by M. E. Carter
“Hey now. Don’t make fun of me. It’s making me well-rounded.”
We settle back into our seats and back into our thoughts. It’s still really surreal being in this room with my husband, getting ready to find out more information about our baby. A year ago, I never would have expected this. Hell, six months ago, we were just dating. But here we are.
I think about how this is going to work. How much I don’t want my child to grow up in daycare. I did that. It wasn’t because my mom had a choice. My dad ditched us long before I can remember.
I don’t feel like she was never there for me. But I always thought my friends whose moms stayed home were so lucky. I’d wondered what it would be like to go straight home from school and sit down at the table with a snack and tell my mom about my day before we went to gymnastics lessons or softball practice.
Then, as I got older and became a latchkey kid, I didn’t mind being home alone. What teenager does? But I did always wonder what it would be like for my mom to make dinner for me instead of the other way around.
It wasn’t a bad life. I don’t feel like I missed out. It’s just… not what I want for my child. And I don’t know how to balance that with my passion for my job.
“Um… there’s a party this weekend.”
My eyes snap up to look at Rowen, who seems really uncomfortable bringing up this topic. “Okay. Are you wanting to go or something?”
He pulls his beanie off and runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t wear the beanie very much anymore, unless he’s trying hard to hide those flaming red locks. Today, with the news of the pregnancy being new and us not wanting to tell anyone yet, I’m guessing he’s trying to be as incognito as possible.
“It’s Funderling’s going-away party.”
I nod slowly in understanding. “Ah.”
He scratches at his scruff, still acting very unsure of this conversation. “I really don’t want to go. I don’t even like the guy and I’m glad he’s leaving. But…”
“You feel like you have to go for team unity purposes.”
“Yes,” he says in a rush. “We don’t have to go. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is. I know how team politics go. You need to show up, play nice, and pretend to give a shit so on Monday, you’re not the guy who didn’t show.”
“Yeah,” he exhales, relieved that I understand why he’s conflicted.
I stretch my back and think for a minute before saying, “I think we should both go.”
“You do?” The amount of surprise on his face is almost comical.
“Look, I hate the idea of pretending to give a shit that they’re moving to Canada or wherever, but it won’t kill us to play nice for the sake of the team.”
“I hate taking you back into that environment. After everything…”
“Rowen, stop,” I interrupt. “Yes, it will be a little uncomfortable. But I’m assuming Daniel and Quincy will be there, right?”
One of his shoulder raises like he assumes so but doesn’t know for sure.
“I’ll hang out with her. We’ll stay for an hour and then ditch them for some takeout on our way home. But be forewarned, if that bitch Jessica comes after me again, I can’t be held responsible if the contents of my drinking glass become a weapon.”
Rowen scowls at me. “This is why I don’t want to go. She better not lay a finger on you, or we’ll have some serious problems.”
I wave him off. “I’m not worried about it. If we time it right, she’ll be falling down drunk by the time we even get there.”
He hrmphs and sits back in his seat. I stretch again. My back is really hurting now, and I wish the doctor would show up.
Speak of the devil, a quite rap on the door and it swings open, Dr. Hermann making his way in. “Tiffany, good to see you.” Turning to Rowen he adds, “I’m Dr. Hermann.”
“Rowen. Nice to meet you.”
The good doc takes two quick steps to the sink where he does a quick wash of his hands. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
His smile is so genuine, he puts me more at ease, although not totally.
“I’m not sure congratulations is the right word,” I say sheepishly.
Sitting down on the chair, he grabs my chart and rolls forward. “It’s not uncommon to feel like that. Babies have a way of surprising us and showing up when we least expect them.”
“You got that right,” I grumble, Rowen unaffected by my bad mood.
“Ignore her,” my husband adds. “The sound of the paper on the table made her cranky.”
I shoot him a glare, but Dr. Hermann doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, that’s an easy enough fix. We’ll just lay a sheet down on it next time you’re here,” he says as he jots something down in the paperwork. “I see you have a new last name now too. Wow. There are a lot of congratulations in this room today. Did this happen before or after the new addition?”
“A couple months before,” Rowen answers quickly. Not that it matters to me, but I’m sure he wants to make it very clear that this was done in the traditional order. I just shake my head in amusement.
“Oh, well then I can see why this is such a big surprise. Lie down for me, Tiffany.” Dr. Hermann continues to ask basic questions about things like my morning sickness that has hit with a vengeance while he presses on my abdomen and does a quick breast exam. Rowen shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with another man touching my breasts, but he’s going to have to get over it. Dr. Hermann is about to see a whole lot of more of me over the next few months.
“Everything feels good.” I chance a glance at Rowen and try not to laugh that he clearly doesn’t appreciate the doctor’s choice of words after having his hands on my boobs. Dr. Hermann doesn’t notice as he pulls the stirrups out from under the table. “Let’s go ahead and get your feet in these so we can get a better idea of your due date. Rowen, can you hit the lights for me?”
The room goes dark as the monitor comes on.
“This is going to feel just like a pelvic exam,” Dr. Hermann warns as he holds up a thin wand with a condom over it. “Except there won’t be a pinch at the end. Just hold still and let’s take a look.”
I suck in a breath as he inserts the wand inside of me. Rowen is immediately by my side and grabs my hand, staring intently at the screen. In just seconds, cloudy shapes begin flashing across the screen as Dr. Hermann moves the wand around. Then he stops. And just one picture lights up the screen.
“And there is your baby.”
Rowen’s hand tightens around mine, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the fluttering happening inside the jelly bean. It’s such a strange picture, yet I have the oddest thought that it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
We watch as Dr. Hermann takes some measurements and notates the heart rate. All the while, I’m mesmerized by what I’m seeing. That tiny thing is going to be my baby. Our baby. I’m fascinated and excited and afraid. But mostly I’m just in awe.
“You are measuring eight weeks, three days pregnant.”
“Wow. That far along?” I ask. How could I have been pregnant for two months and never even realized it?
“That’s what the baby says.” He smiles up at me, immediately turning his attention back to the screen. “I’m estimating your due date is around August sixteenth.”
Suddenly, the screen goes blank as Dr. Hermann pulls the wand away and snaps his gloves off. Looking over at Rowen for the first time since the exam began, he looks stunned. Like he can’t believe it’s real. When I kiss his hand clasped in mine, his gaze catches mine—and he smiles. A bright, excited, overjoyed smile.
I know in that moment, this may not be great timing, but it’s exactly the way our lives were supposed to go.
“Everything looks good,” Dr. Hermann announces, standing up and washing his hands again. “The nurse is going to come in with some samples of prenatal vitamins. I want to see you in another month to check on how you’re doing, and we’ll continue on from there. So
und good?” He tosses a now wet paper towel into the trash. We nod in response, both of us still too stunned to talk. By the knowing smile that crosses his face, it appears we’re not the first couple to be stunned silent.
He claps Rowen on the back and flips on the light, giving us another congratulations and handing Rowen some copies of the ultrasound pictures I didn’t realize he printed on his way out the door.
Rowen stares at the pictures for a solid minute before looking at me, tears filling his eyes.
“I love you, mo chuisle,” Rowen breathes, his forehead gently dropping to mine.
It’s a new term of endearment I haven’t heard before. But in this moment, it’s officially my favorite.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I grumble, the sounds of what is obviously an over-the-top party already making me itchy, and we’re not even to the front door yet. Makes me wonder what all the neighbors are thinking and when they’ll be calling the cops.
Nate Funderling and his giant ego bought an overpriced condo a couple of years ago, right near Memorial Drive. Knowing what professional soccer players make, I know it was way over his budget, and I’ve always wondered how he was able to buy it in the first place.
Now that he’s moving to Timbuktu, instead of selling it, he’s renting it out. My guess is he’ll be upside down on the mortgage if he doesn’t hold on to it for a while longer. Because he’s a dumb ass. So instead of being able to unload it, he’s renting it to… hell I don’t know who he’s renting it to, nor do I care. I stopped interacting with most of my teammates beyond necessary team conversation after several of them participated in publicly humiliating Tiffany.
Posting a naked picture on social that she didn’t even know was taken, and then plastering copies all over the locker room, wasn’t just unnecessary, it effectively ruined any respect I had for several members of my team. Sure, I’ll hang out with Daniel and Christian and the happily married crowd of guys almost twice my age. But everyone else can go fuck themselves, as far as I’m concerned.
I may have gotten my even-keeled nature from my mom. But my ability to hold a grudge came from my pure-blood Irish father. Just like him, you can mess with me and I’ll probably forgive you. Mess with the love of my life? That is one bridge that hasn’t just been burned. Oh no. It’s been torched, vaporized, and the land it was built on is as toxic as Chernobyl. There is no fixing it. Ever.
That’s probably why I have such a hard time with Santos still. He never went as far as the others, but he went far enough.
All that being said, I have no idea who the fuck will live here once the Fuckerlings are gone. I don’t even know who the fuck is here now.
“It’ll be fine.” Tiffany grabs my hand and pulls me to her, her arms wrapping around my neck while I pout. “We’ll make the rounds so we’re seen. Extend our best wishes to the Fund—”
“Nope,” I cut her off. “We’re not giving those assholes our best.”
She rolls her eyes but continues. “Fine. We’ll avoid Nate and Jessica and just talk to a few people. Have one drink. Thirty minutes, in and out for appearances.”
I sigh heavily and draw her tighter to me. The feeling of her calms me, but not by much. I’m wound too tight. “Fine. But since you’re making me do this, I get to choose our position tonight.” A deep laugh rumbles through her when I squeeze her ass. “There’s this thing I wanna try involving a reverse cowgirl.”
“Hmm,” she says seductively. “Someone is turning into an ass man.”
“I’ve always been an ass man around you,” I say, smacking her on said appendage, which makes her shriek, then pulling away to walk hand in hand to the door.
Rapping on it once, Tiffany pushes it open without waiting for someone to answer. It’s like my nightmare come true—bringing my wife back into this scene.
There are people everywhere. Not just players, but the groupie crowd is in full effect as well. Scantily clad women are doing body shots off each other and some heavy make-out sessions have already commenced. I was hoping Jessica’s WAG friends would be here to deter some of the crazy, but it looks like they either left early or didn’t bother to come at all.
Grabbing Tiffany’s shoulder and squeezing, she looks up at me and smiles with resignation, her earlier bravado fading. She doesn’t want to be here anymore than I do.
“Thirty minutes,” I grumble in her ear. “Time starts now.”
“It’s the Flanigan’s!” We look up as Daniel comes barreling toward us, hugging Tiffany and then pulling me into a headlock, unlit stogie hanging out of his mouth.
“Is Quincy here?” Tiffany asks, and Daniel finally releases me, turning his attention toward her.
“Nah. Babysitter cancelled at the last minute.”
Tiffany quirks an eyebrow at him. “Uh huh. Funny how that happens every time one of these parties come up.”
He smiles and lifts his eyebrows back. “What can I say? The kid comes first.”
Tiffany just shakes her head, trying to hide her amusement. We all know it’s an excuse to not have to darken the doors of a Mutiny party. This really isn’t any of our scenes. So we chat for a few minutes about Quincy’s move and how many times Daniel has woken up with a baby foot in his face in the last week. The stories are more entertaining than they used to be, probably because it makes me wonder what my own life will be like in a year. I bite my lip, holding back a goofy grin. That would be a dead giveaway that something’s up, and I’m not ready to share this just yet.
Looking down at her, I notice Tiffany’s starting to look kind of squeamish.
“You okay?” I whisper in her ear when Daniel gets distracted by a ruckus coming from the other room. I don’t know what’s happening in there, but based on previous experience, I’m not interested in finding out.
She looks up at me and nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t mean it. “Can you see if there’s any Sprite or ginger ale. Something bubbly like that?”
“Nauseous?” She closes her eyes and nods once, leaning into me. “Do we need to leave?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I’m gonna go find a place to sit down.”
I kiss her on the top of the head and watch her push through the crowd away from me. I know she’s fine and being here isn’t that big of a deal. But I’m not too proud to admit I’m still uncomfortable with her in this situation again. Hell, with both of us in this situation again. And now even more so that my child is with us.
My child. So much for keeping that goofy grin hidden.
Heading into the kitchen, I run into the new rookie, Logan Morose. Bumped up from the farm team, he joined us just last week. That’s not a lot of time to mesh with everyone and from his body language, I’m not sure he wants to.
“What’s up, man?” I nod my head at him as I open the fridge and begin looking around.
“Not much.”
“You enjoying the party?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look up to see him running his fingers through his hair nervously. “Are all the parties like this?”
Grabbing a Shiner and a Sprite, I put the soda on the counter, so I can twist the beer top open and toss the top in the trash. “You mean loud, obnoxious, and full of drunk people?”
“Yeah.”
I take a swig and shake my head. “Nope. Usually they’re worse.”
“Really?” He grimaces. Interesting that he’s uncomfortable. And a little confusing as well. Most times the new guy is more than excited to party with the team, but not Logan.
I don’t know him well yet, but so far, he hasn’t come across as a self-righteous douche. Not in practice. Not in the locker room. And now, not here. Maybe I need to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I take it this isn’t really your scene?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I guess I should have expected it, but in the semi-pros we were all so focused on trying to get to this level, we didn’t really do… this,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“Or maybe bec
ause you were in BFE and wasn’t anywhere to do it without getting caught?”
He smiles at my assessment and tips his beer at me. “That could be it too. Or that we were in a dry county.”
I throw my hand over my mouth as I choke on my drink. “They still have those?” I cough out.
He grins. “You’d be surprised what kind of interesting things still go on in the deep South.”
“Houston isn’t deep South?”
“Not south enough,” he jokes and then sighs. “I guess I’ll get used to the culture shock eventually.”
“Nah.” I lean against the counter and cross my ankles, settling in for a few. It’s much more comfortable in here where there isn’t as much noise and you can actually hold a conversation. “No one’s gonna judge you if you never come to another one of these things. It’s not my scene either. More like a show of camaraderie. I’ve already set my timer. Just”—I glance down at my watch and back up—“twenty-five more minutes until I can convince the wife to leave.”
“I haven’t met your wife yet. Tiffany, right?” he asks and takes a swig of his own beer.
“Yep. She’s around here somewhere.” A loud ruckus coming from the living room reminds me that it’s probably not a good idea to leave her alone for much longer. As much as I trust her, these dicks are still drinking like fish, and I’d rather be next to her, just in case, than have regrets later. “Anyway”—I push off the counter and grab the Sprite—“I have a drink to deliver. But listen, a few of us who do not enjoy all this”—I gesture out to the party sounds again—“have a regular poker night. Just booze, cigars, and a bunch of trash talk. If you’re interested, I’ll let ya know next time we have one.”
The way his face relaxes, I can tell a guy’s night around a poker table is much more his style.
“Yeah. Yeah that’d be great, thanks.”
“Cool.”
We head out of the kitchen and part ways, Logan turning toward a quiet corner and me making my way through the crowd. Searching the living room and dining room, I still can’t find Tiffany. Could she have gone to lie down in one of the bedrooms?
