Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Frost, Sosie

  “I can’t fucking believe this! You? My little sister?”

  A dull thud echoed through the phone. Hopefully Home Depot sold My Sister Is An Idiot drywall to fix the hole left by Eric’s fist.

  “How the hell did you get pregnant?”

  Why was that everyone’s first question? It didn’t take a medical degree to figure it out.

  “I made a wish in a cabbage patch.”

  “Rory!”

  “No, wait. It was an Enchantress. She floated down and turned the mantle clock into a baby.”

  “I swear to God—”

  “No!” I paced my office and knocked over the folders on my desk. That lasted about a millisecond. The guilt forced me to immediately reorganize the workspace. “It’s not my baby. I got it for spinning someone’s hay into strands of gold.”

  “Don’t make me fly home, Rory, so help me God. I will leave Atwood right now.”

  “I’m collecting a lot of first-born children. Seemed more fun than stamps or football cards.”

  It wasn’t a good idea to taunt a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound defensive end, but I never let Eric blitz me before. Wasn’t about to start scrambling now.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you know!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Another slam. This time dishes in the sink—no, I knew my step-brother better than that—probably beer bottles. “You didn’t even call me.”

  “So I could get this warm and fuzzy reaction? No, thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t you give me that lip.”

  “You’re damn lucky it’s my lip and not my fist. How did you even find out…”

  I answered my own damn question. That son of a bitch.

  “Never mind,” I grumbled. “I know who told you. Jude.”

  “Yeah, Jude. At least he treats me like family. Tells me what the fuck is going on.”

  I’d kill him.

  After everything I did for him? Clearing him for practices, giving him a relatively clean bill of health, letting him sign with the Rivets.

  And he snitched on me?

  It hadn’t even been a week since I’d told him! If Jude Owens didn’t have a brain injury now, he sure as hell would have one when I got through with him.

  “Are you gonna tell Mom?” Eric asked.

  “Are you crazy? Why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

  “She’s going to lose her shit.”

  “And this is just the preview, right?”

  Eric laughed. “Oh, no. This isn’t losing my shit. I’m still holding on super tight to my shit.”

  “I can write you a prescription for that.”

  “How could you ruin yourself like this?”

  “And now you can shove it up your ass. Do you have any idea what I’m going through?”

  “No,” he said. “Maybe because you didn’t tell me! Didn’t you trust me?”

  Damn it. Of course I trusted Eric. The step before brother was just a qualifier. I couldn’t have asked for a better sibling, and I loved him like we shared blood.

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed. “Maybe I didn’t want my big brother thinking I ruined myself.”

  His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Rory. You’re not ruined. You’re going to be fine. You’re too good and innocent and wholesome and perfect—and who the fuck did this to you? This is his fault.”

  He wasn’t going to like this. “It’s complicated.”

  “How is it complicated?”

  Eric launched into another tirade—rapid fire profanity punctuated with avant garde descriptions of bodily functions. I rested a hand over my tummy in the hopes of covering Genie’s ears. She’d experience her uncle’s destruction of the English language soon enough. I only hoped her first words would be Mama and not Puss-Sucking Donkey Dick.

  I battered through his obscene rant with a sharp word. “I know it’s hard to hear, but I’m going to be fine. I can do this myself. I’ll be okay.”

  The thunking from his side of the call wasn’t the phone. I imagined it was his head. His coach and teammates would love that bruise.

  “Fine…” he said. “What can I do?”

  “Don’t tell your mother.”

  The swearing began anew. “And have her pissed at me too?”

  “I’ll tell her…eventually.”

  “How far along are you?”

  I hissed a breath. “About sixteen weeks.”

  “Christ, Rory! How did you keep this a secret for…”

  He probably counted on his fingers. It took him a second, but his new raging profanities subjected parts of the body to physical maneuvers, which, as a medical professional, sounded absolutely impossible.

  And as much as I loved to waste my lunch hour getting lectured by my step-brother, Eric was harmless.

  I was not.

  “Eric, I’ll call you later. I have a running back to castrate.”

  It was time to push up my sleeves and lace up my sturdiest pair of boots to jam up Jude’s ass. If he knew what was good for him, he would have demanded a trade to the other side of the country. The Rivets were about to see some fireworks.

  If not nukes.

  Fortunately, my fellowship promised me entirely too much power over the Rivets’ organization. I was permitted to yank any player I damn well pleased off the field. Me and Jude had a date in the locker room, and I hoped for his sake, he was wearing pads.

  But I didn’t make it onto the field. I crossed by coaches’ offices and flinched as someone called my name.

  “Doctor Merriweather!”

  Coach Thompson’s voice was the type that crawled over my skin. He couldn’t berate and insult me like he did his players on the field, but our conversations possessed a saccharine insincerity. He invited me into his office.

  And my stomach twisted into a knot fit for a noose.

  Coach Thomson settled into a chair that struggled to contain his girth. He gestured to the man joining him this afternoon—a fiend I knew all too well.

  “Look who popped by,” Coach Thompson said. “Doctor Frolla, I think you remember our little Doctor Merriweather?”

  Doctor Clayton Frolla, my chief of medicine and head of the league’s fellowship program, gave me a wicked smile. He’d hand-selected every candidate for the fellowship, personally assigning them to a team.

  I knew exactly why he had given me this job. And It wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference—especially not now.

  He might have possessed a certain charm, the confidence grey in his hair and money in his wallet afforded him. I begrudgingly accepted that he was a good doctor, deserving of becoming chief of medicine at a relatively young age. His eyes passed over me, twice, as if I wouldn’t notice his attention. He’d insisted a position would be open for me at his hospital. It remained to be seen whether it was behind a desk or bent over one.

  “Doctor Merriweather, so good to see you again.” Clayton offered his hand. I should have smacked it away. “It’s been months since I’ve heard from you. I trust the fellowship is keeping you busy?”

  I forced a smile, something cheerful, pleasant, and not at all baring teeth for a bite. “Absolutely. I’m thrilled to be a part of the Rivets this season.”

  “Good—then the team is in excellent hands. I made the right decision with you.”

  And I made all the wrong ones.

  Coach Thompson nodded. “She’s already hard at work. Doctor Merriweather took special care of the newest member of the team.”

  “Oh?” Clayton asked. “What sort of care?”

  Coach Thompson’s tone flattened. “A basic assessment. I thought it’d be quicker, but eventually we had Jude Owens cleared to play.”

  He said nothing else. I didn’t like the implication, but maybe hormones and Jude’s name set me on edge. “I…wanted to be thorough, given his previous injuries.”

  “Of course…” The coach nodded to Clayton. “But we have a lot of men on this team. No need to waste all our
time on one player.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I prefer to err on the side of caution when it comes to a player’s health.”

  “And we’d prefer no errors at all, especially on a man fit to play.”

  Clayton nodded, folding his arms. “We wouldn’t want to go looking for any trouble, would we?”

  No. I had plenty of trouble at the moment. “I was just protecting the player.”

  “My suggestion is to assess the situation, determine your appropriate response, and don’t go hunting for anything more.” Clayton smiled. It wasn’t genuine, more like a warning. “I’ve been touring every team in the league this week, checking on those involved with the fellowship. Believe me, you don’t want to get overwhelmed with one patient.”

  Coach Thompson smiled. “Use your best judgement, Doctor Merriweather. My guys are itching to play. If they’re fine, let’s get them on the field. You can check them over as you wish during practices. Probably would give you a better indication of their health that way.”

  Or it could cause any number of physical and mental problems if they weren’t healthy enough to step on the field. Clayton should have known that. A man of his position, power, and intellect should have realized when a situation required more objectivity. Then again, I learned that lesson all too late myself.

  “Let us know if you need anything,” Coach Thompson said. “We want to keep those guys on the field, right? Can’t win without our boys.”

  “Right.” I gritted my teeth. “That’s the goal. I’m going to check on one of the players now.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Not yet. “Just doing my job.”

  A job that suddenly felt a lot harder. I gave both men a smile they didn’t deserve and shut the door behind me.

  I expected this sort of resistance from the players, but the coaches? Surely they understood how dangerous head trauma could be. Concussions weren’t injuries that could be taped up, iced off, or injected with cortisone to treat. And repeated injuries had dire consequences for a player in his later life.

  Memory loss. Deteriorating motor function. Changes in personality or temperament.

  Dementia.

  Early death.

  No multi-million-dollar superstar wanted to hear how it all could end, not when the money, women, and fame rolled in. They didn’t care what happened ten years down the road.

  Jude had never cared. A shame really, since he was about to get a preview of his next concussion courtesy of my retribution. Once I kicked his butt from one side of the field to the other, he’d rather get clocked by a linebacker than deal with me.

  But practice had finished before I could grab Jude, and the players filed from the locker room into the cafeteria for lunch. I paced in the back, far away from the lunch line and whatever foul concoction they served for the day.

  It looked greasy. Smelled beefy. Dripped in tomato sauce.

  The joe wasn’t the only thing about to get sloppy.

  “Rory.”

  I spun. Bad idea. My stomach lurched, and I faced the head athletic trainer, Louisa, with a forced greeting. She plopped an apple into my hands.

  “You should eat.” She gave me a warning glance, like I was one of the players trying to get out of icing my knee or taping my fingers. “An empty tummy can make you more nauseous.”

  “Oh no.” I swallowed. Acidy. Ew. “I’m fine.”

  Louisa didn’t buy it. “Fruit is good for morning sickness.”

  My heart stuttered. “I’m…but I’m not…”

  “Oh, please.” She scoffed. “If you knew how many times I’ve heard that. Trust me. Eat the apple. You’ll feel better.”

  “It’s just—”

  “Your secret is safe. Don’t worry. You aren’t the only woman around here who’s been knocked up. A uterus is like a dartboard around the Rivets. Everyone’s aiming to hit that bull’s eye.”

  Her assessment wasn’t entirely anatomically accurate, but I appreciated the candor. I took the apple and excused myself as Jude entered the cafeteria, surrounded by his cadre of offensive weapons. I liked Jack Carson and Lachlan Reed, but I doubted they wanted to see me beat their new running back with his own cleats.

  Jude knew he was in trouble. His grey eyes brightened as I approached, and of course, that quivered me in all the best and worst ways. He held his arms out, trying to protect Jack and Lachlan from my wrath.

  “Rory? Is everything okay—”

  Louisa was right. I did need the apple. I pitched it at Jude’s head.

  At least his motor functions and coordination were in check. He caught the fruit before it applesauced in the middle of his forehead.

  “Jude Richard Owens!”

  Jude panicked. “Uh-oh.”

  Lachlan breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the one in the line of fire. Jack edged away from us with a not-so-subtle side-step.

  Jude held the apple up, over my head, as I tried to steal it back. “Rory, what’s wrong?”

  I gave one humiliating hop for the fruit before realizing my vertical jump would get me laughed out of training camp. I curled my hands into fists instead.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Jude glanced to his stunned teammates and shrugged. “…No?”

  Wrong answer.

  “One—you better be lying because two—if you’ve legitimately forgotten, your ass is on the sidelines. Permanently.”

  That silenced the cafeteria. A single tray clattered to the floor. The defensive line dove behind a stack of chairs.

  Jude cleared his throat. “Is this about…”

  “Distributing confidential medical diagnoses to unauthorized personnel?”

  Jack whistled. “Jesus Jude, what’d you do?”

  Jude ignored him. “Don’t tell me…Eric?”

  “Oh good, your memory’s back! Just in time for me to knock the sense out of you.”

  Jude took the threat seriously. He faked a chuckle. “You win, Doc. Let’s go eat, calm down, and we’ll discuss it. Hell, I’ll even take you out for lunch. Just…don’t look at me like you’re planning to cram that apple down my throat.”

  “Wrong end, Jude.”

  “Oh snap!” Lachlan backed away. “Run, Jude! Before she makes you turn your head and cough!”

  “Rory, I’m sorry,” Jude said. “Let’s go get something to eat and talk this out?”

  I wasn’t going anywhere. I grabbed the apple. “We’ll eat right here.”

  I took one bite, swallowed hard, and then ate another.

  “What do you know…” I chomped a piece too big for my mouth. “I’m full. Let’s go—”

  I accidentally inhaled.

  And the chunk of apple lodged in my throat.

  I couldn’t tell if it was karmic or divine intervention, but the bite of fruit wedged in my airway.

  Nothing like deep-throating Johnny Appleseed to let my tonsils commune with nature.

  This was bad. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t cough.

  Couldn’t smack Jude for this enchanting little catastrophe in the middle of the Rivets’ lunch hour.

  I reached for his hand.

  “I know, I know,” Jude said. “Look, I’m sorry. Are you sure you want to talk about it now?”

  Lachlan attempted to come to his defense. “Yeah. It is sloppy joe day. Kinda the best day around here.”

  Jack swooped in, elbowing Jude. “Word of advice. Go. Buy her lunch. Buy her jewelry. Just don’t piss off a team doctor. She who controls the jock strap controls life. Goes for doctors and wives.”

  Tears sprung to my eyes. I thumped my chest.

  Lachlan laughed. “And how much jewelry does Leah own?”

  “I used my signing bonus to buy a diamond mine,” Jack said. “And she wasn’t half as expensive as bribing Louisa after I’d pulled my hamstring. Christ. Feels like I’ve spent this whole fucking summer either flat on the examination table or pinned to the bed. Either way, I’m getting yelled at with my pants
down. It’s best to surrender and do whatever they want.”

  My chest ached. I tried to cough. It got me nowhere.

  Lachlan seemed sympathetic. “So no second baby yet?”

  “I’m fucking exhausted.” Jack rubbed his face. “It wasn’t this hard before.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem?” Lachlan elbowed his side. Jack gripped his arm and nearly broke his wrist. Lachlan grunted. “Or stress. It’s probably the stress.”

  I was better off running face-first into the wall to smash the apple in my throat. I beat on Jude’s arm as I clutched my neck. That got their attention.

  Lachlan panicked. “Shit, I’m bad at charades.”

  Jack swore as he stared at me. “Fuck, she’s choking!”

  I practically applauded the quarterback. At least the team was in his competent hands.

  I, however, was slowly dying.

  Jude leapt into action, grabbing a chair for me. Unless he planned to bash it into my back, it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good.

  “Rory, are you okay?” Jude searched the cafeteria. “Who’s a doctor?”

  I frantically pointed to myself. Not that it would help.

  Eight years of medical school. Two hundred thousand dollars in debt. Selling my soul for a fellowship. And all I learned was that an apple a day would keep the doctor at least six feet away.

  And under.

  Jude smacked my back, a shade above a naughty spank but too low for a decent rub. I gestured with my thumbs upward.

  He slapped my neck.

  Oh, good Lord, I was going to die.

  The panic swelled, but I couldn’t let my vision go fuzzy without saving my own butt. I spun around, slamming my back into Jude’s chest. I wrapped myself in his embrace—not how I’d imagined this fantasy playing out. He folded his palms, and I positioned them at my diaphragm.

  I hoped I was miming the Heimlich maneuver and not giving him a twenty-dollar lap dance.

  “Are you sure?” Jude gripped me tight. “What about…”

  I didn’t listen. I jerked his hands up once more, desperate for air. He grunted and heaved with me.

  Once. Twice.

  Out popped the apple.

  I managed one gasp before everything else tried to come up with it. My dignity. My charm. Every ounce of my professionalism.