Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance

by Sosie Frost

  “I’ve never called anyone sport.”

  “That’s a good nickname to remember, if you can.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t have to explain myself to Jack Carson. So why was I still trying?

  “My last concussion was a bad one,” I said. “But I’m here to play. I have a job to do. We can either be a team about this, or you can borrow Rory’s lab coat and play doctor too. I appreciate the concern—”

  “Do you?”

  No, but I was more of a gentleman than him. “I’m well enough to play. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And even as I said it, even as the irritation bubbled quicker and fiercer than it had any right to flare, I hated myself for considering that he might have been right.

  But nothing would stop me from playing this season.

  Not my head. Not my medical history. Not even a shit memory.

  I wasn’t worried about a little fog. As long as I could see the field, I’d figure out which way to run. The regular season started in three weeks, and I’d sell my damn soul to play and win those sixteen games before the playoffs.

  I just hoped I could remember the win.

  I grabbed my bags and stormed from the locker room. I hopped into my Jeep, but my hands hesitated over the keys.

  It did feel like I was forgetting something.

  Something important. Something I shouldn’t have left behind.

  Oh well. It didn’t matter.

  Whatever it was would come back to me sooner or later…

  7

  Rory

  “Has anyone seen Jude?” I covered my eyes as I asked the question. “He’s supposed to take me home.”

  Two linemen had opened the door to the locker room for me, but I wasn’t stepping foot into that testosterone-muddied swamp without protective eyewear and a healthy dose of hand sanitizer.

  DeSean offered to check inside for Jude, but he returned with a shrug and kept his distance. I was a good doctor, but even I couldn’t take an MRI of their head with a single glance. The guys were safe.

  Jude was not.

  “He’s not in the locker room,” DeSean said. “Sorry, Doctor Merriweather. I can check the weight room if you want. Ma’am.” He panicked as my eyebrow rose. “Not that you’re a ma’am. Don’t look a day over a miss, especially for someone who’s knocked up.”

  Such formality. I kinda liked it this late into the day. I nearly sent DeSean to search for Jude. My feet were killing me, and I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I had to prove I could handle a full day on the job, even if the day was hard.

  Before the fellowship, my life consisted of libraries, study sessions, and classes. That big fiery ball in the sky? I thought it was a myth, some sort of melanoma-spreading monster. Spending the summer days on the sidelines was a challenge. The heat made everything worse…or did pregnancy just come with more sweats in places I never knew sweated? At least chasing the trainers and players over the field kept me moving. Last thing we needed was for me to leave any puddles.

  I so wished pregnancy had come with a warning. Take lots of folic acid, get plenty of rest and water, and don’t forget—you might toot in front of your friends, accidentally pee while sneezing, and you’ll use the word discharge in ways never before imagined.

  And I was done. The long day was made longer trying to find Jude.

  Maybe he was waiting for me? I dared to hope that Jude parked outside the entrance, eager to race home to air-conditioning, Netflix, and another night of me awkwardly staring as he rubbed ice over every perfect bulge and muscle on his body.

  Was it sad to be excited about carpooling? Great for the environment, not so awesome for my self-esteem.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss, and all the little pecks and cute touches we gave each other when in full view of the team. My spreadsheet worked perfectly to grant the allusion of love and commitment, but I knew the truth. The only thing keeping Jude at my side? A Jeep racing at fifty-five miles an hour to make it to practice.

  And I’d take every minute in traffic the city of Ironfield could gift us.

  But no Jeep waited for me out front.

  Fantastic.

  I searched the parking lot. No Jude, but I watched the happiest family this side of the fifty-yard line greet each other after a long day.

  Elle cradled her baby as a little blonde boy leapt the front stairs and nearly tackled Lachlan.

  Lachlan hauled the kid over his shoulder and greeted his wife and baby. “Heya, Bast! Hi, Nick!”

  “Lachlan!” Bast shouted. “Can I go on the field? I wanna see the end zone! Can we go for ice cream? Tag, you’re it!”

  Yep. He was definitely Lachlan’s family, but he had a good idea.

  Ice cream sounded delicious. Something cold and fruity and decadent, lathered in whipped cream and globs of gooey chocolate…

  “I know that look,” Elle said. “Baby needs a dessert. Stat.”

  I pretended she wasn’t half-psychic. “No, I’m okay. The cravings aren’t that bad.” Said the woman contemplating stuffing tortilla chips into a strawberry sundae. “I’ll survive until Jude takes me home.”

  Lachlan stopped swinging the laughing boy around like a nunchuck long enough to frown. “Jude? He left, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

  Missiles armed. “He left?”

  “Yeah. I watched him go.”

  Target acquired. “Jude left without me?”

  Fire!

  “Oh no.” Elle was quick to my side. “Don’t worry, Rory. We can give you a ride home.”

  My perfect vision of a perfect relationship was crumbling before we had even faked it for two weeks. I was not letting it end now.

  I tapped my head. “Oh, wait. He must have gone to get dinner while I finished up. Tonight is…pizza night.” I hated fibbing, but if we did order a pizza, it wouldn’t be a total lie. “He’s probably picking it up so we could go straight home.”

  Elle grinned. “What a guy.”

  “Yeah. He’s perfect. I’ll just wait for him here.”

  Elle and Lachlan said goodbye, and I almost regretted missing out on a ride home.

  I’d be okay as long as I didn’t see ice cream and pizzas in the shimmering mirage across the parking lot.

  But Jude? He’d have a lot to answer for.

  I grabbed my phone and checked for messages. Nothing. I called him instead.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And my stomach grumbled as it rang again.

  No Jude.

  But of course he wouldn’t answer. He drove a Jeep without doors or windows. He’d never hear his phone ring. I left a short and sweet message instead.

  “Jude…did you forget something? Call me back.”

  That spent the last of my patience.

  The players’ parking lot emptied. The guys left after practice to get home to their families, dinners, and central air. No sense melting on the cement stairs. I’d hide in my office until Jude returned with the Jeep and one hell of an apology.

  I had a little work to do yet. And I owed Clayton the Rivets’ weekly assessment.

  Hadn’t answered his last email either. A single line, a single warning.

  We need to discuss Jude Owens.

  It was out of the question. Clayton had already showed me too much preferential treatment. I refused to endure any more of his presence than was strictly necessary. He’d get his health assessments of the players—Jude included, but we weren’t discussing anything else.

  Not that he had wanted to talk before the fellowship began, even when it was important.

  I grabbed the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  I patted my pockets, my purse, my laptop bag.

  No…

  Where the hell was the fob?

  I thunked my forehead against the glass. Pregnancy brain must have been a real thing. I’d never forgotten my keys before. Never forgotten anything before. My
step-mother made sure of it—carelessness was the bane of perfection. Then again, only one person was perfect in this world, and, sure as hell, Christ would defer the title to Doctor Regan Merriweather.

  This sucked.

  My stomach rumbled and lurched.

  That was worse.

  I hadn’t eaten all day, but the heat made me nauseous. And sweaty. And miserable. The only thing I wanted to gnaw on was ice, and that probably meant I was anemic. Or melting.

  But maybe…

  I perked up. Training camp wasn’t just for the players anymore. Thanks to Leah Carson, the whole camp was one mega-festival, complete with vendors and food and children’s events. I spent my day wandering the sidelines—shouting over cheering crowds, avoiding the wafting stench of gyros, and watching kids dive into Rivets themed bouncy castles.

  Maybe I could still find a food vendor behind the field?

  I braved the heat and circled the parking lot, hopping the roped off corridor separating the team from the visitors. Most everyone had left after the early afternoon practice, but a few vendors remained, wiping down their trucks.

  And then I saw it.

  Shining. Shimmering. Splendid.

  Snow cones.

  A truck was selling wonderfully cold, deliciously fruity snow cones, each whimsically packed with a rainbow of flavors.

  Jude was on his own tonight. If I had it my way? I’d curl up inside the ice machine and take a nap, sugary syrup and all. Sticky wasn’t as bad as sweaty, and after circling the entire field to approach the truck, I was lucky I could even talk through my parched throat. I practically bounced to the truck, eyes-wide, smile-broad, begging like an orphan in a Dickens’ novel.

  Please, suh, may I have some ice?

  But the burly man wiping down the counter wasn’t pleased to see me. Granted, I wasn’t thrilled to be purchasing shaved ice from a man who obviously never used a razor, but the baby wanted a snow cone, and I wasn’t about to let her throw her first temper tantrum while still in my tummy.

  I smiled. “Hi—”

  “We’re closed.” The man grunted. “Sorry, lady.”

  No, no, no. That didn’t work for me.

  “Please.” I gripped the truck’s stainless steel counter. The hot metal actually burned my hands. “Just one. You have no idea how badly I want a snow cone.”

  “If you want it that bad, come back tomorrow.”

  The joke was on him. “My ride forgot to take me home, and I’m stuck. I’ll stand here until tomorrow if I have to. I have nowhere else to go.”

  Except the bathroom.

  And that was going to be another concern.

  “We’re closed.”

  I wasn’t above bribing him. “I can get you autographs. Everyone. Jack Carson. Cole Hawthorne. Lachlan Reed?” I pointed at him. “You look like a Jude Owens fan. I’ll get you a signed jersey. Promise.”

  “What are you? The Rivets’ fairy god-mother?”

  “If it gets me a snow cone, sure.”

  “I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

  “But I will buy everything you have,” I said. “Please. I’ll pay double, and I’ll have Jude Owens personally deliver the jersey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Where is he?”

  I blinked. “Who?”

  “Jude Owens.” He snorted. “I’m waiting.”

  “So am I,” I said. “I…can’t get it for you now.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “If I could get Jude here in five minutes, I wouldn’t need a snow cone.” I tested the lie. It came easily with ice on the line. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Sure, he is. You’re dating a future Hall of Famer and one of the greatest running backs to play the game.”

  “So you do know him!”

  “We’re closed.”

  “Please.” I didn’t let him walk away. “At this point, I’ll just take a block of ice.”

  “Look, lady, I don’t know what your problem is—”

  “I’m pregnant.” My temper flared, and the mood swing swung like a fist to his nose. “And the father wants nothing to do with me. The only man who has offered to help me is my brother’s best friend, and I’ve had a crush on him since I was a child. Of course, I never had the courage to say anything because he’s never felt the same way. And I thought, maybe, things had changed and there might have been a chance between us, but apparently, he’s forgotten about me. He’s left me here, stewing in the heat, to reflect on every bad decision I ever made in my life—including falling in love with him even though I’m pregnant with another man’s child!” I slammed a hand on the counter. “Now. All I want is a snow cone before the sun accidentally cooks this kid inside me. Please.”

  A woman shouted from the back of the truck. “Jesus, Bob. Just give her a damn snow cone. She’s pregnant for Christ’s sake.”

  The man’s wife appeared like the Blessed Mary. She scooped a heaping portion of ice into a paper cone and prattled around the truck, banishing her husband to retrieve the last of their machinery they’d stacked outside.

  “Here you go.” She molded the top into a perfect circle. “What flavor, honey?”

  Close, but my nickname wasn’t honey, the team decided to call me Doctor Honeybuns. I didn’t correct her.

  “Blue?” I asked. “No. Red. No. Green!”

  “Coming right up.”

  She handed me a dripping snow cone ribboned with every flavor she had available. I pushed my credit card over the counter and took the cone with two hands.

  Her face pinched. “I’m sorry, honey. We can’t take a credit card without our computer up.”

  And just like that, my world crumbled.

  I was a reasonable, independent woman of character, integrity, and class, but in that moment, I cracked like a cheap Tupperware container lodged in the bottom of the dishwasher.

  My lip trembled first, but I couldn’t hand the snow cone back before sniffling.

  The fat, incriminating tears heralded another mood swing. This one skipped the weepies and crushed me into utter despair—even worse than the paper towel commercial that ran with the puppy and his muddy paws.

  I sniffled, apologizing for the card, the inconvenience, and the scene I was making blubbering over some damn ice.

  The woman tisked her tongue. “Oh now, honey. You take it. Really.”

  “I—I—I couldn’t.”

  “Go on. You deserve it.”

  “But—”

  “It’s hotter than a pig’s backside out here, and twice as filthy. You need to take care of yourself. Take the snow cone and enjoy it.”

  “Really?”

  “Life’s too short to fight a pregnancy craving. Take it.”

  I pocketed my card. She handed me some napkins for my tears and the unpleasant addition to my snow cone that dripped from my nose.

  “Now go before they close the fence and lock you in here all night.”

  Wouldn’t that be the perfect end to the day? I thanked her again and cuddled with my snow cone as I returned to the front of the practice facility.

  Still no Jude, but at least I had a snack.

  I sat on the stairs and called him once more. The call went directly to voice mail.

  Again.

  “Jude, where are you? I’m stuck at practice. You left me here!” My temper flared. I nearly crushed my ice. “I’m going to give you five minutes. You have until I finish this snow cone before I—”

  The ice dripped in the sun. A stream of blue syrup cut through the middle, and the rounded top slid as one giant mound. I tilted my wrist to steady the impending slide.

  But the avalanche buried me under the ice.

  It wasn’t my life passing before my eyes—it was Jude’s.

  This was his fault!

  The snow cone crumbled on my chest as I juggled phone, paper cup, and my dignity in an unsuccessful fight against the cruelest of fates. The ice splattered onto my white blous
e, tie-dying it into every color of the rainbow.

  My breast was strawberry. My nipple watermelon. My navel blue raspberry.

  And over the baby, a nice patch of pineapple.

  I didn’t even like pineapple.

  I grabbed the phone. The slippery, syrupy remnants stained the cover, but I didn’t need a good grip to shout into the cell. My mood shifted into a rage that wasn’t anywhere as dangerous to my health as it was Jude’s.

  “Get back here now!”

  I doubted that I needed the phone. My voice probably carried over all of Ironfield.

  I seethed for only five minutes when the flash of an orange Jeep spun into the lot. Jude’s tires squealed as he drove like a maniac to meet me.

  If he wasn’t careful, he might have hit someone with his car.

  If I didn’t get behind the wheel and run him down first.

  Phillip barked from the passenger seat. He sat on a lamp shade. At least the dog hadn’t eaten yet either.

  “Rory, I am so sorry.” Jude raced to my side. He frowned. “What happened to—”

  “I got iced!” I gritted my teeth. “What the hell, Jude? You forgot about me?”

  “Rory, I had a long day—”

  “Me too!” I held my arms out. Phillip hopped from the car to diligently clean the stickiness from my hands. “I’m tired. I’m hot. I look like I spent the night at Woodstock. How could you forget me?”

  Jude panicked. “I’m sorry, Doc. What can I do to make it up to you? This morning you were happy. What did I do then?”

  “You gave me a ride!”

  “Wait!” He pulled out his wallet. “I also gave you money. You liked lunch. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “You can’t buy me off. Jude, I’m a smart, successful…” I gasped. “Hyperventilating neurologist. You owe me more than a stop through the drive-through. I can’t believe you’d be so inconsiderate.”

  “I wasn’t. I swear.” He reached for me. I batted his hand away. “Look, Doc, I never take women home.”

  He shoved a twenty in my hand as he said it. Great. We’d get arrested for assumed prostitution too.

  “Rory,” he said. “I’m always alone. I’ve always been alone. I’ve never been lucky enough to have someone want to come home with me.”