by Amy Andrews
“Only if you promise to never ever get your Chelsea buns from anyone but me.”
Kyle grinned, knowing how much she’d hated that. “I promise.”
“Even if I start charging you for them?”
“Nobody’s buns but yours. I promise.”
“In that case…I’m going to be with you forever. Now can we get out of here?”
Kyle grinned wickedly, then swept her up into his arms in one quick move. She yelped a little, but hung on around his neck as the crowd cheered and flashbulbs went off like crazy.
“Where to, baby?”
“The bakery.”
“Oh no, what I plan on doing to you will definitely violate several food handling laws.”
“I’ll burn the bench top afterward.”
Good enough for him. “The bakery it is.”
And he strode off with her, navigating through a little crowd of well-wishers and the trail of media throwing questions at them, crossing the road, and putting Val down in front of Sticky Fingers so she could search through her bag for her keys.
“Wave and smile for the cameras,” he murmured in her ear as she inserted the key into the lock and the door gave.
They waved and smiled, and then he whisked her inside and shut the world out.
Things were about to get sticky.
Really sticky.
Epilogue
“I’m sorry, honey.”
Kyle tried not to wince as Val squeezed his hand so hard he was worried he’d never be able to catch a football again as she panted her way through another contraction, giving him the evil eye the entire ninety seconds.
“So you bloody should be.” She glared at him, her face red and sweaty and more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. “This is all your fault.”
Kyle nodded. It seemed like the right thing to do, given the situation and her temporary possession by the devil, even though it had been her who’d jumped him that fateful night after the game, despite his protestations about the lack of condom and the mess-up with her pill prescription. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“You know I can’t resist it when you’re all pumped up and sweaty like that.”
Yeah. She’d been really horny in that back seat. He hadn’t even got his zipper fully down before she’d grabbed for him and sunk herself down. It’d been sexy as fuck. “I know.”
“You shouldn’t look so hot.”
In his peripheral vision, Kyle could see the midwife suppressing a smile as she wrote in a chart. “I’m sorry.”
Just over a year ago his teammates had urged him to apologise to Val for everything. It turned out to be a piece of advice handy for childbirth as well. Neither he or Val had expected to be pregnant so soon, they’d only just set a wedding date, but they’d been thrilled, and Kyle had been eagerly anticipating seeing his child come into the world.
He hadn’t quite pictured Val morphing into Zuul from Ghostbusters but he was sure, after his hand recovered, they’d get a laugh out of it.
“I’m never having sex with you ever again.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.” She frowned at him with the ferocity of a woman possessed. “I don’t care how hot and sweaty you get.”
The midwife’s shoulders shook suspiciously. “Okay.”
“Oh…good Christ.” She shifted against the mattress, rising onto her elbows a little as she cast panicked eyes at him, clutching the sheets with her spare hand. “Here comes another one.”
“It’s okay, you can do it,” he said, “I am in awe of you and you’re so close, honey.”
Kyle kissed her forehead and tried to sound calm as the midwife had advised. But when Val looked panicked, it panicked him. She was always so in control.
“You’re lying,” she accused as she squeezed her eyes shut and ground his knuckles together a bit more. “I’m going to have a baby stuck in me forever.”
“You really are close, Valerie.” The midwife approached, standing on the opposite side of the bed, a picture of patience and tranquillity. “Almost fully dilated.” She squeezed Val’s hand. “You’ve done so well.”
Val gave a half sob as the contraction eased, and Kyle felt about as useless as tits on a bull. He hated seeing the woman he loved in pain and he didn’t know how to comfort her. If he could take it for her, he would, but this just wasn’t something he could do for her.
The midwife went back to her chart, and Val flopped back against the bed, panting heavily. “You want some water?”
She shook her head. “I want vodka. Neat.”
Kyle laughed. “Maybe later, huh?”
But Val didn’t think it was quite that amusing. “Nope.” She shook her head. “In fact, I think it’s time for drugs.”
Kyle glanced at the midwife, then back at Val, girding his loins. “Remember we talked about this. You told me that at some point you would probably ask for drugs and that I had to be strong and tell you no. You wanted me to remind you, you were a strong woman whose body knew what to do and you were to trust Mother Nature.”
Kyle had thought it all a bit of a crock himself, but they’d done all the prenatal classes and Val had been determined to do this drug-free. What the fuck for he had no idea. If it’d been up to him she’d have had a Caesarean.
“No way is Mother Nature responsible for childbirth. This bullshit had to have been masterminded by a man. Christ, if men had to do this, they’d have invented a freaking zipper centuries ago!”
There was only one thing Kyle could say to that. “I’m sorry.”
“For the love of God, don’t be sorry, just get me drugs. All the drugs. I’ll even take the expired ones.”
Kyle took a deep breath, trying to stick to the birth plan because Val had been very firm about it and he knew, once she had their baby in her arms, she would hold him to account. “You said I was to stand firm and tell you that you’ll be so proud of yourself when it’s all over.”
She swore under her breath. “I’m giving you permission to ignore me.”
Kyle swallowed. “You said you’d say that.”
“Kyle.” She grabbed his T-shirt and yanked him closer. Blood flowed into his hand again. “I was clearly insane,” she hissed, her eyes wild. “Have you ever tried pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your dick?
“No.”
“Would you want drugs if you had to?”
Hell fucking yes. “Probably.”
“So get me some. Now!”
Kyle turned to the midwife, who was doing her best not to laugh. God alone knew the conversations she’d been privy to in her job. “It’s too late for drugs now, Val.” She smiled beatifically as she looked up from the chart, obviously unconcerned at Val’s mood. “You’re almost there.”
Val blinked at Kyle incredulously and tugged him closer. “I think she hates me,” she whispered. “Go and see if we can get another one. One that’s not so tight-fisted with their drug stash.”
If Kyle hadn’t read about the irrationality of late-stage labour, he’d be freaking out about Val’s uncharacteristic paranoia. But before he could formulate a soothing response, Val cried out and vaulted upright, her eyes bugging out of her head. “Oh god, I need to push.”
The midwife smiled and stood as if this was the proclamation she’d been so calmly waiting for. She reached for the box of gloves. “Excellent. Let’s have us a baby, huh?”
…
Several hours later, Val was lying in bed, Kyle squashed in beside her, their bundled-up baby boy tucked between them. He had an old man’s face, complete with wrinkly forehead and a thick thatch of golden-red hair. Linc had already nicknamed him little Griff when the team had visited en masse earlier. She was exhausted but happy.
She wouldn’t have thought it possible to be any happier after this amazing year of love and new beginnings, but she’d been wrong. Their bundle squirmed and Kyle stroked a smooth baby cheek. “It’s okay,” he crooned. “You’re safe here, we got you.”
Val’s heart ju
st about burst from her chest.
There was a light knock at the door, and it cracked open slowly to reveal her father, standing there hesitantly on the threshold, his wild mane of hair looking even wilder, as if he’d been plucking at it for hours. According to Eve, he’d paced the floor her entire twelve hour labour. They’d come a long way, her father and her, in the last year, but she knew he was nervous about the prospect of a little one in his life. She understood how hard it must be for him, what a reminder it must be.
“Hey, Dad.” She smiled at him. “Come and meet your grandson, Griffin.”
Val held her breath as her father hovered there for long moments. Then he took a hesitant step into the room, and another and another. Tears shone in her eyes as he stared down at the sleeping child with such a mix of apprehension and yearning it tore at her chest.
“Can I hold him?”
She nodded and watched as Kyle passed their son up, a lump lodging in her throat as her father held the squirming bundle close and tight, like a rugby ball. “Hey, mate, I’m your pop,” he said gruffly. “I’m going to teach you how to play footy, okay?”
And Val’s heart did burst from her chest.
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Glossary
I’ve probably used some words in here that some readers may not know—both rugby ones and strange Aussie-isms alike. So I thought a handy dandy glossary might help. It is, of course, written entirely from my perspective so is heavily biased, female-centric, and quite possibly dodgy. It probably wouldn’t stand up to any kind of official scrutiny…
Footy–We love this term in Australia. The confusing thing for most non-Aussies is they never know which game it refers to because we have three separate but distinct codes of football in Australia:
1. Rugby League (Jarryd Hayne played this code before he went and played Gridiron).
2. Rugby union–The code the Sydney Smoke play and the one this series is based upon (Jarryd Hayne tried his hand at this code for a bit after the whole Gridiron things didn’t work out but is now back playing League).
3. Aussie rules football–Different altogether. Tall, fit guys in really tight shorts.
There is also soccer but we don’t really think of that as football in the traditional sense here in Australia.
The confusing thing is we refer to all of them as the footy, e.g. “Wanna go to the footy, Davo?” And somehow we all seem to know which code is being referred to at any given time. Even more confusing, the ball that is used in each code is often also called the footy, e.g. “Chuck me the footy, Gazza.”
Pitch–Apparently the rugby field is called a pitch but colloquially here we just call it the footy (see, I told you we liked that term) field. A pitch is more a cricket term. No, don’t worry, I won’t ever try to explain a game that lasts five days to you…
Ruck–No, not a typo. That’s ruck with an R, ladies! Happens after a tackle as each team tries to gain possession of the ball.
Line-out–That weird thing they use to restart play where each team lines up side by side, vertical to the sideline, and one of the guys throws the ball to his team and a few of the guys from that team bodily lift one dude up to snatch the ball out of the air. It’s like rugby ballet. Minus the tutus. And usually with more blood.
Scrum–Another way to gain possession of the ball. I’m going to paraphrase several definitions I’ve read: A scrum is when two groups of opposing players pack loosely together, arms interlocked, heads down, jockeying for the ball that is fed into the scrum along the ground. It’s like a tug of war with no rope and more body contact or, as I like to call it, a great big man hug with a lot of dudes lying on top of each other at the end of it all. Very homoerotic. Win/win.
Maul–The good kind. It’s when at least three rugby players from either side—one with the ball—are in contact together to challenge possession. Yes, another man hug! Sounds positively delicious, doesn’t it?
Try–A goal. Except in rugby union we don’t say someone scored a goal, we say someone scored a try after they’ve dived for the line and a bunch of other guys have jumped on top to try and stop it from happening. Very homoerotic. Win/win. A try is worth five points.
WAGs–Wives and girlfriends. These are partners of the dudes that play rugby. Although we also use the term here in Oz to refer to partners of our cricket players. I think in the UK WAGs is also a term used for football (soccer) partners.
Akubra–An iconic Australian brand of hat worn by country guys and gals. Vaguely similar to the Stetson but I’ll probably have my nationality revoked for saying so! It has a distinctive shape that’s about as Aussie as vegemite.
Arvo–In that long tradition of shortening everything and sticking an o on the end, this is Aussie for afternoon, eg. “Hey Robbo, whatcha doin’ this arvo?”
Wank–To wank is to masturbate. Pretty much always referring to a guy. Although we embrace all terms for this biological process. Jerking/jacking/tossing off are well known, as are spanking the monkey and choking the chicken (or chook as we say here). There’s also the term wanker which is actually rarely used to describe one who wanks. We much prefer to use this as an insult for someone who is a bit of a jerk, eg. “That Johnno is a wanker.”
Boardies–Shortened (of course) from board shorts, the knee-length shorts worn to the beach by blokes, although women wear them as well.
Togs–Some Aussies call swimming suits togs. No one knows why.
Starkers–Completely, utterly, 100 percent naked.
Bum bag–Known as fanny packs in the USA. But a fanny here in Australia is a “front bottom” on a woman and none of us can keep a straight face calling them that…
Hard yakka–Yakka is work. So, any job that’s heavy or difficult or requires muscle is hard yakka. Also a rugged brand of clothing designed to survive said yakka.
Cattle station/property–A farm or a ranch where cattle (and sheep) are raised. Usually has to be a big ass property to be considered a station. When someone’s taking a betting game too serious here, we’ll often say, “Come on, Richo, we’re not playing for sheep stations.”
Woop woop–Out in the middle of bloody nowhere. Usually where you can find most cattle stations!
Out past the black stump–another way of saying woop woop. No, nobody knows where the black stump is exactly.…
Jackaroo–a station hand on farm/station/property. In other words, an Aussie cowboy. Yeehaw!
Softdrink–this is what we call a soda. Soft refers to it being non-alcoholic/wussy.
Ute–Short (just for something different) for utility vehicle. Similar to the pickup.
Fair dinkum–Slang for something that is true or genuine. “Fair dinkum, mate, that bloody cattle station out woop woop got six inches of rain last night.”
Cooee–An Aussie bush call used to attract attention. Or a way of describing how near or far something is. “I was within bloody cooee of Bazza.” Or “I wasn’t in bloody cooee of Bazza.”
Yobbo–An uncouth individual. Or Aussie for dickhead.
Dill–an affectionate term for a fool/idiot. “Don’t mind Robbo, he’s a bit of a dill.”
Trackie daks–trackie refers to a tracksuit and daks refers to trousers. So these are tracksuit bottoms. Generally not the most sophisticated choice of clothing, usually just something to slop around the house in. Loved by authors all over this big brown land!
Dag/daggy–a dag actually refers to the matted wool around a sheep’s ass but we also apply it to people, usually affectionately. A person can be “a dag” which means someone who’s funny but not very hip or fashionable. And you can “look daggy” by wearing your oldest/ill fitting/ill-kept/out-of-fashion clothes (trackie daks is a classic example) and generally just not really care about how you look.
Ranga–this is an affectionate term for a person with red hair. It has its roots (snorkel!) in the word orangu
tan, those ranga apes of the jungle.
Bogan–this is Aussie for redneck.
Tinnies–these are the cans that beer comes in, usually downed in huge quantities by Aussie bogans.
Slammer–the clink, the jail, the big house. If you’re in the slammer, you’d better look good in an orange jumpsuit.
Swagman–an old fashioned term for an itinerate man who wandered around and camped out in the bush with his swag (bedroll) They weren’t often jolly as described in the famous Waltzing Matilda song but probably a few of them did camp by billabongs. And possibly stole sheep…
Squicky–something that’s icky and grosses you out (as we say here).
Biscuit (or bikkie for short)–this does not refer to the biscuit that US readers eat with gravy. This is Aussie for cookie. Nomnom.
Acknowledgments
My thanks, as always, go to the team at Brazen. A hell of a lot of work goes on behind the scenes to get these fabulous books into your hands and it’s much appreciated. Special thanks to Riki Cleveland and Shayla Fereshetian and everyone in publicity and marketing and to Curtis Svehlak for being my go-to guy.
To Liz Pelletier for her collaboration, her cheerleading, her faith, her editing insights, and for not yelling at me when I text her in the middle of an Ed Sheeran concert. Continued thanks to Hannah Lindsay for her copy editing and her graciousness in dealing with my true lack of give a fuck about commas.
And to my rugby gurus David Grice and Jon O’Brien–only two more books to go! Thank you both for your technical help, it is very much appreciated.
About the Author
Amy is an award-winning, USA Today best-selling Aussie author who has written seventy plus contemporary romances in both the traditional and digital markets. Her books bring all the feels from sass, quirk and laughter to emotional grit and panty-melting heat. At sixteen she met a guy she knew she was going to marry and several years later she did. They have two grown kids who have flown the coop for distant shores which enables their travel fetish.
