Heart Stronger

by Rachel Blaufeld

  I’d ignored her in earnest, treasuring every test and each sonogram. You’ll be in a bikini in no time.

  The room morphed into some sort of spacelike studio. Cables and bars appeared out of nowhere, and my Claire was spread open, a doctor now between her legs, my lips next to her ear. Crouched on the floor next to the bed, I told my knees to shut up, and I told my wife how much I loved her, what a wonderful mother she was going to be…I bit my lip from detailing what I was going to do to her when she was all healed up.

  I was younger, but not stupid.

  “Okay, Claire, when you feel the urge, give me a little push.”

  All of a sudden, Claire let out a loud roar, followed by, “I should’ve got the epidural,” and then a grunt and some weird short breaths. I steadied myself and remained stoic, thinking of how the cows did it back home.

  No judgment.

  “Breathe,” I told her. She panted and continued to push. Her ears sparkled with purple, and I smiled, knowing a small part of Abby was with us today. The nursery was painted lavender and blue, a mural of the sky lining the ceiling.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Shhh,” she told me. “I’m doing this how I want.”

  After the exhausting battery of tests, in which we received nothing but good results, Claire got herself on a natural jag. Organic cotton blankets, no drugs during the delivery, straight breastfeeding, preservative-free immunizations.

  I just let her have at it. Whatever she needed for peace of mind.

  “That’s it, Claire. I can see the head,” the doctor spoke up.

  Her head fell back into the pillow, and she took a long breath. “I want to push again, for real. Can I? I wannnt to…”

  She didn’t wait for permission. She squeezed my hand, and I was glad her engagement ring didn’t fit at the moment. No doubt, the stones would have dug a hole in my palm.

  It took only three more pushes, and our son was born. Ten fingers, ten toes, a head of dark hair, and a loud cry ushered him into our lives. My hand left Claire’s, and I made my way closer to my son.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him, covered in goop, eyes wide, mouth open…

  “Dad want to cut the cord?”

  “What?”

  “Dad want to cut the cord?” the doctor repeated.

  I jumped into action, and then the nurses swept my little boy away.

  “Remember me?” Claire called to me.

  “Oh shit, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’s perfect.”

  “It’s okay,” Claire whispered, her voice hoarse.

  “Here, have a drink.” I held up a Styrofoam cup with a straw.

  “He’s really okay? All good?”

  The nurse turned. “Perfect. Apgar score is nine. He’s all good.”

  “Here.” Another nurse brought him over swaddled in a blanket, a small hat nestled on his head.

  She placed him over Claire’s chest, and she burst into tears. “I’m not going to let you down, little guy.”

  “You have a name picked out?” the first nurse asked, a smile on her face, her gaze taking a pass or two over my ass. Hey, I still have it going on. Not really. I was ass-out to the nurse, face to Claire, twisted to hear what the nurse asked, my legs barely holding me up.

  “Sean Adam Fordham,” Claire said aloud.

  “Beautiful name. Is he named for someone?”

  Claire nodded, and I said, “Sean was my grandpap’s middle name, and Adam is for his sister, Abby, who is no longer with us.”

  I felt my eyes water, and Claire’s had yet to dry up.

  “I bet she’s watching down on him as we speak,” the nurse interjected, and my wife smiled like I’d never seen her smile.

  “She definitely is,” were the last words to come out of Claire’s mouth before she placed her lips on top of Sean’s wild and unruly hair. She brought him to her tit, and after a few tries, he began suckling. We both watched in silence, my hand lightly covering Claire’s, our plain platinum bands shining under the lights.

  “How did we ever live without him?”

  “I know,” Claire responded, her brow furrowed. “Do you think Abby knows I haven’t forgotten her?”

  “One hundred percent, Fordham. The nurse is right, she’s watching and smiling.”

  Claire

  One year later

  Smitty was barking like holy hell at the front door. I was flurrying around the kitchen, and of course, Aiken’s dad and Judith were sitting out back by the pool, Sam probably half asleep. Sean was napping through the whole scene.

  “Who can that be? Do you think I made a mistake on the evite? It said four? Right?”

  We were getting ready for Sean’s one-year birthday party. The house was covered in blue balloons and streamers. A bright purple banner hung from the mantel, reading, We love you, Seany! There was an enormous cake with a blue number one on it in the middle of the dining room table. We were expecting close to thirty people at four o’clock.

  It was only a quarter after three.

  I still needed to put on some makeup.

  Make coffee.

  Check the icemaker.

  The little things about living that I loved.

  It was a funny thing how happy the small details made me.

  “I’ll get it.” I heard Aiken open the door. “Abbie.”

  My head flew up from where I was cutting up veggies.

  “I know it’s Sean’s party, and I wanted to drop this over,” I heard a familiar voice say.

  I made my way to the door just as Abbie handed Aiken a large, wrapped gift.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Aiken protested, probably on my behalf.

  “Well, he’s one, and you’re only one once,” Abbie countered.

  She stood in our doorway, hole-in-one-knee jeans and a white T-shirt, running shoes, hair pulled back in a messy bun, resembling Aiken. We’d finally made peace a while back, sitting down and rehashing what she’d known and hadn’t known, basically her lack of involvement. Her dad defended himself, which we disagreed with, and so did she—but he did admit to keeping mostly everything from Abbie. In that respect, he wanted her to have all her family, and for better or worse, we were her family.

  She’d wanted a relationship right away, but we weren’t sure. Mostly, it was me, and Aiken hadn’t wanted to upset me.

  “Hey, Abbie, how are classes?” I asked, hating the awkward silence, not wanting this day to be spoiled.

  “Good. We miss you teaching. All of us.”

  I was on the board of the preschool and in private practice for small children with attention deficit disorder and their parents. It suited my time better these days, especially with Aiken finishing classes and working.

  “Why don’t you come in and help Aiken put up the rest of the streamers? I’m finishing with the food. Guests will be here soon.” No reason she shouldn’t join us. I was too excited to say no.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Aiken smiled at me, and I smiled back. We didn’t say anything more.

  We barely had any family. Sean deserved to have an aunt.

  Back in the kitchen, I was mixing veggie dip when the doorbell rang again.

  “Jesus,” I muttered to myself.

  “Aiken,” I heard Mary through sobs when he opened the door.

  I went to the door right away.

  “Mary, you okay? What happened?”

  She fell into Aiken’s arms. He ran his hand down her back, comforting my closest friend. “What’s wrong? Kids okay?” Aiken asked, his hand running down her back.

  “They’re fine. I left them with the nanny.”

  “What’s wrong?” I replaced Aiken, taking hold of my fiery-red-haired friend.

  “Pat. He’s gone.”

  I stood back and took a long look at her. “Gone?”

  “Yeah. Gone. I know it’s what I wanted. It’s my fault. But he’s gone, and now I have to tell the kids. And I’m ruining Seany’s day.”

&n
bsp; The match is heated, but who holds the advantage?

  A brand new STANDALONE from Rachel Blaufeld with a quick trip back to Hafton U., featuring a cameo from the guys in Vérité.

  Juliette Smith, star tennis player, is starting over at a new university. Traumatized by hazing at her last school, all she wants is to attend classes, win tennis matches, and be left the hell alone. She should have known her coach, Drew King, would be a problem from the moment he flexed his sexy-as-hell forearms. What happens when you mix a pissed-off woman with a bunch of snooty teammates and a hot coach? A heated match, complete with team politics and a forbidden game of singles with the coach.

  It’s reckless and hot until one of them taps out.

  Unable to admit she may be better off as a double, Jules is convinced she needs to play the game of life alone. Then life throws her a lob and she runs smack into her past. Coach King is back, and he wants to take control of the game. But she’s not certain she wants his advice when it comes to the life she’s built. The power struggle is on, but this time off the court.

  Jules

  It was a breezy day in late March. Gray clouds folded over the sky, blocking the sun. The temperature was mild for this time of year in Ohio, and sweat dripped down my back as I beat the living hell out of the wall in front of me.

  With the ball, of course.

  I’d lost track of how many forehands I’d done. Probably two hundred. My shoulder ached, and my palm was a sweaty mess from gripping the racquet. Tossing the grip into my left hand, I wiped my right hand clean on my shorts before grabbing a loose ball off the ground. Like a robot, I began punishing my other shoulder with one-handed backhands.

  “Excuse me, are you going to be using the wall much longer?”

  Looking up, I saw a guy. Yuppie, mid-twenties, slim but muscular, brown hair underneath his Ivy League hat, and a worn gray T-shirt.

  “I’m actually finished,” I replied, leaning over to snag a few stray balls and my racquet cover from the ground.

  “I didn’t mean to make you leave.” His eyes bore down on me—chestnut brown, warm, and inviting.

  Kindness radiated from him, which was something I hadn’t experienced much of recently. I didn’t know if I wanted to run from it or snatch it in my grasp and never let go.

  “It’s cool. I actually have something I need to do.” I decided on the former. Running felt safer.

  Plus, I do have something. Something I don’t want—at least, I don’t think I do. Who knows?

  My mind was like that nursery rhyme . . . five little monkeys jumping on the bed, until one fell off and hit his head, or however it went. My ideas pinged and bounced about my brain until eventually they all fell flat like worn-out tennis balls.

  “You’re pretty good.” The stranger cocked his head toward the wall, telling me he saw my earlier battle with the concrete slab.

  I shrugged. My response wasn’t exactly inviting, but he pushed on.

  “I just moved here from Boston. Do you live nearby? We could play one day.”

  It was the first conversation I’d had with the opposite sex since the incident. I should have been more exhilarated or frightened, but instead I felt nothing. Standing here talking with this guy, I felt absolutely nothing.

  “I’m working for the new tech company close to the university, app development. I haven’t met too many people,” he said, his matching Ivy League long-sleeved T-shirt stretching tightly over his chest. On paper, this guy must have been a catch.

  Except my head was as cloudy as the sky. His forthrightness and honesty did nothing for me. Most young women would jump into this white knight’s arms, but I’d learned to be cautious.

  “Um, I’m not sure,” was about all I could come up with in the moment.

  “No pressure. I go in late on Tuesdays, so I usually come over here and hit. Maybe you’ll be back next week.”

  “Maybe. I might be going back to school . . . college,” I offered without further explanation.

  “Either way, the invitation stands.”

  Mr. Ivy League opened his can of balls, slipped his Prince racquet out of its case, and began stretching. He twisted from side to side at the waist, working out the kinks in his lats, taking his racquet with him.

  “See you,” I called out when I caught a glimpse of bare skin above his shorts. Sadly, I didn’t feel a tinge of desire, or anything really.

  Walking back to my childhood home, I made a mental note to never hit at the park on Tuesdays. My high school coach had been begging me to come play, to hit a few balls or whatever. His offer was starting to appeal to me. Especially on Tuesdays.

  As I walked back into my house, a voice called from inside, “Hurry up, Juliette. The new coach will be here soon, and this isn’t something we can pass up.”

  “Okay, Mom. I hear you.”

  “I don’t think you do,” she said as she walked down the steps, a cup of tea in her hand and a smile fixed on her face. Genevieve Smith cared about two things: my dead father, and getting me educated and out.

  She’d isolated me from my peers most of my life with constant tennis lessons and tutors to ensure I did well in school, all in the hope of getting a scholarship. Then I’d squandered my first one. It was time to forget all that monkey business and move on. That’s what she’d said when she took away my phone and the small life I’d created before it all went to hell. This time around, she meant business.

  “I hear you, Mom. Now I need to shower and hurry back down, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  With my hair still tied in a messy knot on top of my head, I scrubbed myself clean—showers had become perfunctory—and threw on a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and black leggings. I dragged some mascara across my lashes, brushed through my hair, and tossed it back into a messy bun.

  I was walking down the stairs when I caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure coming up the walkway. There was a knock at the door as soon as I hit the bottom step.

  “Get it, Juliette,” my mom called from the kitchen.

  Opening the door, I was met with the exact opposite of the guy I’d just met in the park. This one was wearing dark jeans and a polo, and had longish hair, tanned skin, and the bluest of blue eyes.

  “Hi. You must be Juliette. I’m Coach King . . . Drew. I took over at Hafton last season. The tennis program,” he explained, mistaking my immediate crushing and infatuation for confusion.

  The words clogged my throat, embarrassment flushed through my veins, and I was sure my cheeks were the color of my hair. It was the basest of attractions, purely physical, something I’d definitely never experienced.

  After all, I was only twenty. That was normal, right?

  I wasn’t meant to fall like this when I was so young. Who the heck knew? My mom had certainly never prepared me for these things, or helped me navigate them. Her cold, austere parenting style was only warmed by my father when he was alive.

  “You were expecting me, right?” The coach cleared his throat and glanced at an oversized watch on his wrist.

  Underneath his bad-boys looks was quite a gentleman, no doubt the polished product of a prep school. No match for my sheltered suburban-public-school-educated upbringing.

  Kind of like California. As if that wasn’t mistake enough—signing up for that West Coast lifestyle—I was falling into some kind of blissful spell over my coach-to-be. We hadn’t even spoken more than a few words to each other, and my body was humming as a result of my indecent thoughts.

  “Um, hi,” I said awkwardly, and added a lame little wave.

  My mom picked this moment to come striding out of the kitchen, making an entrance.

  “Genevieve Smith.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”

  “Coach King.”

  We were all still crowded around the threshold, the chilly air making its way inside, which was fine because I was hotter than a fire in hell. And I should know. I’d been to hell, and I was pretty certain I didn’t want to go back.

  Unti
l now.

  “I thought the coach at Hafton was older?” Looking King up and down, my mom inquired about the older coach as if this was all about her. And like everything in my life, it was.

  “You mean Ace, Coach Hall? He retired two years ago. I helped him out for a year, and then they gave me the gig full-time. Actually, I was the one who reached out to you. I saw some kick-ass tape of Juliette playing. Pardon my French.”

  My mom rolled her eyes at his forthrightness.

  I was fascinated with King’s white smile, his biceps, and his not-so-muted attitude. Although he could have been muttering, “Blah, blah, blah,” for all I knew, and I would have been spellbound. Something naughty and oh-so-right was simmering in him, just beneath the surface, clamoring to get out.

  “May I come in?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, yes. Come into the kitchen,” my mom suggested. She offered cold drinks and left the two of us sitting across from each other at our butcher-block table.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  I want to swim in your eyes. I haven’t had a pulse since I left California . . . until now . . . with you seated in front of me.

  I felt all of those soul-infused words deep in my belly and slowly rising in my throat. Before they came bubbling out, I tamped them down.

  Instead, I said, “Sophomore status when it comes to sports. Tennis player, twenty, failure.”

  “Hey.”

  The deepness of his voice set off a ripple of lust through me. When his hand settled over mine, I stared at his calloused fingers and insanely sexy forearms. I wanted to run my fingertips along the veins and stroke his calluses with my thumb.

  “You’re going to have a second chance, and I’m going to make it happen.”

  I nodded, my gaze glued to his hand on mine. When he swiftly pulled back, probably realizing the inappropriateness of his action, I felt barren, empty, dejected. Between the chilly assault in California and my mother’s cold attitude, I was drawn to King’s warmth and kindness like it was a fireplace on a snowy day.