Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Frost, Sosie

  Believe me, I was counting.

  Somehow, Lachlan managed to tab out of the computer program, crash my system on a shady fantasy football site, chase a spider-turned-dust-bunny into the ductwork, and break my only non-flickering set of fluorescent lights on a wayward toss of a ball.

  “Please…” I covered my face. “Please, Lachlan. It’s after five. I’m tired. I want to go home. Can you please just take the test?”

  Lachlan grinned. Those dimples saved his ass. Scolding him was like kicking a puppy. I couldn’t punt him away. Instead, I grabbed the spritzer bottle on my desk. My office didn’t come with air conditioning in this August heat, but the ice water cooled me down. I flicked the nozzle into a steady stream and aimed for the Rivets’ most infuriating player.

  “Hey!” He ducked from the mist. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

  “This is a timed test. It establishes a baseline evaluation of your cognitive abilities—if you have any.”

  “I don’t know what you’re worried about. My head is fine.”

  Like I hadn’t heard that before. The twenty players that tested before Lachlan attempted to convince me that they didn’t need the league mandated exam. The word concussion scared them—which was good. This game was violent, brutal, and it had hurt a lot of men. I didn’t take no for an answer. I sat them down and got their results.

  This was important work. When—not if—they got hurt on the field, they could take the same test once more. We’d compare the data from both tests and assess if they’d sustained a concussion. A player could try to bluff his way back into the game, but the brain wouldn’t lie.

  I checked my watch. “If it takes you more than twenty minutes to match some shapes and remember a simple series of numbers, I wouldn’t clear you to walk down Sesame Street, let alone play in a professional football game.”

  Lachlan wasn’t listening. He spun his wedding ring across the desk. I slapped a hand over the gold band.

  “Lachlan, focus!”

  He reached for his ring. “Careful with that. You don’t know what I had to do to earn it.”

  “I’ll give it back if you concentrate. Fifteen minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  “Can’t you hook me up to some electrodes or something? Zap me with lightning?”

  “I’m Doctor Merriweather, not Doctor Frankenstein. You aren’t permitted to attend training camp without completing this exam. Do you understand?”

  He grumbled, but that got his attention. He started the test, but I stopped him before he clicked through the first series of questions.

  “You’ve misspelled your name, didn’t enter your birthday, and the answer to sex isn’t all the time.”

  “You haven’t met my wife.”

  “She must be a saint. Finish the test.”

  Lachlan typed entirely too much information into the computer, but I could edit out the dirty limerick he composed to describe his recurrent symptoms. I let him work, plopping into my chair with an exhausted sigh.

  My butt went down…but my girls popped up.

  The blouse valiantly attempted to contain my newfound assets, but my breasts had swelled to obscene proportions. Peeps in a microwave. The molehill made into a mountain range. My once lackluster credentials now intrigued my patients more than the PhD framed on the wall.

  I heaved an exhausted breath.

  Mistake.

  The middle button on my blouse had teetered on the brink of surrender all day. A pep talk at lunch and a bit of scotch tape on the inside of my shirt had bolstered its fortitude, but I’d asked for miracles.

  The straining button popped from my shirt, and a faux-pearl flung across the office to lodge in Lachlan’s ear.

  Too bad we weren’t playing golf. That hole in one might have made for a good story instead of a potential trip to the emergency room to check his ear drum.

  “Ow!” He shook his head. “I’m sorry! I’m taking the test!”

  The button dropped to the floor. I kicked it away and slapped a hand over the blouse. No need to encourage my chocolate cannonballs to blast out of my shirt as well. My new body was one hell of a battlefield, and the only person losing was me.

  My waist hadn’t changed…yet. My chest was out of control—like a Willy Wonka curse that punished me for sneaking Reese Cups for breakfast instead of Greek yogurt. Years of chess clubs, library study sessions, and medical school hadn’t prepared me for this sudden boon to my appearance.

  Sure, it was unethical to say I was a proctologist, but it had scared away the team and halted the flood of phone numbers, party invitations, and wildly inaccurate anatomical drawings.

  “Lachlan, you shouldn’t have to count on your fingers.” I rubbed my head. “There’s no math questions. It’s all memorization.”

  He buzzed his lips. “I might need to redo the test.”

  First do no harm. Do no harm. Do no harm.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the field today?” I asked.

  “Nah, still conditioning.” He yawned. “Sleep deprived though. The baby isn’t sleeping through the night yet.”

  I forced a smile.

  Uh-oh. Was it a smile? Or did I flinch?

  Oh god, he didn’t realize I was pregnant did he?

  If anyone found out, I’d be ruined.

  Then again, if Lachlan Reed couldn’t repeat a series of three numbers forwards and backwards, there was no way this Sherlock had deduced that I was pregnant. We were just making small talk. Conversations held by normal people who weren’t competing for a cutthroat, prestigious fellowship. My secret was safe, and so was my job.

  I still couldn’t believe I nearly blew this chance on the wrong man.

  Technically, I had done more than blow him.

  I restarted the test for Lachlan, but the instant his hand clicked the mouse, the laptop went black.

  He leapt away from the computer. “That wasn’t my fault.”

  I had the feeling most disasters in the Rivets organization were Lachlan’s fault.

  I clicked the mouse. Nothing. Pressed the power button. Nothing. I reached for the power cord, but I didn’t expect the snap.

  A moment of terror stilled me. Was it a rib? The heel of my shoe?

  Oh God, I wished it were my neck.

  Nope. It was my bra. The jagged slip of the underwire punched inwards. I yelped and burst upright.

  Lachlan jerked away. He tripped over the power cable, whipped the laptop off the desk, and ducked as it smashed against the floor.

  “That…might have been my fault.” Lachlan handed me the spritzer bottle. “Go ahead.”

  I gave him one squirt. “You know…you’re young. You probably haven’t had any concussions yet.”

  “Really?”

  “Would we really be able to tell a difference?”

  “Awesome! Can I go? Gotta get home and see my son.”

  “Please.” I pushed him to the door. The underwire attempted to puncture my lung, and I forced a smile. “I’ll…do your assessment later.”

  Much, much later.

  A flash from the hallway blinded both of us. The team’s photographer—Elle—came to collect her husband. She carried both a camera and her four-month old baby boy. She trusted Lachlan enough to hold the child, though I suspected she’d hook her husband to the baby leash when they ventured into a crowded public location.

  “How’d he do?” Elle tucked her camera into a converted diaper bag. Her little boy reached for the dyed red ends of her hair. “Is he healthy?”

  A man that irritating would outlive all of us. “We didn’t get very far, but I think he’s okay. He…might have some undiagnosed ADD issues though.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  Lachlan took her hand. “Let’s go, Red. I got some rookie hazing to take care of.”

  Elle rolled her eyes. “You’re hazing?”

  “Yep.”

  “So…explain to me how you got taped to the goal posts yesterday?”

  “That was an accide
nt.”

  “Right.” She poked her baby’s nose. “Say bye-bye to Daddy, Nick. He’ll probably be hogtied and stuffed in a locker tonight.”

  “That only happened once.”

  Elle thanked me, nuzzling both her baby and her husband. The two deliriously happy, wretchedly sweet, and unabashedly perfect lovebirds scampered away with their lovely family, shared smiles, and squirming baby boy.

  And that was fine.

  So I didn’t have a husband. Or a boyfriend. Or a supportive father for my unborn baby.

  I did have a killer rack and peppermint flavored burps. What more could a girl want, especially with an MD and specialization in neurology? Plus, I had been offered a fancy new office converted from my very own Ironfield Rivets’ supply closet!

  Modern day fairy tale, right?

  I retreated to my office and closed the door. My laptop rested in shards on the floor. The fellowship didn’t leave much in the grant for new computers, but it was better to ask for forgiveness than to tell the organization I was three months pregnant.

  Even if I denied it for a long as I could.

  It’s not a pregnancy. It’s heartburn.

  It’s not morning sickness. It’s a two-and-a-half-month flu.

  That’s not a baby in the sonogram. Just a friendly, neighborhood tapeworm.

  At least I had a bit of privacy to fix my bra now. The damn thing mutinied under my shirt, and I struggled to unlatch it before the straight-jacket permanently embedded in my skin.

  The cracked underwire had shredded through my blouse. The material, already stretched too thin courtesy of my freed jubilees jiggling their way to freedom, ripped from arm pit to sleeve. The bra tangled in what remained of my shirt. I gritted my teeth and tugged.

  Nothing.

  Twisted.

  Nada.

  How the hell had it knotted in my blouse? I’d earned a goddamned doctorate neuroscience…and I got tangled in my own bra?

  “And I’m supposed to bring a child into this world.” I bundled my shirt and curled my hand through the sleeve. “Even a baby will squirt outta me easier than this.”

  I gave it one good heave. The blouse ripped and my bra snapped. The strap adjustor pinged me in the face.

  “Ouch!”

  Whoever knocked thought my yelp was permission to enter. The door swung open.

  “Doctor Merriweather, is it possible—”

  The Rivets’ head coach paraded into my office, halting his steps to watch as I groped under my shirt and struggled to stuff the unruly parts of me back into place.

  “Oh!” I spun before I flashed the coach with more than just my cookies. A carefully crossed arm hid the chocolate chips. “Coach Thompson, I didn’t hear you…”

  He wasn’t alone.

  And in the briefest of moments, I recognized the man he led within my office.

  This. Wasn’t. Happening.

  It couldn’t be him.

  Coach Thompson cleared his throat. “Doctor Merriweather, do you have time to complete one more examination? We’re ready to sign his contract, but first he needs to be medically cleared to play.”

  I turned.

  Coach Thompson presented me to the most gorgeous man I had ever seen.

  Jude Owens.

  My step-brother’s best friend. My first, last, and only real crush of a lifetime.

  I knew awkward moments. I’d lived my life through a series of minor embarrassments—like waving hello at someone who meant to greet the person behind me or bashing into a door marked pull instead of push. Every day was another opportunity to drop a full cup of Starbucks on the store’s floor, and I usually met that challenge head-on. Even this was a little cruel for fate.

  “Jude Owens,” Coach Thompson introduced us. “I’d like you to meet Doctor Aurora—”

  “Hello, Rory.”

  Jude’s smile twitched into a glint of confidence, that suave composure he mastered when we were young. I fell in love with him when I was ten. Almost twenty years later, my stomach still fluttered in his presence.

  He surveyed my impromptu office with the lone degree on the wall. His voice—that mixture of quiet poise and rugged masculinity, riveted me in place.

  “Or should I call you Doc now?”

  “You can call me whenever—uh, whatever you want.” My tongue twisted as I greedily licked my lips. “How…how are you?”

  Jude smiled once more. “Feeling good. Ready to play.”

  No lie. Jude looked better than he had in years—proud, refined, and he’d dressed in a suit. A handsome man in formal dress had always been my Achilles’ heel—just the place for Cupid’s arrow to strike. Men in pads and jerseys didn’t do it for me anymore, probably because my step-brother played defensive end for the Atwood Monarchs. But a suit?

  Jude filled out the material with solid muscle, not shoulder pads. The jacket obscured his broad shoulders and thick arms, but the fine silk still bulged and stretched where he flexed. He’d never been bulky, preferring lean muscle, agility, and speed to mark him as one of the best running backs in the league. He only appeared stronger now, even taller. But maybe that was because I lost myself in the gun-metal grey of his eyes.

  The old league veteran hadn’t changed a bit. Even his dark hair, the waves that fell to his shoulders, hadn’t grayed. It gave him a youthful appearance, especially tucked into a neat, low ponytail.

  At least when I swallowed my tongue, I’d have a pretty good chance of throwing it back up.

  “So. Jude.” Even his name seemed like a naughty secret. “I didn’t know you were signing with the Rivets. I…didn’t know you were coming back to play at all, after what happened.”

  “I’m fully recovered.” Jude had the decency to keep his eyes upwards, unlike Coach Thompson.

  Cool air brushed my skin. It felt good over the embarrassed heat that suffocated me. Good thing I shared my father’s dark complexion. At least I couldn’t humiliate myself by turning pink.

  I crossed my arms—tight, tight, tight.

  Coach Thompson nodded and flashed me a smile. As usual, it made my skin crawl, but apparently that was common sentiment around the league. His reputation as a cheater preceded him, but I didn’t care how he planned to steal his victories. I only wanted to protect the players from concussions and head trauma.

  “I’m glad you know each other,” he said. “This should go nice and easy. Doctor Merriweather, we need Jude cleared to play. Call my office once the exam is done. And Jude…” They shook hands. “Tomorrow morning, come in early to sign the contract. We’ll have you on the field with the team for AM Drills.”

  “Excellent,” Jude said. “Thank you, Coach. I look forward to it.”

  I stiffened, but the prickle of dread wasn’t the metal claw of my bra digging into my skin.

  Jude wanted to play football again? After his last concussion? Was he insane?

  Coach Thompson left us, closing the door behind him. Just me and Jude now, with nothing but a broken, unlatched bra separating me from absolute mortification.

  “So…” I said. “You’re here?”

  Jude took off his suit jacket and wrapped it over his arm. The white dress shirt tucked into the trim waist of his perfectly creased trousers. Too bad I was only looking at the shadow of a particularly interesting bulge.

  “I’m here.”

  My eyes darted up. “It’s great to see you.”

  “Gonna give me a hug? It’s been what? A year?”

  I forced a smile, but my eyebrows danced a far more panicked twitch. “Felt like an eternity without you.”

  I leaned in close, shrugging as I attempted to fix the bra pinching off circulation to one very important nipple.

  Why did he have to smell so good? A blending of earth and grass and spice.

  “You look great,” I said. “How are you feeling—?”

  I tried to pull back but couldn’t move. Jude twisted, and the jagged bit of underwire poking from my bra latched onto him like the material was made of
superglue, magnets, and the endless criticism of a disappointed step-mother.

  Why haven’t you found a man yet, Aurora? Why are you specializing in neurology? I wouldn’t waste a year of my career on this fellowship.

  I couldn’t find a man because I was a ridiculous, pregnant disaster, and hopefully studying neurology with this fellowship would eventually find a cure for terminal awkwardness. None of this helped me dislodge myself from Jude’s arms.

  “Hold still—” He grimaced.

  “Oh, wait. Hold on—”

  “I think we’re attached.”

  If only. “I’ve always had a special bond with you.”

  “Your…uh, bra is…”

  Going to be an effective noose for later? Yep. “One sec…”

  I turned. He ducked closer. The wire slipped.

  And my elbow clocked him on the side of the head.

  Down went Jude Owens, the greatest crush and curse of my twenty-nine years of life.

  The bra sprung free, tumbling onto his lap as he sat on the ground. Oh, hell. He could keep it. He’d earned it.

  Maybe this was all a dream. I’d click my heels three times and wake up with the ruby slippers jammed in my mouth. Or maybe I’d wear them while I begged the wizard for a functional brain, a non-palpitating, lovesick heart, or a goddamned backbone so I could finally tell Jude how I felt about him.

  “I am so sorry.” I knelt beside him on the ground.

  “Guess I’ve fallen head over heels for you, Doc.”

  “Elbows over ass is more like it.”

  He rubbed his head, shaking away whatever cobwebs I struck loose. There couldn’t be too many. Jude’s brain had been battered, bruised, and bombarded with his last injury. It was a miracle he was even walking, let alone thinking of playing another season.

  Jude plucked my bra from his lap and smirked. Of course the lacy material would be harlot red. Something sultry, sexy, and the only thing that had still fit. It was better suited for a naughty nurse fantasy than a struggling resident completing her fellowship.

  He handed me the bra. “Isn’t the patient supposed to strip for the doctor?”

  “I’ll put some music on.”

  “Good thing Magic Mike was the only movie ever on in the hospital.”