"Well."
I don't know what to say. I'm alone in a locked bathroom, a pregnancy test in front of me, my boyfriend's finishing up his management classes for the day before going to the Pavilion for a school-hosted Draft Party, and I'm . . . pregnant.
Should I start to panic now?
Why? Because you're a college girl who got pregnant? That doesn't make you all that special. I bet at least a hundred girls got pregnant at Western last year. Maybe more, with the amount of sex that goes on around here, I think to myself.
I chuckle. What do I do?
Go to class, then go to the party. Later on, maybe you can talk. You have time.
I barely pay attention in class, and when I get to the Draft Party, I see Duncan, Tyler, Joe, and a few of the other guys already there. There's a cameraman from the Football Network, along with a guy from the League, who's there to present 'draft day jerseys' for anyone who gets drafted.
Looking at his table, I notice that there is only one copy of each team's jersey, and they aren't personalized. "What's the deal?"
"Oh, I have the name plates for the three projected prospects. I pin them on in the minute or so it takes to get the call and make the formal announcement. The players get their real draft jersey afterward. I'll sew the name plate on after the day's over."
"What if two guys get drafted by the same team?"
The League rep smiles and points to a box under the table. "I've got another copy of each jersey, so that's no big deal. Besides, this is all for Hart, really. Paulson and Manfredi aren't expected to be picked until tomorrow."
"Hey, you made it!" I hear behind me, and I turn to see Duncan coming over. He's relaxed and smiling, finally able to take a day off after the stress of the past few months. He swallows me in a hug, kissing the top of my head as I let my worries go for a few minutes. "How was class?"
I smile and give Duncan a quick kiss. "I barely paid attention. My mind was somewhere else,” I say honestly. "How about you?"
Duncan shakes his head, and we turn, looking around the room where the party is taking place. We're using the athlete lounge, a luxurious room that's shared by all the different teams, although in theory, it's supposed to be only used by athletes in season at the time. I've never been in here before, and I'll be honest, I'm a bit jealous. If the difference between the student athletic center and Coach Taylor's weight room is a measuring stick, the difference between the general student union and this lounge is astronomical. Seriously, what sort of student lounge has leather sofas? And . . . three PlayStations? When do they ever study?
"Chill, Carrie, you're going hormonal," I admonish myself, and Duncan looks over, confused.
"What's that?"
"Nothing, just feeling a bit of jealousy. I didn't know how nice this room was before. Come on, let's grab a seat and watch. So you're really not nervous?"
Duncan shakes his head again. "Nah. You guys got me as ready for the draft as I could have ever dreamed of. Especially you. So whatever happens today, I’m ready for it. And if Jacksonville doesn't bite, someone will. I know it."
We take a seat, and Joe Manfredi comes over with a bowl of popcorn. "Hey, Carrie. How are you doing?"
"Good, Joe. You?"
"I won't get nervous until tonight, maybe tomorrow. This first round, I'm just chillin' until your man here gets the call. Draft analysts are saying J-ville. Nice deal, wish I got to go there."
"We'll see," Duncan says, and the draft starts. It's as boring as it is nerve-racking, the first round. With up to fifteen minutes between picks, there's a lot of waiting around, but at the same time, nervousness fills me each time the League commissioner comes up to the front of the draft room on the television and makes any announcements.
The first player taken is a left tackle from Alabama, not unexpected, considering the state of the first couple of teams. Next are a couple of quarterbacks, linebackers, and an offensive tackle to round out the top six.
"You'll be hitting the board soon," Coach Thibs says, patting Duncan on the shoulder. He's actually relaxed. His talk earlier wasn't any sort of false confidence, and he's been talking with everyone about what he thinks about each pick as they come around. Pick number seven . . . eight . . .
"Jacksonville's up next," Coach Bainridge says, who joined us almost as if by magic. I hadn't even seen him come in, but then again, I've spent the past ten minutes chewing my fingernails and barely breathing, Duncan's arm around me and a bemused look on his face as he sees my nervousness.
Suddenly, two phones ring almost simultaneously, one by the League's shirt guy, and another on the conference call phone that's been set up on the table in front of our sofa. Everyone in the room stops, except for Coach Taylor, who hits the mute button on the TV before turning his eyes along with everyone else to Duncan.
"Well? Are you going to answer it?"
Duncan grins and nods, reaching out and hitting the pickup button. "Hello?"
"Hello. Is this Duncan Hart?"
"Yes, who's calling?"
I can't help it. I laugh at Duncan's casualness. He sounds like a little kid answering his home phone, not someone who's about to be drafted to a multimillion-dollar contract. Duncan gives me a smile and takes my hand, kissing the knuckles before going back to the phone.
"Hi, Duncan, I'm Gerry Lippincourt, General Manager of the Jacksonville Wildcats. Are you watching the draft?"
"Yes I am, sir. You guys are on the clock. Hope you use your pick wisely."
"We plan on it. I wanted to give you a heads up, and a last-minute chance to voice your opinion. We'd like to select you with our choice, if that's okay with you?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
"Do you have an agent, Duncan?"
"No, but if you have any paperwork you want to send over, fax it to the football team here at Western. I'll find an agent soon enough."
"Okay. We'll send over some documents in a minute. In the meantime, let's do the announcement."
The phone hangs up, and we watch as a Jacksonville representative walks up to the stage, handing a slip of paper to the Commissioner. He reads it, smiles, and turns to the microphones again. "And with the ninth pick, Jacksonville selects . . . Duncan Hart, of Western University."
Two days later, Duncan and I are in Jacksonville, where a member of the team's front office picks us up from the airport. Technically, Duncan has to still sign his contract, but he's already told everyone he's happy with Jacksonville's initial offer, and he's not going to worry about negotiations. "An extra half-million on the signing bonus isn't worth worrying about," he told me as we got on the plane. "I'd rather just focus on being a good player."
We get to Wildcats Stadium, although it's got some corporate sponsor name on it that makes no sense, and get out to go into the Wildcats offices. Duncan meets with the owner, the general manager, and the head coach, a rather laid-back, excited guy who sounds as much like a California surfer dude as a football coach.
"Duncan, we know there's a lot to wrap your head around, so since this visit's a couple of days, we were thinking that you'd like to meet some of your teammates. How about dinner with one of the ones who lives here in Jacksonville?" the coach says. "You and I can have our get together tomorrow, and you can meet your new offensive coordinator."
Duncan looks at me, and I nod. I'm feeling a bit of jet lag, and I don't know if the churning in my stomach is morning sickness or just the hectic pace of the day so far combined with the time zone change. "I'd like that. A little normalcy, you know?"
Duncan nods and takes my hand, his fingers giving me the strength I need. I still haven't told him, after the craziness of the past few days, and I don't know when I am going to find the time. I need to do it soon, that's for sure. Duncan deserves to know the truth.
"You know, Coach, that sounds great. Who have you got in mind?"
"The man who's responsible for us getting the number nine pick," the coach says, grinning. "In fact, I think you two know each other already."
; A player comes out, and while he's a bit shorter than Duncan, about six-two, he's just as big, but perhaps a bit thicker through the chest and back, with blond hair and blue eyes. He's ripped, and I wonder how this Nordic-looking Superman knows my Duncan.
"Well, we've run into each other a time or two," the man says, extending his hand. "Four years ago, Western versus Clement? It's nice to meet you again, Troy Wood."
It makes sense now. The guy who got traded to the Wildcats along with the draft pick that Jacksonville used for Duncan. Duncan, on his part, is beaming. "Yeah, I remember that beating. Glad to be working with you instead of against you."
"At least until next year's Western-Clement game, right?" Troy says with a laugh. "Come on, I'd like to show you my home. My wife is excited—she's spent the past two days trying to figure out how to entertain you. When we heard you were bringing a lady with you, well, she and my daughter are ecstatic. You must be Carrie Mittel. Sorry for the slow greeting. Our scout told me some of the stories he heard about what you did to help Duncan rehab that elbow. If even half of them are true, I think some of the team's going to be coming to you for help this summer."
"I've still got a year of school left," I counter, but his kind words help me feel good. "So Troy, you've got a daughter?"
"A daughter and a son, actually. You can meet them both at the house. Come on, and I hope you don't mind riding in a regular car. I heard you like motorcycles, Duncan?"
"I did. I guess I do, but I was thinking I should give that up,” Duncan says. "It's a lot better for taking Carrie out on dates."
Troy nods and holds the door open like a gentleman for us both. "And better for your career."
For a superstar linebacker, Troy Wood's house is remarkably understated, even if it is bigger than what I'd grown up in. A four-bedroom house, it's been done tastefully if rather . . . normally, I guess is the best way to put it. If you upgraded the size of my parents’ house, you'd have Troy Wood's.
Whitney Wood, on the other hand, is anything but normal, with long brown hair and a great smile that immediately puts me at ease. "It's good to meet you," she says while the guys go off wandering into the back yard. Troy's taken his daughter, Laurie, with him, and she's already been hanging on Duncan, begging him for a horsey ride. Duncan sweeps Laurie off her feet and deposits the nearly seven-year-old on his shoulders, much to the girl's delight, while Whitney and I have a seat on the screened in porch. On the floor between us is Travis, Whitney and Troy's infant son.
"Thanks. It's great that you two are being so kind."
"Trust me, it's going to be nice having some more players our age around. Most of the young guys, the rookies and such, they're on the wild side. But your Duncan, he's shown a change of heart recently. Troy appreciates that."
"I bet. But Whitney, before you get any ideas, Duncan and I . . . we're not married, or even engaged. We've just been dating for a few months."
"And in those few months, he went from a major player to a decent guy. Trust me, I did my research. It pays, in my line of work."
"What is that, by the way? I'm still getting my head wrapped around Duncan being a Wildcat."
"I'm an art dealer, actually," Whitney says with a touch of pride. It explains so much. Her touch around the house is now evident, as perhaps the one extravagance the house has is an amazing selection of artwork, something in nearly every room. "I guess you'll hear the story eventually, but Troy and I . . . well, it's a long story, but we only got married about a year ago now. After his first half-season with Jacksonville."
"Really? The way he and Laurie get along, I thought you'd been married since she was born."
Whitney sits back and sips at her iced tea, which she'd brought out for both of us. "No, I actually got pregnant with Laurie back in high school. Troy was my first, and I had Laurie in Europe. Troy and I didn't see each other until Laurie was five, and he didn't know Laurie was his daughter for a while after that. Remind me some time, and I'll tell you the whole tale."
I nod, distracted as I think about my own current condition. Whitney notices and clears her throat. "You okay, Carrie? My best friend is a psychologist, and being in imports and exports, you tend to get a handle on people. You've been looking, well, I guess the best way to say it is preoccupied since you came in."
"Yeah, I guess I am," I answer, looking down at baby Travis. "He's cute. How old is he?"
"Two months," Whitney replies, watching as he kicks in his little chair and beams up at us. "We tried to get pregnant on our honeymoon, but it didn't actually happen until just before training camp. I still feel bad for the team. I swear, Troy was distracted in the playoffs because I had a pretty tough third trimester. Travis is like his father, huge and active. My belly looked like an alien movie."
I laugh. “Well, you are pretty petite. Getting yourself back into shape, though, I see."
"Mmm, can't be too strict though. Travis needs the milk, and Troy . . . well, he likes it too!"
Whitney's laughter causes me to smile, but my mind is still whirling. I feel tears well up in my eyes, and one escapes, trickling down my cheek. Whitney stops laughing and slides next to me, rubbing my back. "Hey, I’m sorry. I know it was a horrible joke."
I shake my head and wipe the tear away. "No, it was fine. Just . . . stuff's on my mind. Can I ask you some personal questions?"
"Sure. I'm hoping that we can become friends. I'm not trying to say a lot of the players’ wives and girlfriends and I don't get along, but I spent five years in Italy after growing up in a small town in the Seattle area. Just different backgrounds is all."
"Well, do you ever . . . I don't know, have any regrets about the way it happened between you and Troy? I mean, if Laurie’s six, you must have had her back in high school. That had to be tough.”
"It was. And yes, I do have one regret about it all."
"What's that?"
"I regret the five years that Troy didn't know he had a daughter. Oh, I guess I had my justification for it at the time. Troy was also in high school, I didn't want to hurt his football career, yada yada. I wasn't even sure I was going to tell him until I did. I didn't want him to think I was gold digging on him. But I forgot something in all my excuses. I forgot about Troy and who he is. He was such a player before we met. I called him a manwhore, in fact, at first, and we joke about it still. But when he and I clicked . . . it was magic. He changed and matured before my very eyes. Then I got pregnant and forgot about all that. I just went off my fears, and it took me five years to rectify that mistake. So yeah, I do regret that. Watching Laurie and him play on that swing set outside that Troy built for her . . . that's my only regret."
I wipe at my eyes and think with Whitney staying right next to me. She doesn't ask any questions. I think she's pretty sure what's going on, because as we see the guys come back, stopping outside to let Laurie play on the swings, she pats my back again. "Tell him. Don't make the same mistake I did. Besides, I saw how he looks at you. He loves you, Carrie. That man is head over heels in love with you. Have faith in that, and you'll be fine."
Duncan, Troy and Laurie finish playing outside, coming back inside with Laurie leading the way. "Mama," she says, and I can pick out now the lilt to her accent. It's Italian, "Duncan can skip a rock five times across the pond!"
"Really?" Whitney asks, giving Duncan a smile. "Tell me you're not trying out for quarterback now too."
Duncan laughs and comes over, sitting down next to me. "Nah. Just a lucky find of a good stone, and the pond's as flat as ice. So did you two have a good chat?"
"We did," Whitney says. "Carrie's quite a catch. I wouldn't let go of her if I were you."
"I'm not," Duncan says, taking my hand again. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Chapter 23
Duncan
It feels weird, after spending the past three months slowly watching my bank account dwindle as my money ran out, to see five figures on the screen as I take money out at the ATM. The Wildcats, understanding my predicame
nt, gave me an advance on my signing bonus, the team President cutting me a personal check before Carrie and I left Jacksonville. I'm good to go while the paperwork winds its way through the lawyers, which are a lot more numerous than I thought there would be.
I take out two hundred bucks and tuck the cash into my wallet, then get my card. I tuck everything into my jacket and head toward campus, pulling my backpack up over my shoulder. While my contract is signed, I still have a college degree to finish up, and the Wildcats have been really understanding about that. They're trusting me to continue working with Carrie and Coach Taylor in working with my elbow and staying in playing shape, and three weeks after graduation, I'm to report to Jacksonville to do my first rookie camp.
Actually, that's the only concern I've had this whole time since being drafted. Classes are going okay. I'll get my degree, but the move to Jacksonville seems to be causing stress between Carrie and me. I don't understand why either, because I'm more dedicated to her than ever. Each time I turned around with the Wildcats, I was asking someone on the team advice on how to help Carrie adjust. The team even said they'd be willing to work with Western, if Carrie wants to do her last year as a split student. She can do the fall semester in Jacksonville, interning with the Wildcats and doing studies via distance learning, and then we can go back in the spring semester in order to let her wrap up her brick and mortar classes that she can't do in Jacksonville. The most we'd have to be apart is a month, and only if the Wildcats go deep in the playoffs.
So things should be great, but for some reason, they're not. Last night, for the first time since we moved in together, she was offish, not wanting to even cuddle on the couch. I chalked it up at the time to stress. I mean, we've both got reports and finals coming up pretty soon, but still, it's on my mind.
Walking by the Pavilion, I see Tyler Paulson. He didn't get drafted, but afterward, he got an invite to sign a contract with Toronto of the Canadian League. "Hey, Tyler. How's it going?"
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 18
