The Jock

by Jaid Black

  Sam drew in a breath to steady his nerves. In the hour since the police detective had left, there had already been several moments when he’d silently wondered if he had made the right decision by letting the white sedan get away rather than chasing it down. Sam’s only thought at the time had been to make sure Gwen was unhurt. Deep down he realized that he couldn’t have done anything else, but the vengeful part of him wished he’d followed the sedan. “I don’t want you goin’ anywhere alone until this guy’s caught, Gwen.” He slashed his hand tersely through the air. “End of story, no discussion.”

  Gwenyth merely patted his hand and nodded—a gesture Sam had come to realize meant his wife was humoring him. His gaze narrowed. “I’m serious Gwen.” He threw his hand toward Harry and Monique. “Don’t try to coddle me like she’s doin’ to your brother.”

  Harry opened one eye and scowled at Sam. “She is not coddling me,” he bit out.

  Monique ran her fingers through Harry’s silky light-brown hair until he closed his eye again, purring his contentment. “I never coddle him,” she insisted stiffly, blushing all the while. “It’s just that Harry’s is a very delicate soul and he needs to be treated accordingly.”

  Sam lowered his eyes to the ground to keep from laughing. That Harry was over six feet tall and thickly muscled, no doubt outweighing Monique by close to a hundred pounds, gave her impassioned plea an ironic ring to it.

  “Delicate?” Harry’s eyes flew open in alarm. His masculinity clearly affronted, he grabbed Monique’s slight wrist and frowned. “I am a man. I am not delicate. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

  Monique smiled wistfully, apparently a pro at dealing with the senator’s reactions. “I didn’t mean physically, Harry, and I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” She gently released her wrist from his tight grip and continued her fussing. “It’s just that I know how much you care for Gwen and how frightened you were for her.” She sighed dreamily. “It’s your heightened sensitivity that makes you the perfect man to represent Florida in Washington.”

  Appeased, Harry grunted. He closed his eyes again and allowed Monique to work her magic on his temples and scalp.

  With an amused shake of her head, Gwenyth decided not to comment on the spectacle the pair made. Monique was going to have to realize for herself that Harry would never notice her as a woman until she stopped mothering him. Gwenyth just wished she could be a fly on the wall the day her brother finally did realize it.

  Turning toward her husband to meet his disgruntled gaze, Gwenyth smiled reassuringly. “I wasn’t trying to placate you, Sam. I was merely being supportive.” She rolled her eyes with a chuckle and amended her statement. “Okay, maybe I was trying to placate you, but unless they catch this guy tonight, it’s going to be impossible for me to keep an escort at all times.”

  “You’ll manage.”

  Gwenyth shook her head with a sigh. “What about work?”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “And you plan to stay, to watch over me for the length of an entire shoot?”

  Sam shrugged dismissively. “That goes without sayin’.”

  Gwenyth was about to comment on the implausibility of that plan when Candy yelled from the vicinity of the kitchen that dinner was ready. She patted her husband on the knee before taking to her feet. “We’ll talk about this later, Sam.”

  Sam smiled sweetly. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

  Gwenyth narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you trying to placate me?”

  “Nah, baby, I’m just bein’ supportive.”

  * * * * *

  It took all of an hour into the following day’s photo shoot for Gwenyth to rapidly tire of her husband’s brand of support. The Prima Don modeled swimwear one time and suddenly he knew her job better than she did. Annoyed, Gwenyth gritted her teeth as she watched her husband make suggestions to the male model she was photographing for a New York based men’s underwear line. Making matters worse, it was apparent that her model Claude was actually paying attention to her husband’s idiotic advice.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” Sam reasoned aloud as he rubbed his chin and regarded Claude. “You’re thinkin’ that the women who read this catalog will want to see more of you, not less of you, but there’s where you’re wrong C-man.” Sam propped his leg up on the chair next to Claude and impaled him with his icy blue orbs. “Leave somethin’ to the imagination is what I’ve always said.” He splayed his hands at his sides. “Kinda like a family motto.”

  Thoroughly exasperated, Gwenyth rolled her eyes. It couldn’t be more obvious to her that Sam was jealous of the younger model. His possessiveness apparently taking over what was left of his brain, his only thought was to keep the perfectly honed man fully clothed in his wife’s presence.

  “But Mr. Tremont,” Claude stammered out, “if I wear my blue jeans, how will anyone know what the underwear beneath it looks like?”

  Gwenyth folded her arms under her breasts and smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Yes, Claude, a fine point you’ve made.” Blinking sweetly, she gestured towards her husband. “Sam?”

  A muscle in Sam’s jaw ticked, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of defeat. “You see, this is where you’re both wrong,” he ground out. “It won’t matter a lick to the readers. It will only heighten their curiosity, makin’ them wonder what the ‘Georgie-Boy G-string’ really looks like under the jeans.”

  Claude seemed to consider that notion, albeit briefly. “But I think George Finklestein from Georgie-Boy Underthings wants photographs of his wife’s creations.” He smiled brightly. “She’s already a sensation in Europe, you know.”

  Sam gritted his teeth in an effort to stop himself from wrapping the damned g- string in question around Claude’s throat and wrenching it tightly. “What does George Finklestein know ‘bout what women want to see?” he roared belligerently.

  Gwenyth raised a regal brow. “His underwear line was voted #1 by women readers in five different magazines last year.”

  Sam deflected that comeback with a wave of his hand. “What do women know ‘bout what they want to see?”

  Huffing, Gwenyth decided that enough was enough. “Out.” Glowering at her husband, she pointed toward the studio door. “Now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, Sam.” She implored him with her eyes. “Let me finish my job here so we can go home and celebrate Christmas Eve with the family, okay?”

  Muttering something about stay-at-home wives and what a man really needs, Sam finally relented with a begrudging nod. “Alright,” he growled, “but make this quick. And Claude!” he snapped.

  “Sir?”

  “Make sure you keep the family jewels in the safe deposit box.”

  Chapter 20

  Christmas Eve had always meant food, family, and friends at the Jones estate and this Christmas Eve was no different. Willy and Verlene hosted a holiday dinner that could put Martha Stewart to shame. Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, collard greens, yams, cakes and pies—they had it all.

  And again as always, each of the grandchildren brought a guest with them. Harry brought Monique, Gwenyth brought along Candy, and Sam invited Marc. The eight of them gathered around the dining room table, and after Willy said grace, they proceeded to eat until they were all close to busting at the seams.

  Sam, who had looked forward to Christmas Eve dinners with the Jones’ since he was a kid, had an even better time of it this year than he’d had back then. Perhaps it was because, as an adult, he was now better able to appreciate the close-knit family gatherings. Or perhaps it was because his marriage to Gwen made him feel as though he truly belonged here. Either way, Sam mused, it didn’t matter. What was important was the fact that they were all here, celebrating the holidays together.

  “So Marc,” Granddad Willy began as he scooped out a helping of his wife’s mashed potatoes and gravy onto his plate, “I understand you’re an accountant, son.”

  “Yes sir, I am.”

>   “Good field?”

  Marc grinned engagingly. “Monetarily, yes. Unfortunately, it’s also quite boring.”

  The guests at the table laughed. Sam gave Marc a good-natured slap on the back.

  “To be honest, Willy, Marc and I are talkin’ ‘bout openin’ up our own restaurant when my contract with the Crusaders is up.”

  Willy grunted. “Ain’t that what all retired ball players do, son?”

  Sam smiled, unashamed. “Yep. I’m thinkin’ so.” He held his hands out, palms up, as if surrendering to the inevitable. “Who am I to alter tradition?”

  Verlene chuckled. The Jones family matriarch looked radiant tonight in her red and green outfit that matched her husband’s. But whereas Granddad Willy’s holiday ensemble, which consisted of green trousers and a red tee-shirt that read, Come sit on Santa’s lap, made him look like a perverted caricature of Santa Claus, Verlene still managed to reek of elegance. “Who indeed. What sort of a restaurant are you two boys planning to open up?”

  Sam squirmed restlessly in his seat. He and Marc had only discussed the preliminaries, so he hadn’t yet mentioned any of this to Gwenyth. Sam could only hope that his wife would be supportive instead of feeling slighted in the decision-making process. He cleared his throat. “Well to be honest, this is all in the rough draft stage, but since Marc and I are both fans of archeology, we were thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ along those lines.”

  Gwenyth’s fork came to a halt halfway in between her plate and her mouth. “No kidding? You’ve never mentioned this to me before.”

  To Sam’s relief, his wife’s reaction was one of interest instead of anger. He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding in. “Like I said, Cupcake, it’s still in the plannin’ stages. I didn’t want to say anything about it until we had more to go on.”

  Gwenyth waved that statement away with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t be silly. Tell us what the two of you are thinking about.”

  Candy glanced up from the rather serious job of buttering a roll. “Yeah Sam, tell us.”

  Harry scratched his chin. He absently noted that Monique was cutting up his ham into bite-sized pieces for him to eat before he turned to Sam and Marc and inclined his head. “I might be interested in getting in on this. Lord knows I need something to fall back on.”

  Gwenyth giggled. “True. It’s not like my brother has a steady job. Every six years he faces getting the boot.”

  Sam grinned. Gesturing toward Marc, he indicated that the floor was all his. “You tell ‘em.”

  Apparently delighted with the topic, Marc proceeded to enlighten the group with an excited air about him. “It’s true that a lot of ball players open up restaurants, but those pubs tend to be sports bars. Well not us. We are going to open up a bar and grille with the theme being—are you ready for this? Dead civilizations!”

  The table grew quiet. There was an embarrassed pause before the silence was broken.

  “What are you boys sayin’? Willy asked. “The waitresses are gonna be walkin’ around dressed as pharaohs, or wearin’ togas, or somethin’?”

  “No we’re not sayin’ that at all!” Sam countered defensively. “Well, maybe we are. Is that such a bad idea?” he asked combatively.

  Gwenyth swirled apple juice around in her cup as she considered that. “Perhaps not,” she said thoughtfully. “I admit that the idea takes some getting used to, but let’s face it, part of owning a successful establishment these days comes from being able to stand out from everybody else.”

  “True.” Harry seconded that notion with a nod of his head. “The more I think on it, the more I know I want in on this.” His eyes lit up with a boyish excitement. “Even the rooms could be different themes.”

  Marc smiled, his own sense of excitement showing. “An Egyptian room, a Greek room…”

  “A Roman room,” Sam added.

  “You could build by the beach,” Candy enthused.

  “This is Florida,” Verlene gracefully intoned, “tackier things have been done.”

  Gwenyth grinned at her husband, her dimples popping out seductively. “Tourists love tacky, Sam.”

  Sam shook his head and laughed. “Believe it or not, we don’t want to be tacky. We were thinkin’ of havin’ the eatin’ rooms in different themes, but the waiters and waitresses would be dressed up like explorers, not wearin’ togas or anything like that.”

  Willy harrumphed, but admitted the idea had possibilities. “Y’all have a long while to work out the particulars, but it does sound like a plan.”

  The group talked enthusiastically about the tentative restaurant while Gwenyth worried her bottom lip. She wondered how Sam would take to the idea of fatherhood now that he apparently had other things he wanted to do when he retired. After all, she could hardly take a baby on a photo shoot. Would Sam be willing to watch their unborn child at his restaurant? Briefly succumbing to a newfound hesitancy to tell him her news, Gwenyth mustered her courage and plowed full speed ahead. “I have an announcement to make.”

  The table’s guests stopped what they were doing and regarded Gwenyth speculatively. She swallowed nervously, noting that even mousy little Monique had looked up from her rather adorable task of tucking Harry’s napkin onto his lap. Sparing the gathering one last glance, Gwenyth turned in her seat and smiled serenely at her husband. She didn’t see any point in dragging the pronouncement out. “I’m pregnant.”

  Forks clanged against plates as they dropped from stunned hands. Laughter and energetic “congratulations” rose throughout the room. But Gwenyth had eyes only for Sam. Biting down hard on her lip, she watched the expressions that passed over his face as if in slow motion. First there was shock, then surprise, and if her senses didn’t fail her, Gwenyth was certain she was now looking at elated happiness.

  “Gwen, are you serious?” Sam clutched his wife’s hand in his own and squeezed it. “We’re gonna have a baby?”

  Gwenyth nodded up and down, smiling brightly.

  “I’m gonna be a daddy?” Sam lilted out shrilly, his eyes exultant. “A father?”

  She nodded again.

  Verlene dabbed at her watering eyes, then did the same for her husband. Clutching Willy’s hand in her own, she waited to see her grandson-in-law’s reaction. It wasn’t long in coming.

  Sam jumped up out of his seat with a whoop, plucked his wife up out of hers, and swung her into his arms with a laugh. “A baby! We’re gonna have a baby!”

  The Tremonts heard the cheers and the laughter and they knew that their family and friends were nearly as excited as they were, but they had eyes only for each other.

  “This won’t get in the way of your restaurant plans?” Gwenyth asked hesitantly.

  “Are you kiddin’, woman?” Sam hooted. “My babies go where their daddy goes!”

  Tell me you love me, Sam. “I’ve made you happy then?”

  “I’m the happiest man alive.”

  But do you love me? “Really?”

  “Really, Cupcake.”

  Sam pulled his wife closer to his side as he accepted the toast Harry was making for them with a jubilant expression arresting his features. Gwenyth offered him a tentative smile in return, wishing she could feel as wonderful about this as her husband obviously was. Sam Tremont might not find anything amiss about bringing a baby into the world when he wasn’t capable of verbally expressing his love for another human being, but Gwenyth Jones Tremont certainly did.

  * * * * *

  Sam just couldn’t stop grinning. He realized he was no doubt smiling like a simpleton, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He was going to be a father, a real live, honest to goodness daddy. He couldn’t remember ever being happier.

  Sam strolled into the living room with two logs under his arms, whistling an animated Harry Connick Jr. tune. The living room was the only area of their new house that didn’t still have boxes piled up all over the place, so he and Gwenyth had opted to spend the night together in a sleeping bag before the fireplace. Sam smil
ed in anticipation of what was going to transpire in that very sleeping bag once he got the fire blazing.

  “It’s a cold Florida night tonight, Cupcake. The thermometer out back reads 42 degrees.” Sam threw the logs onto the fire and watched the flames of the already kindled wood begin to lick at the new ones. Satisfied, he turned around to regard his wife. “Cupcake?” His muscled thighs squatted down to where Gwenyth sat, staring into the flames. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  Gwenyth blinked a few times in rapid succession, as if she hadn’t been aware of the fact that Sam was in the room talking to her. Not ready to discuss her thoughts, she smiled up at him instead. “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”

  Sam didn’t buy her smooth dismissal for a New York minute. Grunting, he reached out for her small hands and warmed them with his two large ones. “Don’t give me that, Gwenyth Marie. Now tell me what’s botherin’ you.” Suddenly worried that she didn’t want to carry their baby, his throat went dry. “You do want to have our little one, don’t you, Gwen?”

  Gwenyth snapped out of her dismal thoughts and scowled at her husband. “Of course I do!”

  Sam released an audible breath. He was glad to hear his wife’s heated denial, but he also wanted to get to the bottom of whatever it was that was bugging her. “Baby, you’ve been quiet ever since you announced the fact that you’re pregnant. What’s wrong? And don’t insult my intelligence by tellin’ me nothing because I know that’s a lie.” He squeezed her hands reassuringly, then added, “so tell me.”

  Gwenyth mentally counted to ten. She absolutely did not want to have this conversation. She did not want to tell her husband that she was worried about their baby’s emotional health before he or she was even born. On the other hand, Sam looked truly worried, and she didn’t want that either. She did love her husband, even if the stubborn man refused to acknowledge that he felt the same way about her. “Are you going to tell our child that you love it, or will you just expect it to know?” she asked quietly.