Playing House (Sydney Smoke Rugby)

by Amy Andrews

  She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and cry. And if they’d been a traditional couple, if they’d done this the right way round, if she was sure of how he felt about her, she could have. She would have.

  But they weren’t, and the last thing she wanted was his pity hugs, wondering if he had one eye on the door.

  She turned away, swaying as the room tilted, and he grabbed her elbow. “Let go,” she grouched as she yanked her arm out of his grip.

  “Fuck, Eleanor. You’re pale as a ghost…and there was so much blood.” He shoved his hand through her hair. “You look like you’re about to fall down. I’m not letting you go in the shower alone.”

  She eyed him. He was pale, too, beneath the olive hue of his skin, and she tried to remember that he’d been through the same thing she’d just been through. That he’d seen the blood flooding onto the crisp, white hospital sheets as well. The doctor had told her it seemed more than it actually was, but it had frightened him.

  Maybe it had been worse for him because he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. Not even take her pain. She’d felt his helplessness as a tangible force brooding and frustrated beside her, but she’d been too caught up in her own misery to acknowledge his.

  “Fine.”

  She was too tired to argue as she turned away from him, aware of him close behind as she walked, hovering closer still as she slogged up the stairs she normally took two at a time. He followed her to the en suite and turned on the shower for her as she shucked off her clothes, then sat on the edge of the bath, head in his hands as she turned the heat and the pressure up as hot and as hard as she could bear.

  The water drummed against her skin, washing away more than the blood. Washing away the crisp feel of starched hospital sheets, the soft touch of well-meaning nurses, and the stench of antiseptic which would forever remind her of the night she’d lost her baby.

  A sob rose in her throat and she pushed it down, reaching for the soap, rubbing it over her skin, wishing it was a brush so she could scrub. Scrub hard. Scrub until she was as raw on the outside as she was on the inside.

  Eleanor’s skin was red from the heat, her cheeks flushed, her head swimming when she finally shut off the taps. Bodie was there at the shower door, holding up an unfolded towel, and she stepped straight into it, pressing her forehead to his chest as he wrapped her up in it.

  He held her then, his lips at her temple, and she had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to stop from crying.

  “You tired?”

  She nodded. She hadn’t slept all night. Neither had he. Pain, anxiety, grief had kept them both awake during the hours their baby had slipped from her body. She was lucky, she supposed, that the miscarriage had been straightforward in a medical sense. There’d been blood and cramping, but she’d passed the sac as a whole—no need for an operation or admission.

  The severe pain had stopped almost immediately and the bleeding had settled dramatically.

  “Come on, honey.” He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Her energy completely sapped now, Eleanor just managed to dress while Bodie changed the sheets. She sank into them a minute later, her eyes already closing, seeking the restorative powers of sleep and the dark oblivion of unconsciousness.

  She woke some time later, her throat raw and scratchy. It was dark and Bodie was stepping into his pyjamas. Unlike last night, she wasn’t disorientated, she remembered everything.

  Immediately.

  In full, terrible Technicolor detail. Red and grey and black. Blood and pain and grief.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “How are you feeling?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s six thirty.”

  Eleanor frowned at Bodie’s pyjamas as the cloak of grief lifted and the real world intruded. “Shouldn’t you be at Henley?” With everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, his game had slipped her mind but it was front and centre now.

  The Smoke were going gangbusters and a win tonight would cement their ranking in the top four.

  “I’m not playing.”

  “What?” Eleanor sat up. “No, Bodie. You have to play. I’m fine.”

  He shook his head, tiredness etched into every line of his face. He looked awful. His designer stubble was more haggard then sexy and his hair appeared to have been the victim of much finger combing.

  “You just had a miscarriage. I’m not leaving you, Eleanor.”

  The rawness at the back of her throat grew bigger. His words shot rays of sunshine into the heavy darkness weighing her down. But he didn’t have to do any of this anymore and there was something bigger at stake. “You have to. Griff will have your guts for garters.”

  “I’ve rung Griff. He might be a hard-ass, but he does have a heart in there somewhere. I also told Ryder. He rang before to check if everything was okay and…he’s going to know soon enough anyway.”

  Eleanor didn’t care. She did care about Bodie committing career suicide. She knew how important his career was and she did not want him to jeopardise it for her sake. “I don’t care if Griff’s fine with it. You should still go.” She threw a quick glance at the clock. “If you hurry you can make it in time for kickoff.”

  “No.”

  “Bodie.” She fixed him with a glare. “There’s nothing you can do here anyway.”

  His brows drew together. “Damn it, Eleanor. It was my baby, too.” His eyes blazed down at her. “I don’t feel like playing fucking football tonight.”

  Eleanor blinked at the raw emotion in his voice. It sounded like the back of her throat felt. Tight and achy and ragged. She’d been so wrapped up in her own loss, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to his.

  That the baby had been as real to him as it had to her.

  “I just want to lay in bed with you and hold you and feel sorry for us for a bit.”

  A lump swelled in Eleanor’s throat, making it rawer still. She needed the same. She shouldn’t. The baby was gone and with it the reasons why Bodie was with her. But for now, she’d very much like to lie with Bodie and wallow in their misery.

  “I’m sorry.” She pulled back the covers beside her. “Get in.”

  He slid in, rolling them onto their sides, one big arm clamping across her belly as he dragged her back into the hardness of his chest, spooning her. Eleanor couldn’t stop the fresh rise of emotion prickling at her nose, burning at her tear ducts, clawing at her throat.

  She felt warm and safe and loved and it slayed her that she’d never feel this again. “It’s my fault,” she whispered on a sob.

  “No.” His warm breath was a gentle caress on her nape. “It was nobody’s fault.”

  Eleanor shut her eyes tight and screwed up her nose trying to hold back the tears. “In the beginning I thought a miscarriage—” Her voice broke. “It seemed like a solution to…”

  “Shhh.” He kissed her neck. “It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t. She cried then. Silently at first, trying to hold it inside, her lungs bursting, her muscles trembling with the effort.

  His lips brushed her nape, warm and gentle. “Let it go, honey.”

  A sob slipped from between her lips. Then another. Then the dam wall burst, and she lay broken and helpless in his arms, her body shaking, wracked with grief and guilt and loss. And he held her throughout, whispering and crooning. Telling her it was no one’s fault, telling her she was strong and brave, telling her he was in awe of her.

  Telling her it would all be okay.

  It was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep and for those crazy moments between consciousness and oblivion, she actually believed him.

  …

  Eleanor was awake at dawn. She stared into the darkness, her gaze locked on the weak light she could just make out through the massive windows. Her eyes were gritty, her mouth dry, her limbs as heavy as wet blankets. There was a low, dull ache at her temples to match the low, dull ache in he
r chest.

  She was utterly exhausted. Wrung out despite how long she’d slept.

  Bodie was still snuggled around her, but there was an alertness to his body that told her he was also awake.

  “You should go to training.” Her voice was croaky and talking felt like a dagger in her throat.

  His arm tightened around her. “No.” His voice sounded as rough as hers.

  “I want you to go.” Hot tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back.

  “I’m not going to leave you.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath and turned in his arms until she was lying on her side facing him. He looked as tired as she felt, and her aching heart swelled with how much she loved him. She slid a hand onto his whiskery jaw, wishing they could stay like this forever, cocooned in this bed with him looking at her like he meant what he’d just said.

  But she couldn’t buy into something like that. She was too emotionally vulnerable at the moment with her womb empty and her heart broken. She may be a romantic, but she’d always come in a practical wrapper.

  “You’ve already missed a game.” Who had even won the damn thing? “I don’t think you should try Griff’s patience anymore.”

  “Griff will be fine.” His quick, gruff denial made her heart lift a little, but his follow-up had it plunging again. “My place is here with you.”

  Eleanor felt each word as a body blow, and she fought hard not to crumple into a ball. Oh God. She was some kind of duty to him now. The miscarriage should have freed him, but instead he was going to hold on harder because it was his place.

  She loved him and he was doing what was expected.

  She forced her features into a mask of neutrality even as the wound in the centre of her chest widened. “Life has to go on.”

  He stared at her for long moments, then shook his head. “Fuck that.” He rolled away, climbing out of the bed, regarding her for a beat or two. His face was a clash of emotions. “We can still get married.”

  The urge to laugh hysterically bubbled in her chest and Eleanor made a kind of a gurgling noise as she suppressed it. Talk about adding insult to injury. She hadn’t thought she could feel any worse—she’d been wrong.

  Get married? Was he trying to hurt her? Did he honestly think it made things better? “What?”

  The room was growing light enough for Eleanor to see the clench of his jaw. “I can go and get a marriage license application today and in thirty days we can go to the town hall and be married. Just like we’d planned.”

  Her chest turned to ice. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. A quickie marriage, as much as it had killed off a little of her romantic soul, had made sense a few weeks ago, but now? “There’s no reason to get married now.”

  “No reason?” He glowered down at her. “I love you. Isn’t that enough reason?”

  Eleanor gaped at him. She’d spent a lot of time fantasising about this moment. Both in a general sense throughout her life and in a more specific sense in relation to Bodie.

  This was not how it was supposed to go down.

  There was no grand gesture, no music, no flowers. No beautiful scenery. Just a man in his underwear glowering at her as he threw down the three words she’d most wanted to hear from him. Like they were some kind of consolation for what had been probably the worst night of her life.

  Her stupid, traitorous, romantic heart leaped at them regardless. It didn’t care what bow they came wrapped in, or if there was a bow at all. But, God…she couldn’t handle this. Her stomach was knotted, her emotions pitched and rolled inside her until she thought she might throw up.

  It was everything she’d wanted. But it was all wrong.

  “Since when?” she asked. How was she supposed to believe he loved her? Loved her. When the whole basis of their relationship had been the baby?

  A baby that no longer existed?

  The horrible knowledge was like hot talons sinking into her chest. Eleanor rolled out of bed. She couldn’t have this conversation with him while he was towering over her. She needed to be strong to separate the raw emotions from reality. And her grandmother had taught her that strong women stood on their own two feet.

  “I’ve known since that night Ryder and I argued on the field.”

  God. He sounded so sincere, and she desperately wanted to believe him. But why hadn’t he said anything to her, then? Why not tell his father he loved her the other day, if it was indeed the case? “Damn it, Bodie. How am I supposed to believe that now?”

  “Hell, Eleanor…” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I couldn’t tell you then. I didn’t want you to think I was only saying it because you were pregnant. I didn’t want you to think it was because of the baby.”

  “But telling me after I miscarried our baby is okay? Are you trying to tell me that confessing your love now isn’t about the baby? Isn’t some consolation prize? Some pity statement because we’re both so…” Eleanor hunted around for a description worthy of Austen to describe their turmoil but ultimately it was Bodie’s vocabulary that inspired. “Fucked up by it?”

  “No.” He stalked toward her. “It’s not like that, Eleanor. I love you. What’s happened doesn’t change that. Nothing’s changed.”

  “How can you say that, Bodie?” A sob Eleanor didn’t even know had been building in her chest escaped. “Everything’s changed.”

  He slid his hands onto her upper arms. “Not for me.”

  Eleanor wanted to believe him. With all her heart she wanted to believe him. But she’d be a fool to let her romantic notions get in the way of common sense. Their emotions were raw and running high. She couldn’t accept his words of love. She certainly couldn’t accept his marriage proposal when they were both reeling from what had happened.

  It was too big and too much and too soon. They needed to take a breath. Not be making major life decisions mired in grief. Those things needed to be decided with clear heads.

  “I can’t, Bodie.” She shook off his hands and brushed past him. “I can’t think properly at the moment. I can’t think beyond losing the baby. I can’t…” She tunnelled her fingers into her hair. “My brain, my heart, is still back in the hospital.”

  He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry.” He crossed the distance between them and pulled her in for a long hug. Eleanor shut her eyes. It felt so right here in his arms, she never wanted to move.

  But…

  “Please,” she murmured, drawing strength from the steady thump of his heart, “just go to training. I’ve got enough whirling around in my head without stressing about you damaging your career.”

  He was damn lucky to have the distraction. She’d give anything for a major sewing project or a big muster right now.

  “Okay.” He kissed the top of her head. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  He pulled away slightly, his gaze meeting hers. “We’ll talk some more when I get home.”

  Eleanor nodded. But deep down she knew she needed to go home to Bungindally.

  …

  Waiting for Bodie to return after training was excruciating. She’d contemplated just skipping out and leaving him a note. But she couldn’t do that. Not again. Not after all they’d been through. He deserved a face-to-face explanation.

  Her ticket was booked. Her bags were packed. The freight company she’d spoken to had already come and boxed up her fabric and other purchases from the last four weeks and taken them away.

  All that was left was to wait for Bodie.

  And hold herself together.

  He was home promptly at twelve thirty, obviously deciding to ditch a post-training shower to get home as soon as possible. He was sweaty, his shirt plastered to his chest, his hair wet with perspiration as he stepped through the heavy doors. There was worry in his eyes as they met hers but he smiled and she almost lost the tight rein she had on herself.

  His smile faded as his gaze took in her bags sitting just inside the door. “Where are
you going?” His words were clipped, his jaw tight.

  “I’ve booked a flight home.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t do this Eleanor. Please.”

  The inflection on please almost undid her. “I need some time, Bodie.”

  “Take it.” He crossed to her quickly, sliding his hands onto her arms like he did this morning, his gaze boring into hers. “Have it. Have as much as you like, just don’t leave me.”

  Her belly twisted hard. This wasn’t fair. He was saying all the right things, and he was so damn tempting. Even with everything her body had been through, it yearned for him on a primal level.

  “You want me to beg?” He fell to his knees, his hands gathering hers close, holding them. “I’m not too proud to beg.”

  “Don’t.” She shut her eyes against the sight tearing her in two. Her pulsed tripped. “Get up, Bodie.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “I love you, Eleanor.”

  It should have been the right thing to say—to hear—but it was the one thing that hardened her heart. She shook her hands free of his and walked away, staring unseeingly out the lovely floor-to-ceiling windows she loved so much. “You don’t know me.”

  Not really. Not who she was deep down. If he did, he’d not have told her he loved her in a moment of high emotion. He’d not have repeated his offer of a quickie marriage in a town hall.

  “I know you.” His desolate voice came from behind her. “You’re funny and sexy and quirky and smart and you have your own business. And I took you out of your comfort zone, and you didn’t bitch or complain. You didn’t withdraw or wither. You bloomed.”

  He was right. She had bloomed. Under his blatant attraction she was more confident. More comfortable in her skin. But deep down she was still the nerdy girl with her head stuck in a romance novel spinning her dreams of a happily ever after.

  If he’d really known her, he’d know her romantic soul. He’d know she wanted the fairytale. The courtship, the proposal, asking her father’s permission, the grand wedding.