by Sosie Frost
“A second opinion?”
“You’ll never find one who will tell you what you want to hear.”
Jude twisted the keys in his hand. “The Rivets are counting on me, Rory. They need me. They actually want me. The team is all I have. I’m not letting them down.”
“Jude—”
“I’m getting you a burrito.” He gave me a cold smile. “Huh. I remembered.”
“Please, wait.”
He didn’t. The door slammed behind him, but my tears didn’t come.
He had more than the team.
He had me.
If he wanted me. If I could confess everything to him.
I touched my tummy. Genie had granted my every wish so far, but no magic spell or wishing star would fix what I had broken.
I was in love with Jude, but I couldn’t watch him do this to himself.
And the only way to protect him would hurt him more than any concussion.
18
Jude
I didn’t want a second opinion.
I wanted Rory.
And I should’ve known better. I should have realized what would happen after she had the baby, once the fellowship was over, and she didn’t need me anymore.
If I had nothing else to my name, to my legacy, to my life, at least I’d have a winning season and a championship. It’d be hard to forget that.
Harder to forget her.
And the baby? Why the hell did I park the crib and all the toys, supplies, blankets, and clothes in the guest room? I inadvertently created a nursery. I’d stared at the empty crib as much as Rory did.
Worse…I was starting to imagine the little girl who’d sleep in it. Dark-skinned. Dark eyed. A smile like her mother’s.
Genie would absolutely break hearts.
Hell, she wasn’t even born yet, and she’d already broken mine.
I waited in Doctor Clayton Frolla’s practice. It seemed the most logical place for a second opinion. I found someone in the sports medicine fellowship. Someone with authority. Someone who Rory would respect.
I parked my ass in his office and wouldn’t leave without a test, a diagnosis, some way to prove to Rory that I wasn’t broken.
Not yet.
I’d only break once she left me.
Frolla said nothing, reading the charts and notes on my case. The minutes passed. I had a substantial medical history. Cole’s hit was only one in a long line of concussions.
Would it really matter if I got another?
Would anyone care once I retired?
“You wanted a second opinion.” Doctor Frolla folded his glasses and placed them in his lab coat pocket. “Was Doctor Merriweather’s assessment incorrect?”
I wasn’t here to get her in trouble. “It never hurts to have a fresh perspective.”
“What has she told you?”
“This isn’t about her.”
“Ah.” Frolla nodded. “I see.”
I didn’t. “What?”
“I don’t blame you, Jude. Doctor Merriweather is…smart, but she can be rather naïve.”
Rory wasn’t naïve. Maybe she didn’t have a fancy office, massive mahogany desk, pretentious book shelves, and a portable bar, but that didn’t make her any less of a doctor.
Frolla stroked his eyebrow, flattening the salt-and-peppered wisp. It was a practiced motion, almost condescending.
I knew his type. Some people might have mistaken his arrogance for empathy. Not me. He was just like the other doctors. Most of the neurologists who treated me held a disdain for my condition. They blamed me for doing it to myself.
Sure, they held all the answers, but they never once had to endure a split second of my migraines. That pain made me crave a linebacker’s hit, just to end it. No doctor understood that.
But maybe Rory would.
“Rory is a good girl.” Frolla was a little too familiar, purring her name. He met my gaze.
Gaging my reaction?
“She’s a good doctor.” I stressed the word.
“Of course she is. She’s smart. Accomplished. But she often reacts too emotionally to situations.”
I didn’t understand. “What’s your point?”
“My point is, she’s a fine doctor, but she’s not suited for this line of work.”
Frolla was about to be a dead man. “You gave her the fellowship.”
“Of course I did. Even after we’d said all that needed to be said, and I instructed her on how to take care of our problem, she was still so upset. Entirely too emotional. I awarded her the fellowship, hoping it’d satisfy her. The last thing I wanted was any unseemly accusations.”
What the hell was he talking about? I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of accusations?”
“Surely she’s told you?”
My fingers clenched the arms of the chair. “Told me what?”
“What I liked best about Rory was her pride…and her innocence. She sees the world as black and white, hard work and success, love and romance. It’s difficult for her to understand that not every desire leads to…commitment.”
Something was wrong. My blood boiled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You understand. You’re a man in a position of authority. No doubt women have offered themselves to you, just for a taste of your success.”
No fucking way. “No. I’m man enough to not take advantage of my position.”
Frolla didn’t believe me. “And I’m man enough to understand the occasional need must be sated. But Rory didn’t understand that. She thought our night together meant something more.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“I thought you knew.”
“Why would I know? Why would she tell me?”
Why would she trust me with the truth?
“It was a fling,” Frolla said. “She was new to my hospital. Attractive. I pressed my advantage, and she was receptive. We were both adults, and we spent a night together. One night. I never encouraged anything more. But when she told me about the baby…”
He dared to talk about Genie? My voice lowered, a dangerous growl.
“You didn’t help her. Rory was alone, and you didn’t help.”
“I did help her. I offered to pay for the abortion.”
“You fucking coward.”
“Rory is a promising doctor. A pregnancy and child will only jeopardize her future career.” Frolla sighed. “It was magnanimous of me to give her the fellowship. At least it was something I could offer.”
“You could have helped her. You could have been a father.”
Frolla laughed. “Why would I step forward when you took responsibility for me? Suffice to say, I was stunned to learn that you were the father of her child. You’re an impressive man, Mr. Owens, impregnating a woman all the way across the country.” He laughed. “Why would you ever lie about such a thing?”
“I was helping a friend.”
“And now this friend wants to repay you by…benching you for a game? The rest of the season?” He leaned forward. “Perhaps the hormones are impacting her judgment?”
“Fuck you. We’re done here.”
“Unlike Rory, I can separate my emotions from my medical assessments. Do you want my opinion?”
“No.” I launched from the chair. He was lucky I didn’t slam it over his desk. “And if I see you anywhere near Rory, I won’t need a functioning brain to kick your ass.”
“You’re cleared to play, Mr. Owens.”
I hesitated.
“That’s what you want, right?” Frolla asked. “Permission to batter yourself senseless? Far be it from me to deny you, especially when you’ve already done me such a favor with this…baby.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“A good deed never goes unpunished. You can play. I’ll sign my name to it.”
My jaw ached, clenched too hard. The pain was nothing compared to my headache.
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you letting me play?”
Frolla stood
, buttoning his lab coat. “What do you want to hear, Mr. Owens? That you’re healthy? That you’re fit as a twenty-year-old? That you’ll have no longstanding mental issues as a result of your career?” He snorted. “Use what brain cells remain and realize the truth. You play football, one of the most dangerous sports to mental health. You’ve sustained five documented concussions over your twelve seasons, not counting the ones you’ve hidden or that have gone unnoticed. Your brain is a mess, one giant bruise that will cause you problems when you are older.”
The air squeezed from my chest.
I had wanted a second opinion. Good intentions paved my way to hell.
But who was I kidding? I knew what the diagnosis would be long before Rory came into my life. I knew what was wrong and what I had to do to prevent any more damage.
Maybe once I’d have stepped away.
But now? What did it matter?
“What do we do?” I asked.
“You need tests. Scans. MRIs. Different medications.” Frolla arched an eyebrow. “This can all be completed after the season.”
“Yeah?”
“If you wish. Finish your career, Mr. Owens. Take your rightful place in the Hall of Fame with your championship secured. I’ll do this as a favor for you.”
I didn’t want to be in his debt. “And what do you want from me?”
“Keep Rory’s little secret between us.”
“I can’t control her.”
“You won’t need to. She wouldn’t jeopardize her reputation with these dirty secrets. Imagine how it would make her look. At worst, people would assume she manipulated you and lied about the paternity of the baby. At best, she’ll look like a whore who slept around and couldn’t identify her baby’s true father.”
“And if she says it’s your child?”
“If she chooses to destroy her reputation, I’ll ruin her career.”
Bastard.
This man didn’t realize how lucky he was to still be breathing.
“So, Daddy,” Frolla said. “I need you to maintain this lie. Play your games. Get your win. Have a family. But if you complicate this arrangement, Rory will be humiliated. I’ll see to it personally.”
Like I had a choice.
I delayed answered only for as long as it seemed proper before accepting his deal.
I don’t know why I’d even hesitated. It’d protect Rory, and that meant I had nothing to lose.
So I’d get hit. Bruised. Potentially hurt. At least I’d have my championship. I’d find my purpose in life.
Until my career came to an end.
Until I lost Rory and the baby.
Until I had nothing left.
19
Rory
Was it a betrayal if I meant to save the man I loved?
I stood before the door to Coach Thompson’s office. Hand raised.
Hesitating.
Jude would never forgive me for this.
But even he had to realize how dangerous it was for him to get on the field? If he took one more bad hit…
He could be ruined for the rest of his life.
Early dementia. Memory loss. Personality disorders. Depression.
The list was a terrifying as it was inevitable. I couldn’t cure it—I could only protect him. Remove him from the source of the problem and pray that he’d understand one day.
Maybe.
Or maybe I’d lose him forever—the only man I had ever loved, the only man I could ever envision spending my life with.
A man who might’ve been a friend.
Lover.
Father?
It didn’t matter. The Jude I wanted most was a safe Jude, one who treated himself with the same respect he gave me.
I knocked. Coach Thompson called me inside.
And I should have known he wouldn’t be alone.
“Hello, Doctor Merriweather,” Coach Thompson said. “Come in. You can join Doctor Frolla and me.”
Clayton’s glance wasn’t subtle.
He surveyed my swollen tummy, though he had no right to even look at me. I was five weeks until eviction, and I looked every bit the part of an expectant, darling momma-to-be.
But Clayton bore no resemblance to a doting father.
And I’d be damned if my daughter ever learned the truth.
Of course, a pregnant tummy did nothing to strengthen my position as a medical consultant to the team. No one could be taken seriously while smuggling a watermelon under their shirt, even when tossing out phrases like inner-cranial bleeding and immunohistochemical brain analyses.
“I needed to speak with you regarding a player,” I said.
I didn’t expect him to listen. Coach Thompson let me speak, but I knew what his answer would be.
“Jude Owens is in no condition to play this week,” I said. “Perhaps the rest of the season, pending further testing and examinations.”
Coach Thompson wasn’t swayed. “You expect me to sit my starting running back on the eve of the playoffs?”
“It’s necessary. Jude is exhibiting symptoms relating to his post-concussion syndrome. I suspect he’s even suffered an additional concussion that has gone undetected.”
Clayton frowned. “Surely with your proximity to Mr. Owens, you’d have noticed changes in his health and behavior?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Because you suspect he has another concussion?”
“Because I can’t be sure without further testing. I’m recommending that he is listed as inactive for Sunday to prevent any further injuries.”
Coach Thompson folded his hands, but his voice lost all warm cordiality. “Doctor Merriweather, I understand your…concern, but you can rest your fears. Owens is perfectly fine.”
“With all due respect—”
“Doctor Frolla cleared him to play this morning.”
The air squeezed from my lungs with the help of Genie’s untimely kick. “You cleared Jude to play?”
Clayton nodded. “He came to me for a second opinion.”
The second opinion. He actually did it.
But why did he go to Clayton?
“Why would you clear him?” I asked.
“He passed my tests.”
“Bullshit. You know as well as I do how severe his symptoms are. You’re putting him at risk!”
Clayton rarely argued. No need. He never took responsibility for the consequences to his actions.
“He passed my tests, and I allowed him to make the final call,” he said.
“But of course Jude would say he wanted to play!”
“He understands his body and limitations.”
“No, he doesn’t. Or if he does, he’s willfully ignoring the consequences.”
“And what would you have us do?” Coach Thompson asked.
“Bench him! Keep him out of the game. Take away his helmet and force him onto the sidelines. He won’t stop unless someone physically prevents him from taking the field.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Clayton dared to nod at my tummy. “Perhaps you’re a little sensitive, given your current condition?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about my current condition.”
“No? Strange. I remember a time when that’s all you wished to discuss with me.”
“Go to hell.”
Clayton stroked his eyebrow. “Is your relationship with this player interfering with your judgment? Would you prefer to release his case to me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then perhaps I should remove you from the fellowship?”
“Because you were so benevolent when you first gave me the job?”
“You’re fortunate I allowed you to stay, given your circumstances.”
“This isn’t just my circumstance.”
“You’re right…” Clayton’s voice darkened. “It’s Jude’s as well…unless for some reason, you wish to clear your conscience?”
“At least I have one,” I said. “Why are you doing this to him
? Do you want him to get hurt? Is that it? Some sort of retaliation for the baby?”
Coach Thompson interrupted us with a grunt. “We’re getting off-topic. Owens will play. That’s the end of this.”
Why didn’t they understand? “I am begging you. If Jude gets hurt—”
“Then he gets hurt!”
Coach Thompson slammed his hands against his desk. I flinched.
How could a man be so cold?
“For fuck’s sake—he’s a grown man,” he said. “I’m paying him a goddamned fortune to run the ball for me. I don’t care if he gets a headache. I don’t care if he gets knocked out or if he crushes his skull on the field. As long as he gets my ten-fucking-yards and a first down, that’s all he’s good for. Save the romance for the off-season—we’re going to the championships. Jude Owens will lead us there on a smear of his goddamned brains if that’s what it takes!”
Silence. I couldn’t breathe.
I stared into the eyes of a monster, remorseless and vile.
Coach Thompson calmed, returning to his seat. “Show yourself out, Doctor Merriweather.”
“But—”
“And if I were you, I’d start my maternity leave immediately. Do yourself a favor and stop looking for trouble.”
I shook my head. “I have to do my job. Someone has to protect these players.”
“Your job…” Clayton warned. “Is to do what Coach Thompson asks of you. Nothing more.”
Fine.
I had what I needed.
“Thank you. I understand.” I hesitated in the doorway. “You can all fuck yourselves, but I understand.”
I slammed the door behind me. I couldn’t run, but I hurried to my office and hid in the relative safety and silence.
I’d done it.
My hands trembled, but I pulled my phone from my pocket and stopped the recording.
The playback was clear.
I’d captured every disgusting word Coach Thompson had said.
And when the league listened to the recording, when they heard how willingly he disregarded player health and safety, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to endanger anyone.
But…
The recording continued, and my argument with Clayton replayed crystal clear.
If I outted Coach Thompson, the world would learn I obtained an exclusive fellowship position because I had an affair with my boss—and I secretly carried his child.
