamed it on him.

  This time.

  Pregnancy really was magical.

  What sucked the most was that everything hugged too tight. Even after I changed into larger panties and then switched out jeans for a skirt and then the skirt for yoga pants, I still felt weird. Like my skin didn’t fit anymore. No one had warned me about that. My belly button popped out, but it wasn’t a pressure release valve like I thought.

  Genie was still cooking, and she was getting a little too comfortable. Only eight weeks until eviction, but who was counting?

  I stood, and the baby reconfigured herself, doing a somersault to nestle somewhere on my bladder.

  Aha! I was hungry. Or horny. Not happy, but at least I wasn’t in weepy tears after hearing one of the Rivets’ fight songs on the radio again.

  Pride made me cry. Fatigue made me cry. Hunger made me cry. Food made me...less irritable.

  But I hated to rustle around in the kitchen, and I hated even more why.

  Jude’s headache.

  He rarely admitted that he suffered from headaches, but he told me about this one. It must have hurt. But headaches weren’t unreasonable, and it wasn’t necessarily something to worry about. Sometimes the brain just had a bad day. Headaches and fatigue and dizziness were common with post-concussion syndrome.

  I couldn’t cure it, but I could treat it. I had him leave the afternoon workout, come home, and rest in a dark room with no stimulation. No TV, no radio, no computers, no noise.

  He followed those orders, but he’d refuse my next.

  He had to sit out of Sunday’s game.

  That would be tough. The team was so damn superstitious that any change to their lineup could destroy their momentum. And if it was me pulling one of the starters? Hell, they still blamed me for their only two losses—the two games when I’d refused to let everyone pat my tummy for luck. I acquiesced after the sweet baby shower, and the bump brought us once more to victory.

  Lucky baby or lucky momma?

  It had to be Genie. Nothing about the pregnancy had felt very lucky, especially as my feet swelled, my tummy turned me into a weeble, and the simplest of tasks felt like a monstrous feat of strength and dexterity.

  Spaghetti was one of those feats.

  Fortunately, it was already made. Unfortunately, the leftovers crashed in the fridge behind six bottles of water, ironically arranged like bowling pins.

  I reached for the Tupperware, twisted, and jostled the water. Four bottles fell out of the fridge instantly, thudding first against the condiment shelf, then the crisper drawer, and finally pin-balling to the floor with a loud thunk.

  I picked up the spare when I unsuccessfully attempted to catch the falling jar of pickles.

  Not just a crash.

  Splatter. Shatter. And disgust.

  Why did it have to be Jude’s bread and butter pickles?

  Enough abominations existed in the world without bringing bread and butter pickles into my home. I was trying to create life, and he tortured me with sweet pickles?

  Last week, the tangy disgrace had looked innocent enough, but one weaponized condiment on my sandwich later, my life was nearly ended on a wayward mustard seed. The vile little spice had lodged itself into my soft pallet, poisoned me with burning brine, and nearly delivered Genie twelve weeks early when I sneezed it out.

  Fortunately, I hadn’t gone into labor, but sneezing while pregnant was a roulette wheel of bodily functions. My spin had landed on pee yourself in front of the man you love.

  Jude had thought that mess was hilarious.

  If nothing else, pregnancy was fixing my self-esteem. Shame had a rock bottom, and it was thirty-two weeks pregnant. I was still a mess, but at least my big tummy made everything I did seem ridiculously adorable.

  Sweet pickle brine puddled on the floor. I called for Phillip’s help. No dice. He yelped and ran away.

  “No cookies for you later.” I threatened the dog. “I’ll remember this when you want to go to the dog park.”

  What was worse? The revolting, vinegar sweet stench…or trying to bend down to clean it up?

  Bending down. Definitely.

  Maybe no one would notice if I just left it?

  I gathered the paper towels, dish cloths, and broom and dust pan first. I considered packing a snack and pillow too. Once I got down there, I wasn’t getting up easily to forget any forgotten item.

  Screw it.

  I threw the entire paper towel roll at the floor. The roll plumped with brine, and I kicked the towels into the brine. It’d soak up eventually. In the meantime, I swept up the bits of glass.

  But picking up the dust pan required bending over.

  Tricky, tricky.

  I managed a three-step system to the floor. First, determination. Second, a firm grip on the cabinet. Third, settling in for the rest of the third trimester as my tummy trapped me on the tile.

  I dropped the glass shards into the garbage and sustained only a minor nick to my thumb, which I promptly soaked in brine. Another reason to hate the damned pickles.

  I sopped up the floor. The chlorox wipes were under the sink. No way was I actually standing up, walking over, and bending down to reach them.

  So…it had come to this.

  Shimming on my butt across the kitchen floor.

  With a doctorate in neurology, I impersonated a brain-dead seal and bounced my ass to the cabinet under the skin. I kicked it open with my foot—practically a flipper with all the blubber setting at my feet—grabbed the chlorox wipes, and only then realized my butt had mopped up most of the brine while I scooted across the tiles.

  At least I was efficient.

  Once upon a time, I never really considered how best to get off the floor. I just…did it. Stood up. Arrogantly defied gravity in a feat
of skill with a more balanced center of mass.

  “Phillip?” I called to the dog.

  He knew better. Besides, a dalmation wasn’t getting me to my feet. I needed a mountain rescue St. Bernard to haul myself up.

  I heaved, felt a lot like a super pregnant ho, and used to counter to rise to my feet.

  Ew. The brine soaked through my clothes. That did nothing for my appetite…except that I was starving. At some point the contradictions would yield to contractions. That thought put the fear of birth back in me. I patted my tummy.

  “Sit there for couple more weeks,” I said. “I promise we’ll buy better pickles if you wait.”

  I returned to my leftovers. I opened the container of spaghetti, grabbed a fork, and promptly flung it to the floor.

  Not this bullshit again. Nope. The fork would stay there. I decreed the entire floor a cutlery graveyard.

  …Except we had no other forks, and the dishwasher—though loaded with a tab and locked for the cycle—wasn’t run. Par for the course with Jude. Toothpaste never had a cap. Water boiled without noodles in the pot. The oven ran with nothing inside it. Doors stayed opened. Keys were misplaced.

  It was getting worse.

  He didn’t even notice.

  I washed a fork and shoveled some of the pasta onto my plate. The noodles tangled, and an accidental bump of the container jostled the entire mass out. I batted it away—too late.

  The rat’s nest of spaghetti tumbled out of the Tupperware and poured onto my shirt on the way to the cutting board. I shrieked.

  The marinara drenched spaghetti stained my last white blouse.

  “No, no, no!”

  I had to soak it. Dunk it in bleach. Do something. I owned no other shirt that didn’t look ironic stretched over a pregnant belly. I ripped the shirt over my head, but it snagged in my hair and snapped my bra.

  I tugged.

  Stuck.

  Jiggled.

  Stuck.

  So, this was how I was going to die.

  Starving. Half-naked. Suffocating on either my overblown breasts or mouthfuls of a blouse I couldn’t rip off my shoulders.

  With a fierce grunt, I ripped the shirt off and pitched it into the sink. The bowl of spaghetti plopped down next to it.

  “Fuck it. I won’t wear a shirt anymore. Ever!”

  I looked down.

  Somehow, I’d stained my bra. The worst part? The red blotch wasn’t from the leftovers. I didn’t even think it was from this batch of spaghetti.

  Classy.

  Now I was crying.

  And being watched.

  Jude stared with that look of veiled abject horror most men gave pregnant women. He knew better than to ask me what was wrong or what had happened or why I was sniffling in a stained bra while my butt smelled like pickle brine.

  He surveyed the damage and picked up his keys from the designated jar.

  “I’ll go get you food,” he said. “What would you like?”

  He was too sweet. Too kind. And he really needed to rest.

  “I don’t need anything. I just want you.”

  To Jude’s credit, he hugged me. He also saw through it.

  “What do you really want?” he asked.

  “A burrito?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Jude—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I much rather you rest.”

  He gestured to me. “Take some of your own advice, Doc.”

  “I’m only pouty. You’re having a bad day.”

  “No worse than usual.”

  I hoped to God he wasn’t serious. “If this is usual…”

  “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t. I could see it. Hear it in his voice.

  The slur. So slight.

  “Where are you going, Jude?” I asked.

  “To get you food.”

  Moment of truth. “And what is it I want?”

  His steel-grey eyes darkened. He twisted the keys in his hand.

  I knew it.

  He couldn’t remember.

  “Jude, I want you to lay down. No sounds. No visuals. Stay in the dark and quiet.”

  Jude gave a smile, but it was weak. “Trying to get rid of me, Doc?”

  I wasn’t falling for it. “You don’t have to pretend. I can see it.”

  “See what?”

  “That you’re hurting. You can’t look into the light. Are you nauseous too? Dizzy?”

  “I hoped you’d stop diagnosing me after we slept together.”

  Like hell. It only made me more worried. “You have a headache and you’re delusional.”

  “I’m fine.” It was his usual mantra. “I get like this. It goes away.”

  “Your last game was brutal. You took a lot of hard hits.”

  “And I got up after each one.”

  I sighed. “It’s not about getting up after a hit anymore—it’s about how many good years of your life you’ll sacrifice because of lining up again.”

  He wasn’t hearing it. “You’re over-reacting.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously. You, above all people, should know the consequences of a concussion. It won’t take a Cole Hawthorne to knock you out next time. It could be something little.”

  “It’s just a headache.”

  And I was an idiot for letting him convince me of that for so long. “Who did we play last week?”

  “What?”

  “What team did we play last week?”

  Jude crossed his arms. “You sure you want to do this without your computer? Wanna check my balance while you interrogate me too?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?” I didn’t wait for the excuse. “Do you remember how you played?”

  “I played good.”

  “No.” The chill traced my spine, made worse by my bare skin. “You played the best game of your career.”

  “So? What’s the problem?” Jude snapped his fingers. “We played Carolina.”

  “Yeah, that’s…reassuring.”

  “We’re near the end of the season. The games start to blur. Ask any player. The hits, the scores, the plays. Everything. It’s bound to be hazy.”

  “Should it be?” I asked. “I’ve seen the results of traumatic sports injuries. If you studied what I did, you’d be just as scared.”

  “I’m not some textbook case.” He rubbed his forehead…not in frustration. “Come on, Rory. I’m playing good ball. Jack and Lachlan and me, we’re in-sync. The offense is hot. This might be the only chance for me to get what I really want.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A relationship.”

  I stilled. “A what?”

  “A relationship. The ring. The glory.”

  My stomach pitted. Was it a Freudian slip or speech aphasia? “A championship?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

  Enough was enough. “No. It wasn’t. Jude, you need to go back to sleep. Rest up. I’m going to call the trainers and Coach Thompson.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is no way you are playing this Sunday.”

  He didn’t like that.

  Jude didn’t get angry often, but he turned away, slamming a hand against the sink.

  “What the hell do you mean I’m not playing?”

  “Look at you. You can hardly stand up straight. You can’t look in the light. You have these crazy migraines. Jude, you are even mixing up words. It’s dangerous.”

  “You’re panicking over a stuttered word? Jesus, Doc, remind me not to do a tongue twister unless my face is in your pussy.”

  “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

  “And you’re looking for problems that aren’t there. Say it, Doc. Why are you hellbent on punishing me for a headache?”

  “Punishing you?”

  “Yes, I’ve had injuries. Yes, I’ve recovered from them. Of course I’ll have some issues. So why are you so overprotective?”

  Because I was in love with him.<
br />
  I should have said it.

  Should have yelled it.

  Should have told him years ago when I first realized it.

  But what I felt now was more than puppy-love infatuation from high school. More than any crush or attraction that had dazzled me in college.

  I was in love with him.

  Honest. True. Stricken love.

  And I feared for a future with him that I had no right sharing.

  I was pregnant. I carried another man’s baby. I’d already intruded enough in his life and his bed.

  I loved him. And I wanted to keep him safe. How was I supposed to tell him?

  Could I even admit it?

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt,” I said. “We’ll take it one week at a time. We’ll sit you on Sunday and reassess as the week progresses.”

  Jude groaned. “Is it the hormones? Is that why you’re acting so crazy?”

  “It is not hormones!” My words might have been more forceful with a shirt on, a bra that fit, and less vinegar splashed over me. “I’m acting like a doctor.”

  “Maybe I need you to act like Rory until the season is over.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means helping me out. Just like I helped you.”

  My stomach flipped. The baby did the flop.

  The world fell away.

  Was that why he had helped with the pregnancy? Had he taken me in, pretended to be my boyfriend, offered me sweet words and warm nights together…

  So I’d clear him to play?

  I hoped when my heart shattered, the broken fragments wouldn’t hit Genie. I’d need her to stay whole for me.

  She was all I had left.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Once you get this championship, if you win it, then what? The baby is coming in less than eight weeks, my fellowship will be over, and I’ll be gone. What happens when I’m not there to turn off the oven or give you directions when you forget where you’re driving? You need to think about what happens after this season.”

  Jude was silent for a long moment, but the hardness in his voice scared me. “I won’t have anything after this season, Rory. This is it. I want my win, and I’m going to get it. You’re not going to stop me.”

  “It isn’t just me. You don’t want my diagnosis? Fine. Go to another doctor. Any doctor. They’ll tell you the same thing I will.”