by Layne Harper
I let Pancho out, and then make my way into our bathroom to change. It takes me just a second to spot the dry-erase marker on my mirror. Ha! He must be feeling guilty for being an asshole.
Then, I read what he wrote. “P.S. The Mercedes dealership was given firm instructions that the car cannot be returned, so don’t get any ideas.”
“Bastard,” I mumble under my breath as my lips quirk up into a smile.
“P.P.S. Christen it before the baby arrives. Notice not a question.” Then he drew a damn smiley face.
I throw my hands up in the air. I’ve been beaten at my own game. Except if he thinks that I’m getting rid of my cute little red Mercedes, he’s got another thing coming. I’ve decided to refer to the new tank as the baby’s car. Whomever is lucky enough to chauffer our child can drive it. Ha! That should be a good fight when football season is over.
Chapter Five
Colin
Chaos bombards my mind. All I can see is a swirl of whites, greys, and greens. The roar of the crowd is so deafening that I can no longer distinguish a single word; all I can hear is high-pitched yelling. I sink down to the aluminum bench and shut my eyes, dropping my head, fighting desperately to get a hold of myself. There’s a camera trained on me right now, capturing every movement that I make. There always is. Even that realization doesn’t shake this off. I just need a fucking minute.
Someone puts a baseball hat on my head. I don’t bother to look up and see who it is. There seems to be a constant sting of slaps on my back and shoulders—I barely feel them. They just magnify the chaotic, out-of-control feelings threatening to overwhelm me. I don’t deserve this. Just getting Charlie back and having her pregnant with our baby was enough. I can’t have all of this goodness. When I do open my eyes, I focus on my right leg. What a fucking crazy fourteen months. I would like to say that I never doubted getting to this moment after the “break seen around the world,” but that would be a lie. Oh! I’ll probably say exactly that when there’s a microphone shoved in my face.
This is so surreal. I’ve dreamt of this moment since I knew that I was better-than-average at throwing a football. I envisioned this moment a million times in my head. But, never, ever did I have even a fraction of a clue of how amazing it could be. I just threw the Super Bowl winning touchdown. Little boys across the country pretend that they’re doing just that daily. I actually did it.
“McKinney, come on. They’re about to present the trophy. They need you,” one of the assistants yells to me. He’s the one who I asked to keep my ring for me. If we actually did win the Super Bowl, I didn’t want to hold the trophy without wearing my wedding ring.
I pick my head up and nod, stretching my left hand towards him. He unzips the pocket on his athletic pants and fishes out my wedding ring. I slide it on with a pang of sadness that Charlie can’t be on the field with me right now.
Standing up, I slip a T-shirt that someone hands me over my sweat-soaked jersey. A camera follows me through the crowd of players, staff, cheerleaders, reporters, fans, maybe—I’m not sure. Who the fuck are all of these people? I feel like a fighter being escorted through a rabid crowd to the boxing ring. Shouldn’t “Eye of the Tiger” be playing?
I make my way up the steps of the platform that’s been assembled rather quickly where the commissioner of football is waiting, our team owner, president, GM, Coach, offensive and defensive coordinators, Ty – my best friend on the team, a couple of my receivers, my center, and a couple of the guys on defense.
Apparently, they’ve been waiting for me to begin the presentation of the trophy. The reporter asks me a question first. “Tell me, Colin, what does this win mean to you?”
I smile at this question. “What a season.”
Cheers and screams bombard my ears. This has been as close to a rags-to-riches season as possible. We struggled early on. My leg wasn’t one-hundred percent starting the season. I didn’t have total confidence in my line to protect me. My receivers didn’t have faith that I was going to get them the ball. But every game we got better. Every Sunday, we seemed to gel more as a team. When offense was struggling, defense stepped up. When defense was getting their asses handed to them, offense became resolved to just have to score more points. Perfect season this was not. Hell, we were a wild card team going into the playoffs. No, the season wasn’t pretty.
But we found a way to win. The boys standing next to me up here, and the ones whose faces I can see in the crowd played their fucking hearts out. Around week seven it was decided; this is our year, and not finding a way to this spot wasn’t an option.
Fortunately, all the following questions go to Coach and the suits. I look around me as they speak, trying to absorb every last detail. The enormity of the moment slams into my chest. Less than fifty times this trophy has been presented. We’re bringing it home to Dallas. For the city. For the fans that have stood by me for so many years, and those that haven’t. This is for those who’ve booed when I’ve jogged onto the field. This moment is for every one of my football coaches growing up who donated their time to us boys. This is for the middle school and high school coaches who believed in me, and spent extra time that they weren’t paid for because they saw something special. Fuck. This is for my parents, who’ve come to my games, worn my jersey, who’ve believed in me when I didn’t have faith in myself. This moment is for Charlie, and our baby, growing in her stomach. Our baby’s daddy is a Super Bowl champion. That thought makes the smile already on my face that much larger.
I’m knocked out of my own head when Coach is hitting me on the back and beaming at me like, well, a guy that just won the Super Bowl. “Get your trophy, son, you deserve it.”
I look around and see the MVP trophy. What? They’re giving it to me? I played a great game. My numbers were good, but what about the amazing run that Ty had? He deserves this more than me. I mean, he did, like, gymnastics and shit to get into the end zone.
I take a couple of shuffle-steps back to the microphone, and stand there with a cocky smile on the outside with a world of doubt on the inside. When they hand me the trophy, I hold it up above my head for everyone to see it. Giving it a couple of pumps into the air. The cheers are deafening, so everyone must agree that I deserve it. Right?
The reporter starts asking me questions about different plays of the game. I handle those like the professional that I am. Then he blindsides me with, “After last year’s season-ending injury, and devastating end to your perfect season, just how much does this mean to you?”
It takes everything that I have to not let my eyes leak on worldwide TV. What does this mean to me? What does this mean to me? What the fuck kind of question is that? “It means everything to me. Everything. Tonight is what we play our whole careers for. It’s why we sweat our asses off in training camp, and spend late nights watching film. It’s why we leave our families. It’s why we do that one extra rep in the weight room. This is only possible because of the incredible guys that surround me on the field and the support that I have at home.” The whole time that I’ve been standing up here, I’ve been thumbing my ring. I hope Charlie’s watching this, and she sees my gesture of love and appreciation to her.
“So Colin, Chevy is giving you a Corvette. Does that mean that Big Bertha will get garaged?”
I smirk. “I think Bertha is a permanent member of the Cowboys’ family.” The crowd erupts in more cheers. Bertha is now a legend. The station that carried the Super Bowl hauled her to Miami for promotional appearances. Ford, who Bertha and I endorse, nearly lost their minds at how much free publicity the old girl was bringing them. Charlie just shook her head, but I reminded her that we’d saved enough money from my sponsorship deals for her marble countertops in the kitchen, and the Viking stove.
Finally, after what feels like hours, the ceremony is over. We walk into the locker room, where the celebration is just beginning. There’s more interviews, a press conference, coach’s team meeting, and champagne is flowing freely. I finally get a shower about three hours later, or maybe fo
ur. Hell! It could be next week, for all I know. While the guys are partying it up, I slip out of the locker room to go find my girl.
Turning on my phone is an assault to my senses. I ignore the pings of hundreds of congratulations texts and voicemails.
Me: Are you at the owners’ party?
I stare at the phone, hoping that she’ll respond and not already be asleep. I mean, I wouldn’t blame her. She is thirty-seven weeks’ pregnant, but I need to see her more than I need to breathe at the moment.
After a few minutes…
Charlie: Congratulations my love. I’m so proud of you. No. Everyone is back at the hotel, waiting to hear from you.
Me: I have to go this party. Do you feel like joining me?
I feel like the biggest dick-bag for even asking her. She’s been having practice contractions. I know she’s exhausted. These last weeks have been brutal on us. After winning the NFC title, I don’t think that I’ve actually spent more than a total of five hours with her in two weeks.
Charlie: I’ll meet you there.
Thank God she said yes. The relief is so strong that I sag against the nearest wall, finally letting my emotions overtake me. Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback.
I climb on the bus with the other guys and head to the club, counting down the minutes until I get to see her, and our baby growing inside of her. The need to touch her soft skin and kiss her lips is overwhelming. I fiddle with my ring, to try to rid myself of my nervous energy. It doesn’t help.
I need to physically know that she’s okay. My little guy needs to kick my hand. I’ve got to stop thinking of the baby as a boy. Jamie and Brad have been taking care of Charlie, but fuck, I’m glad that this is over. It’s my turn. I need a timeout with my wife before I meet this kid.
The club is blasting music so loudly that we can hear it through the bus’s windows as we creep closer through the millions of cars crammed on Ocean Drive. We’re treated like rock stars as we walk from the bus, down the red carpet, and through the very large gold doors. Ty yells in my ear, “Someday, people will be yelling like this for my mad guitar skills.” I smirk at him. My friend, who’s a rock star when he’s not my running back is really something else. I try to smash down his Cowboy-blue Mohawk, but he swats my hand away.
“Don’t touch the do, bro. This took me a good ten minutes with Hard Up Gel.”
I just shake my head, and flip him off.
Some of the players are already here. The place is packed. I’d gotten a text from Jamie that my family was in a VIP room on the second floor. I head for the stairs, noting that I look like I should be going more for a run on the treadmill than in one of the most exclusive clubs in Miami.
When I round the corner at the top of the stairs, I see Carter standing next to another shiny gold-painted door. We fist bump a quick congratulations as he opens it for me.
Before I can thank him, my family and friends surround me, yelling their congratulations, and hugging and kissing me like we’re at a reunion. My mom nearly climbs me to reach my neck. She’s crying, and I smile and hug and kiss her back. My dad gives me a tight hug, and whispers how proud he is of me. Charlie’s dad shakes my hand. Carmen kisses my cheek. Charlie’s mom wipes tears from her eyes, and pulls me tightly to her. They’re all so excited for me, and I love them for it.
But, I want my girl. I can see over the crowd that she’s sitting in the corner on a red-velvet bench, with her feet propped up on a metal folding chair. She looks like a dream. Her black V-neck sweater just shows the tops of her more than ample cleavage, and is straining to cover her rounded abdomen. Her caramel-colored hair is loosely braided, and resting on her left breast. Lucky hair. She looks serene. Our eyes lock—green to lavender—and her lips turn up into an innocent smile.
Dear God, I need her this moment. She knows what I crave. She’s waiting for me to come to her on my terms. She knows that I don’t like all the hoopla after games. I just need to be. I watch her right cheek pull up in a slight half-smile as she pats the bench next to her. Her wink is saying, “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be right here.”
I’m ready now. I make a loud announcement, thanking everyone for their love and support. Then I ask all of my guests if they’ll wait for us downstairs in the club. I turn, and watch impatiently as they file out of the VIP room, spinning my ring again. Once they’re gone, I step outside, and ask Jamie and Carter to make sure that no one enters the room.
As I walk back inside where she’s waiting for me, the door slams shut on the rest of the world. I hear silence for the first time in two weeks. The thump, thump, thump of the base becomes white noise. No one is yelling my name, or demanding a piece of me. Paparazzi aren’t attempting to catch a picture of me doing something embarrassing. No one is asking me if I’m the father of Charlie’s baby. Fans aren’t demanding autographs or pictures. It’s quiet, and peaceful. I’m with my wife, who asks nothing more of me than to support and love her, just as she is.
I walk to the bench slowly drinking in the sight of her. Her eyes travel all over my body, tenderly inspecting me for injuries. She grimaces when she spots the painful bruise near my surgery-incision scar on my right leg. I smile, trying to reassure her that I’m okay.
When I reach her, I lean down and let my lips feel her swollen, soft, cherry colored mouth. She tastes of vanilla sweetness and Charlie. It’s so intoxicating that I’m afraid my knees are going to buckle, so I collapse next to her on the bench—the spot that she indicated earlier is mine.
She doesn’t say a word. She just lets me use her like she knows that I need at this moment. I explore her mouth gently with my tongue, savoring being this close to her. My mind floods with all that is Charlie: her smell, her taste, and the moan that she makes when I nibble on her bottom lip. The known is so comforting. I cling to it, as the rest of my life is chaos.
Breaking our kiss, I lean down to her swollen stomach, raising her thin sweater and tucking it under her bra. Her abdomen is fuller than when I last saw it. It’s beautiful, breathtaking actually. Her body is able to expand itself like this to hold our child.
The skin is smooth, and stretched to the maximum limit across her abdomen. Her belly button is now flat, just slightly protruding, and there’s a faint brown line that runs from it to her pubic bone. Sexiest damn thing that I’ve ever seen.
I plant tiny kisses, starting at the top of the roundness exploring the stretched, taut skin with my lips and tongue. Our baby moves toward me as if he’s following my trail of kisses in his warm, safe spot. Then, the baby moves, and pushes with force against my nose. I look up at Charlie who’s staring at me with soft eyes and a glowing complexion. Love and happiness dance across her beautiful face.
“I think that was the baby’s bottom that got you.” She smiles. “I’ve been feeling a lot of arms and legs in my ribs lately. I also know that our little guy’s been sitting on my bladder.”
I look back at her stomach, watching our baby move just underneath her skin.
“The baby would get particularly excited with lots of movement when you’d score. I’m sure that I’m going to be sore tomorrow from the battering that the bean put me through.” She shares this with me as her fingers work through my matted curls.
All I want to do is be alone with her right now, in our bedroom. I want to be inside of her and fall asleep that way. Instead, I’m in a nightclub, after the biggest game of my career, listening to the bass line change.
As if she can read my mind, she says, “Just a couple more days of this, and it can be just the two of us before we welcome our child.” It’s uncanny how well she knows me.
I need her more than oxygen, food, and water. I need some alone being time with just her. I need her naked and pressed up against me. I need to taste her and hold her. God, I just need to sleep next to her again, and wake up with her warm heat cocooning me, her leg thrown over my hip. I need to be the one who cares for her, instead of Brad.
My eyes drift closed as her long fingernails massage my sku
ll. I lay my head on her swollen stomach, inhaling her scent, which is honey and almond-butter from the lotion she rubs on her body, trying to prevent stretch marks.
“How are you feeling?” I ask in a raspy voice.
Her soft chuckle makes her belly dance under me. “Well, strangely enough, half the men here were wearing your cologne. Great for your sponsors, terrible for my nausea. As long as I stayed out of the crowds, I was fine.”
Poor Charlie. All of our Christmas shopping this year was done online because she couldn’t step foot in a mall. The cologne company has been pimping both the old and new scents because of our winning season—trying to capitalize on my success. It’s been great for our bank account/Lake Somerville house fund, but terrible for her body.
“Hopefully, it’s almost over, baby. And the contractions?”
“Still practicing.” She removes her hand from my hair, and tilts my chin up so I can see her face. In a more stern voice, she chastises, “Quit worrying. I’m fine. The baby is fine. I’ve taken good care of us while you’ve been gone.”
“I know that you have. I’ve just missed you so fucking much.”
“It was worth it. You’re a Super Bowl-winning quarterback and MVP. You know that there’s no one who’s happier than me. There was no place that I wanted to be more than on the field with you.” She pauses as her eyes dance. “I saw you were wearing your ring.”
I raise my left hand to her mouth, and she kisses the ring that she had made for me. The gold from her original engagement ring when I used to propose to her every single day. She ultimately asked me to marry her, and now, I see how perfect it really was to have worked out that way. “I wanted you to know that I was thinking about you.”
“Always, baby,” she confirms as I kiss her very simple infinity wedding band that I had made just for her.
“Go make your appearances. Do what you need to do. I’ll be waiting at home for you tomorrow. ’Kay?”
