by Sosie Frost
“Wait, wait, wait!”
I turned. A frantic Lachlan Reed drew the team’s attention to my intimate moment. Lachlan hollered and heralded the alert.
“Doctor Honeybuns is giving away luck!”
“I am not.” I cradled my belly. “It’s Jude’s luck. Get your own. And don’t call me Honeybuns.”
Lachlan pushed Jude out of the way. “Nope. This could be the secret to our undefeated season. Sorry, Rory. My foot’s coming down.”
“And mine’s going up your ass,” I said. “Ask Elle.”
“Yeah, right. She’s not gonna let me knock her up again for a while.”
Jude shoo’ed him away. “Well, Rory’s inn is full. Find yourself another manger.”
“One rub.”
Jude and I answered together. “No!”
“What if this costs us a win, huh? And then another? And another? Jude, your unborn child might be a conduit into some sort of supernatural gateway. If we don’t rub her belly, we might never win a game again. No championship.”
I sighed. “Lachlan, there’s no portal to a nether world in my uterus.”
Jude frowned. “Wait…maybe…”
“Not you too!”
“Just one. We have to be careful about these things.”
I sighed. “I’m checking you all for head injuries after this game.”
Lachlan grinned, rushing forward to pat my tummy. Unfortunately, Jack lined up behind him.
“I don’t need luck for this game…” Jack gave a sheepish grin. “But I’m hoping pregnancy is contagious. Leah’s gonna have a nervous breakdown if I don’t get another baby.”
“I’m either a good luck charm or a fertility idol,” I said. “Pick one.”
The linebackers overheard. They descended like locusts, led by Cole Hawthorne.
“You’re a good luck charm?” Cole asked.
I gave up. “Sure.”
Why The Beast was concerned with luck, I’d never know, but my fellowship did not include getting tummy rubs from the entirety of the team.
I’d been warned random people would invade my personal space and point out the part of me growing larger and more visible by the day. But I’d expected kindly old ladies, not the entire starting lineup of the Ironfield Rivets.
But I didn’t mind. Not if Jude was one of the men who lined up for another touch.
Great. I finally got rid of the morning sickness only to get love sick instead.
The team managed to finish their newfound ritual before the game started. I followed them as the players took to the field—grinning like a fool as the fans erupted into their favorite howl/cheer.
“Jude!”
He was a fan favorite, not doubt. Also my favorite to watch as I stayed tucked onto the sidelines with the medical staff.
We had been lucky the beginning of the season. No any major injuries beyond the occasional twisted ankle or knee sprains. Unfortunately, that streak ended today.
In the middle of the first quarter, our offense took the field. Jack threw a quick pass over the middle for Isaac, one of the league’s more gifted receivers. He caught the ball, but Gainesville’s middle linebacker instantly pummeled him.
The hit was quick, fierce, and so close it jarred my bones.
I knew the instant it happened Isaac was in trouble.
The stadium groaned and went quiet as the time-out was called. I didn’t wait for the medical team. I rushed to the grass, ignoring how utterly—udderly?—ridiculous I looked hustling to the player, baby bump first. The game was nationally televised. Fantastic. All of America saw me juggling my jibbles as I rushed to Isaac’s side.
He sat up, but I didn’t let him off the ground. He blinked too many times, and his words slurred as he swore.
“Fusck.” He wobbled a little too much. “I thought your tummy was slucky.”
“It’s lucky, but it’s not a shield,” I said. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Rather give you my number.”
He’d be fine.
The other trainers waited for my signal, and we helped him to his feet. I walked beside him, asking him more questions.
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
“2016.”
“Good,” I said. “And where are you playing right now?”
“Football.”
“No. Where?”
Isaac swore again. “Ironfield.”
“Good. Do you know who your quarterback is?”
“Play-Maker.” Isaac used this as an opportunity to shout for Jack from the sideline. “I want that ball back!”
We led him to the bench, but I didn’t like what I saw. Coach Thompson hurried over, casting off his headset and slapping Isaac’s shoulder pads.
“Don’t be a pussy, Isaac. You good to play?”
I answered for him. “I need to take him to the locker room for an evaluation.”
“For what?” Coach Thompson barked. “That was a good, clean hit. Isaac’s fine.”
“It doesn’t matter if the hit was clean or dirty. He’s exhibiting signs of a concussion.”
“That’s just Isaac. He’s goddamned quick on the field, but he ain’t smart off of it.”
“Hey,” Isaac grumbled.
“But he’s a damn good receiver,” Coach Thompson said. “And I need him in the game.”
“And I need to take him for an evaluation.”
“He just had his bell rung.”
“Isaac had a concussion last year. Any new hit could cause serious damage.”
“Damage? You want to talk damage? He’s my best fucking receiver. I need an early score in this game, and he’s gonna catch it.” Coach Thompson pointed at me. “He’s up. He’s walking. He’s playing. If he was seriously hurt, we’d know it.”
Was he arguing with my medical degree? “That’s not necessarily true. Symptoms might remain latent until—”
“Doctor Merriweather. He has no symptoms. And I think it’s time you let him play again.”
“I can’t let him on the field. I’m worried about—”
“Worry about yourself.” Coach Thompson edged a little too close and spoke a little too rough. “I know you’re eager to prove yourself, but I won’t have you interfering with my game. I’d hate to report this insubordination to Doctor Frolla. Do you understand?”
Now I did.
My stomach bundled in knots. It wasn’t the first time I feared for a player’s health…but it was the first time I’d ever met a coach who didn’t.
I didn’t have a choice.
I nodded, and Isaac hustled to the field.
This was bad.
Jack spent the injury time-out on the sidelines, sharing a print-out of the previous play with Jude. I didn’t belong so close to the players, but the team made way for me.
I kept my voice low.
“Isaac has a concussion.” My warning was clear. “Don’t expect him to be one hundred percent.”
Jude tugged his helmet back on. “And you’re letting him play?”
“I didn’t have a choice. Be careful out there.”
I worried enough about Jude on the field. Now I had another reason to fear an injury.
If Coach Thompson was willing to risk his receiver for a simple regular season game, what would he sacrifice when the team crept closer to the playoffs?
How many lives would he endanger to win a game?
And what would happen if it was Jude’s health at risk?
15
Jude
It didn’t worry me that I forgot why I came to the store.
It terrified me because I forgot driving there.
The fog was bad today, precipitated by a headache that only cleared when I reached the cereal aisle. It wasn’t a total blackout, but it wasn’t good.
What a pain in the ass.
At least I wore matching shoes this time. The last time I had a bad episode, I’d left the house with one black and one brown shoe. As a result, I threw out all but my black dress sh
oes, black loafers, and my tennis shoes. That made my wardrobe easier. Less of a chance to mess things up.
Less of a chance for anyone to notice.
I could handle it. Hell, I was feeling better than Rory. She was twenty-seven weeks of discomfort—cranky, hot, and hungry.
Still beautiful though. Just…less patient.
Why the hell didn’t I write down what she wanted before I headed to the store?
I set the empty basket on the floor and pulled out my phone. Nothing on the grocery list, only my usual reminders to pick up the mail, load the dishwasher, and go to bed at nine since practice was kicking my ass.
I turned the aisle. The store was so damn yellow. My vision haloed enough without spreading golden blotches everywhere. I stared at the food and tried to remember.
She had been hungry.
I volunteered to go out.
Of course, I used it as an opportunity to hide the headache from her. Reap what I sowed, though my ass was grass if I returned without the food she craved.
I looked around. This was the wrong aisle too.
For now.
Baby stuff filled the wall, and an exhausted man stared at the blue and pink packages. He rubbed his neck, cracked his back, and reached for the newborn diapers. He nodded at me, eyes dark with the smudge of sleepless circles.
“You too, buddy?” he asked.
Buddy? I almost laughed. He was wearing my jersey and a Rivets’ hat. Was he too exhausted to recognize me?
“Word of advice,” he said. “If you make one diaper run, you’ll be making another the next day. Buy double what you need.”
Good advice I’d probably never remember.
Good advice I wouldn’t need to remember. Rory and I still hadn’t discussed what would happen once the baby came. Or how she’d handle it. Where she’d go.
The original plan was to break it off after Genie was born. But that meant Rory would be making these diaper trips herself. Raising the newborn, herself. Handling all the stress…herself.
The thought destroyed me.
I shrugged at the man. “Oh, I’m not going to be…”
A father? Having a baby?
Torturing myself in the diaper aisle late at night to help a family I didn’t have?
I sighed. “We’re not here just yet.”
“Oh. Savor this time. Get some sleep for me.”
He grabbed two packages of diapers and cast them on a frozen pizza in his cart. He continued on through the store, battle-worn and exhausted.
That was it.
There was no way in hell Rory was doing this on her own.
But how could I help her if I didn’t even know what snack she had wanted for tonight?
I patted my jeans. An envelope stuffed in the back pocket. I didn’t recognize the paper, but maybe I had scribbled something on the way out the door. I opened it.
GIRL
“What the hell…”
The paper crinkled in my hand. My panic echoed over the aisles.
“Fuck!”
Oh, no, no, no. This was either the world’s most perverted shopping list or the note the OBGYN wrote that revealed the baby’s gender.
It was like a trap I set for myself. This was why I always did the reminders as they popped up on my phone. I should have done the laundry when scheduled. Then I might have trashed the note.
Rory was right. Genie was a girl.
And I was a dead man.
I stuffed the note in my pocket and thumped my temple. Fucking figured. When I needed a linebacker to hit me, I was in the clear.
Shit.
I didn’t waste any more time. At home, Rory seemed to like concord grapes, bologna, and cream soda. Mostly at the same time. I grabbed her favorites and checked out.
And I got it wrong.
Worse than wrong.
Rory’s expression crumbled the minute I walked into the door. She sunk onto the couch, and Phillip took his rightful spot at her side, permitting her to cuddle against him when I inevitably screwed up.
I held up the bag. “I…got you some things.”
“I don’t think you got it right.”
“What did you want?”
She sighed. “Root beer popsicles.”
Damn it—that was right. I had three boxes of the variety pack still sitting in the freezer, but Rory only wanted the root beer flavors. Maybe I could convince her to try the cherry again, though the last one had bombed in her tummy and scared the hell out of us when she threw up red.
“And fried chicken?” Rory patted her swollen tummy, no longer a bump but a rather pronounced declaration to the world. “And my bubble bath soap?”
Then it clicked. “Because you wanted to eat the chicken and popsicle in the tub.”
She slumped against the couch. “I’m okay. I didn’t need it.”
“No. I’ll go back out.”
“Don’t be silly.” She sniffled. “I’m a grown woman. I can…” She pushed herself from the couch. It didn’t work. She planted her feet and groaned. “Go to the store myself.”
She didn’t make it far. Whatever energy boost she gained from the second trimester was wearing off. She sunk back into the sofa and shook her head.
“On second thought. I’ll be okay. I’m a neurologist. I have a PhD. I’m an accomplished and successful woman. It’s just a craving.”
“It’s okay.”
“I will not cry over root beer popsicles.”
Too late. My heart broke with hers.
“Doc, I’ll go to the store. I promise I’ll remember this time.”
That launched her off the sofa. She frowned, but she was no longer mourning her forgotten dessert. She stared at me, her fingers raised. She counted off.
“Root beer popsicles. Fried chicken. Bubble bath.”
Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman without fried chicken. She didn’t have to rub it in.
“I know. I’m a horrible person.”
“No, Jude. I gave you a list of three items. You couldn’t remember them.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like? Tell me. How’s your head? Does it hurt?”
“It does now.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“Nauseous?”
I gritted my teeth. “No.”
“Having trouble concentrating?”
“For Christ’s sake, Doc.”
“You’re irritable.”
I threw my arms out. “You’re interrogating me because I forgot to bring you popsicles.”
“You should be able to remember three things.”
“Can’t you just call me an inconsiderate bastard and be done with it?”
For as exhausted and hungry as she had been, her eyes sharpened. No baby bump slowed her down now.
“But you aren’t inconsiderate,” she said. “Not now. Not ever. I know you have these symptoms. We need to take it seriously.”
“No. I need to pay closer attention when you want something.”
“You aren’t listening to me.”
“What do you want from me?” I asked. “I had a concussion, Rory. Had. I’m fine now.”
“Why don’t we go to my office tomorrow before practice.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not happening.”
“I just want to be sure you’re okay.”
“You being sure means I’ll be inactive for the next game.”
Rory clenched her teeth. “Did I say I wanted to bench you? No. I’m concerned. It was a list of three items, Jude.”
“And I said I was sorry!”
“You aren’t listening—”
Rory silenced, grasping her tummy.
A cold fear laced through me. I raced forward as she felt her belly.
“What’s wrong?” I rested a hand on her bump. “Is she okay?”
The baby jumped and kicked, dancing around inside Rory.
“Nothing’s wrong. The baby heard us yelling and…woke up.” He
r voice faded. She tilted her head. “What do you mean…is she okay?”
Our argument was about to get a lot worse.
“Did you open the envelope?”
Plead the Fifth. Don’t talk. Back away.
How many root beer popsicles did it take to fix this?
“Hear me out, Doc…” I said. “Before you turn into Grumpy…”
“Jude!”
“I’m sorry! It was in my pocket. I pulled it out and accidentally read it because—”
“You forgot what the paper was?”
“Until I read it.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Name it. Popsicles. Jewelry. A lifetime supply of diapers. Anything.”
Rory went still. Her eyes brightened as she glanced up at me.
“A girl?” she whispered.
“You were right.” I braved a step closer. She took my hand, placing it over the dull thudding.
“What’s it feel like?” I asked.
“At first it was like…someone was making popcorn inside me. Now it’s just like…someone using my bladder as a punching bag.”
“That doesn’t sound comfortable.”
“No…” Her voice softened. “It’s not very comfortable, but it’s the greatest feeling in the world.”
Rory quieted, but her lips still teased with a kissable grace. Her body had changed—quite a bit now—but her poise enthralled me. Her skin toasted, richly dark and more vibrant now. Her hair, even cast into a quick ponytail, was a thick tangle of ebony curls. Her breasts had swelled, her bump filled out, but she still retained the bookworm cuteness.
I shouldn’t have wanted her as much as I did.
Who would blame me though? She’d given herself to me, once, but that was all I’d needed. I lost myself in her, and every fear, regret, and complication faded away. For that night, we shared more than pleasure and passion.
We’d shared each other.
I’d never felt that way about any woman. I needed that connection again. I’d gone almost two weeks without her touch, and I craved more than a warm body sleeping in bed next to me.
I reached for her, pulling her close.
Was it wrong to touch her tummy and feel…proud?
It wasn’t my child, but she was my Rory. For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine that possibility.
