by Sosie Frost
“Black.” Rose pointed to the outside then touched her dark cheek. Her finger poked at Cole. “White.”
“Someone please tell me they teach sociology on Sesame Street?” Cole groaned. “Meatball, just eat this and don’t tell Momma.”
He soothed her with a kiss and tickle and reset her crown between her puff-ball pigtails. Rose squealed and danced, then raced to play with Sammy.
The kids, soothed by their treats, were soon gathered by Elle. She enlisted Sebastian’s help in arranging the teams’ kids for a group picture. She carefully set her baby in his carrier before posing him with his protective, pint-sized uncle.
Elle had lofty goals. Lofty, impossible goals. Fortunately, Piper—in a sparkling golden dress—lent a hand wrestling the kids before cataloging the mountain of presents intended for Rory.
“Jude.” Lachlan clinked his beer against mine. “You okay? You’re paler than that light shit you’re drinking.”
I glanced at the bottle. Anything stronger than this fucked with my meds. “I hadn’t realized how many kids we had.”
Jack groaned. “Jesus, shout it louder. Leah’s ovaries didn’t hear you.”
“Everyone’s got a family.”
Cole hadn’t looked me in the eyes all season. He didn’t start now. “Name of the game.”
“I love kids,” Lachlan said.
I snorted. “You are a goddamned kid.”
“Sorry old man.” He took a swig of his beer. “I started my family young. Really young.”
And I hadn’t started one at all.
Twelve seasons in the league.
A hundred million dollars invested from my contracts.
I was a future Hall of Fame inductee and lifelong bachelor.
But I had no relationships. No family.
Nothing.
“And now it’s your turn.” Jack winked. “You think you’re panicked now? Wait until that doctor puts your newborn kid in your arms.”
Cole sighed. “Thought I was going to crush Ethan.”
Lachlan agreed. “Thought I was going to drop Nick. Almost did. Elle didn’t let me hold him for a week.”
“Yeah.” My chest tightened. “That’ll be…something.”
“It’s cool of you to organize the party though.” Lachlan poked six marshmallows onto a skewer and aimed for the hottest part of the fire. They charred to ash before he hauled them out. “It’ll score you some points with Momma.”
“Cash them in now.” Jack warned. “Once the baby gets here? Hell. You won’t have a minute alone…ever.”
Lachlan agreed. “You might not have the tits, but you’ll be up for the midnight feedings with her.”
Cole shook his head. “That’s not so bad. It’s the diapers that suck. We just got Rosie potty-trained, and there’s Ethan. All he does is poop. Laugh and shit. That’s his life.”
Jack shrugged. “Hell of a life.”
“I do my best for him.”
“It can’t all be bad,” I said.
Lachlan burned his tongue on a molten marshmallow and swore. “It’s hard work. There’s no sleep.”
“And your wildest, craziest nights are spent watching Elmo or Cars,” Jack said.
“It’s loud.” Cole heaved a breath. “Really loud.”
The guys glanced at their wives. Each smiled. They’d never admit it.
“Worth it,” Jack said. “I’d do it again. Hell, I’m trying every goddamned night. But you’ll understand. Once you have your kid—your daughter.”
I nodded, though I didn’t know what to say.
“She’s gonna be your everything,” Cole said. “Fair warning. A little girl? Best kind of trouble.”
“They’re all trouble,” Lachlan said. “Still the greatest thing. You’ll be forever changed, man.”
I toasted to them because I could do nothing else.
I wasn’t going to have that moment.
I wasn’t going to hold my little girl.
Wasn’t going to be there for feedings or diaper changes, first smiles or steps.
I had no idea how my life would change…
Because it wasn’t changing at all.
Once the baby came, once Rory and I ended whatever insane plan this was, I’d be done. Back to a life of chronic bachelorhood. Retired from football. No plans for the future. No family.
No one to help when the concussions finally took their toll.
I’d be alone.
And only now did I realize how sad it was.
Leah called for us once the presents were opened, and I returned to a misty-eyed Rory, holding a pink onesie over her belly. Christ only knew how I’d get all the bouncers and strollers, clothes and toys, bottles and various equipment designated for bodily functions packed into the Jeep.
But at least she was set now. The baby officially had more clothes and furniture than I did. I wasn’t letting Rory go until I was certain she would need absolutely nothing but time and cuddles with the baby.
It was the one thing I couldn’t give.
Rory opened one last bag, pulling out two bottles of expensive tequila. She didn’t seem surprised.
“Oh…this is from Grandma Mildred,” she said. “These are for the party.”
“Say no more.” Lachlan swooped in and took the booze.
She unwrapped the tissue paper beneath, pulling out a beautifully knitted baby blanket. Rory held it close reading the card aloud.
“If your mother asks…I knitted this myself. In actuality, I bet Ruthie McDonald I could keep a tablet of Polident in my mouth longer than she could. I’m the reigning champion…Ruthie is an excellent knitter. The check is in the mail. I love you.”
Sounded like Grandma Mildred. Rory laughed and tucked the blanket into the bag.
Leah handed Rory another envelope. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get your mom here. But she sent this.”
I snuck to her side, offering a hand as she opened the envelope. Rory read the card aloud to everyone listening.
“Wishing you all the happiness in the world. Love Grandma.” Rory tucked the card away. “That’s so sweet. Thank you everyone. Really. This is amazing.”
Her hand trembled. I took the envelope as Leah helped her from the chair with the promise of cake. She said nothing. I read what Regan actually had sent.
We need to talk about this child and what this means for the family.
-Regan
Unbelievable.
What the hell was Rory supposed to do?
Sure, she had gotten pregnant, but she did everything she could for the baby and her career. She was going to need help. The baby deserved a family. Regan should have stepped up.
Someone had to. Even if it was me.
But I couldn’t just insert myself into her life—into her child’s life.
Could I?
Leah whistled for everyone to gather around the patio as they unveiled what was supposed to be the pinnacle of cakes. Elle helped Lachlan lowered the oversized box onto the table.
“I found this bakery…” Elle breathed deep as if remembering the smell of the place. “Sweet Nibbles. The owner is also the baker, and I have never tasted anything so fantastic in my life. Rory, your baby is going to thank me.”
She flicked her nails under the tape and flashed the box open.
Rory covered her mouth. Elle screeched.
The lid slammed back down. Lachlan expertly dodged Elle’s swiping hand.
“Charming!” Elle guarded the box and shoo’ed away Sebastian before he peeked inside. “I thought you checked the cake!”
“I picked it up.”
“This isn’t our cake. This must be a bachelorette party cake. At least…God I hope so.”
Rory’s eyes went wide. “That is the most anatomically correct cake I have ever seen. It should be in a textbook...in fact, I think I recognize it.”
Leah and Piper shared a glance and raced forward. They peeked into the box and giggled. I saw enough of what flashed under the lid—a generous patch of pe
ach colored icing that wrinkled in a most offensive and artistic flourish.
Jack edged close. Leah patted his chest. “It’s best you don’t watch us cut this.”
Rory laughed a little too maniacally. “Stand back. It’s been a while, but I remember my surgical rotation. Scalpel.”
Elle handed her the serving knife. Within seconds, the team had yet another reason to fear our neurologist.
Rory hesitated, twirling the blade. “Do we want to start with the…crown or the boys?”
Every man instinctively flinched.
Sebastian edged close, trying to peek under the box. “What’s the cake?”
Lachlan covered his eyes. “A rocket ship.”
Elle covered his ears. “A snake.”
Rory made her first slice, proud of the little rounded flourish that plopped on her plate.
“Mazel tov!”
Lachlan looked like he was going to be sick. “I…think I’ll have another beer.”
Jack backed away when Rory offered him the slice. “Jesus, no.”
She looked at me, her grin mischievous. “Jude?”
“You can have this piece, Doc.”
But she pouted, sinking her fork into the cake and taking a bite. She offered me the second forkful with a smile.
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 kic
ked 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.
