by Sosie Frost
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.
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.”
“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 t
he 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.”
