Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Frost, Sosie

  “Sorry.” I bent down to collect the various…organs.

  The model was empty, and I held something in my hand. A lung? A stomach? The ankle bone was connected to the uterus somehow.

  “That’s the gallbladder,” Rory said. “It goes under the liver.”

  I held up a hose.

  “That’s the intestine. The liver is next to your left foot.”

  I reached for another flat type blob. Rory shook her head.

  “Your other left. You’ve got a pancreas.”

  I offered her an oval.

  “Jude, that’s the uterus.”

  Damn it. “Well, I don’t have one of those to use as a reference.”

  Doctor Fawna waved me away. “Leave it, Doctor Frankenstien. I’ll put her back together. Come see, you won’t want to miss this.”

  The sonogram flicked on, and a bunch of blurry, black and white blobs appeared on the screen. I squinted as Rory grabbed my hand, whimpered, then sighed in contentment.

  “And there’s your baby,” Doctor Fawna said.

  And damn if it wasn’t a baby. Head and all. I could even make out the little feet and fingers.

  Rory breathed a wavering sigh, but she blocked part of the image with her hand. “I don’t want to know the gender.”

  “Are you sure?” I tilted my head. I had a general idea what I was looking for, but it wasn’t like the baby rolled around in the womb with a Barbie or a football. Rory nodded. “Okay. No gender.”

  “Well, everything looks good here, Momma,” Doctor Fawna said. “You’re doing a great job. Baby is healthy, happy, and…” She pointed. “Waving at you.”

  Rory teared up. She looked from the sonogram to her belly. “Hi, Genie.”

  Christ, even my chest tightened a bit.

  Doctor Fawna found an angle which didn’t reveal too much of the baby’s mystery parts and printed Rory a picture. She scribbled a word on a card and sealed it in an envelope for me.

  “The gender,” she said. “In case you change your mind.”

  I pocketed the paper. “Thanks.”

  “Now go tell your mom that her grandbaby is healthy,” Doctor Fawna wiped off the jelly from Rory’s tummy. “Call me with any questions or concerns, and try not to think of all the crazy, bad, or scary case studies from med school, okay, Doctor Merriweather?”

  Rory thanked her. I helped her from the table as she stared at the picture.

  “It’s so real,” she said.

  Yeah. It was.

  Real. And complicated.

  And still one of the most amazing things I’d ever seen.

  Rory wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood. “I should probably find Regan.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fill a bucket with water and remember to grab her broomstick when we’re done.”

  “She’s not that bad.”

  Rory used her purse as a shield and led me out of the office. “Yeah. We only need a sword to slay this dragon.”

  She didn’t ask me, but I took her hand anyway. It shouldn’t have felt so right.

  Regan ruled the hospital’s third floor as the Chief of Pediatrics. Her reputation preceded her. Rory stepped off the elevator into a world of quiet healing and rigorous standards.

  Scrubs were clean. The nurses quick on their feet. And the doctors scattered from the central desk the instant the woman in blue scrubs with a white coat thundered down the hall.

  Rory stood her ground, but Regan had a habit of turning the floor to quicksand when facing confrontation.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Regan glanced at her step-daughter swelling tummy once, raised an eyebrow, and merely nodded.

  Rory handed her the sonogram. “This is…your grandbaby.”

  Regan placed a pair of glasses over her nose before searching the image. “Healthy?”

  “Doctor Fawna said yes.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.”

  “Eating well? Sleeping well?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Good.”

  The sonogram thrust into Rory’s hand. A tense moment passed, and Rory offered Regan a shrug.

  “You could keep this…if you wanted.”

  Regan wouldn’t cause a scene in public, especially not in her hospital, but her words bit, fierce and unforgiving.

  “Why don’t you hang it next to your degree, Aurora. I’ll have enough reminders of my grandbaby soon enough.”

  Regan said nothing to me—a far cry from the second mother I once considered her. But I expected nothing less.

  Rory did.

  She held it together until Regan rounded a corner. Tears filled her eyes.

  I wasn’t letting her get upset.

  I pulled her into a hug. To my surprise, Rory rested her head on my shoulder. I gave her that moment, a quiet minute where she could lean on me for as much support as she needed.

  It lasted only a few seconds before she stepped away, but it had calmed her.

  Her eyes dried.

  But I crumbled.

  All of the fears I had of taking this too far, too fast, too intimate—vanished. I’d told Rory the truth when I said I wanted to help her, but I’d lied to myself.

  I didn’t fear the complications of helping her with the pregnancy and baby. I worried about the consequences of letting myself get too close.

  What I would feel.

  What she’d discover.

  And how quickly I’d fall for the perfect woman I wasn’t supposed to have.

  14

  Rory

  It was a secret I couldn’t tell Eric or Jude.

  I didn’t actually like football.

  That revelation would have been sacrilege in a household that organized piano recitals around Eric’s games and stored spare cleats in the trunk next to Regan’s medical bag. Families supported one another—or so my step-mother once taught me. And the perfect family would always be there to root on a superstar son and step-brother. Football became as important as medicine. After all, Regan was never as proud as when her son was drafted into the league, not even when I took my oath and became a doctor like she’d always dreamed.

  Wanted.

  Demanded.

  But after med school and my neurology internships, I hated watching grown men do everything they could to hurt themselves and others. Concussions scared me—and I wasn’t even the one on the receiving end.

  Still, it was exciting watching the game from the sidelines.

  I waited in the tunnel as the guys lined up for their seventh game, nearly halfway through the season with no losses yet. They should have celebrated, but most of the men cracked under the pressure.

  Not Jude.

  He called me his lucky charm, even if it was just a ploy for him to get lucky again.

  We hadn’t had sex since that wild, amazing, foolish night, but for five wonderful nights, I’d curled in his arms—sharing his bed, his warmth, and, apparently, his luck. And while I longed for another night of pleasure…

  What could be better than just trusting each other?

  Holding each other?

  Keeping secrets and pretending life wasn’t quite so complicated?

  Jude broke away from the team and found me in the locker room. He stood like a wall of muscle, smirking with that telltale flirt that I had come to expect. And avoid. And love.

  He ripped off his glove. “I gotta rub the lamp.”

  “Superstitious much?”

  “Don’t deny me a belly rub?”

  “You need to focus on the game, Mr. Owens.”

  “Hard to do when you’re here, Doc.” Jude winked. “Though you do make me wanna score.”

  “Jude.”

  “We could go all the way.”

  “I think your helmet is strapped on a little too tight.”

  He really couldn’t talk to me this way—not before a game, not when I had absolutely no way to unknot the thrill that his words gave me.

  Who was I kidding
? One night with him wasn’t enough. Hell, I was starting to fear the remaining months together—less than fourteen weeks—wouldn’t be enough.

  If I wasn’t careful, I’d wish for an entire lifetime.

  He groaned. “Come on. Let me give Genie a rub. For luck.”

  “You think my tummy is just on loan?”

  “I’ll return the favor.”

  I smirked. “I get to rub something of yours?”

  “Rub. Stroke. Kiss. I’m yours.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You make one hell of a bargain.” Jude leaned in close, pressing against my polo shirt.

  I bit my lip. His hands were warm. Wonderful. Perfect.

  And, despite every rational impulse in my head, it felt like they belonged on my tummy.

  It was a disaster waiting to happen, but I couldn’t help but place my hand over his.

  “Wait, wait, wait!”

  I turned. A frantic Lachlan Reed drew the team’s attention to my intimate moment. Lachlan hollered and heralded the alert.

  “Doctor Honeybuns is giving away luck!”

  “I am not.” I cradled my belly. “It’s Jude’s luck. Get your own. And don’t call me Honeybuns.”

  Lachlan pushed Jude out of the way. “Nope. This could be the secret to our undefeated season. Sorry, Rory. My foot’s coming down.”

  “And mine’s going up your ass,” I said. “Ask Elle.”

  “Yeah, right. She’s not gonna let me knock her up again for a while.”

  Jude shoo’ed him away. “Well, Rory’s inn is full. Find yourself another manger.”

  “One rub.”

  Jude and I answered together. “No!”

  “What if this costs us a win, huh? And then another? And another? Jude, your unborn child might be a conduit into some sort of supernatural gateway. If we don’t rub her belly, we might never win a game again. No championship.”

  I sighed. “Lachlan, there’s no portal to a nether world in my uterus.”

  Jude frowned. “Wait…maybe…”

  “Not you too!”

  “Just one. We have to be careful about these things.”

  I sighed. “I’m checking you all for head injuries after this game.”

  Lachlan grinned, rushing forward to pat my tummy. Unfortunately, Jack lined up behind him.

  “I don’t need luck for this game…” Jack gave a sheepish grin. “But I’m hoping pregnancy is contagious. Leah’s gonna have a nervous breakdown if I don’t get another baby.”

  “I’m either a good luck charm or a fertility idol,” I said. “Pick one.”

  The linebackers overheard. They descended like locusts, led by Cole Hawthorne.

  “You’re a good luck charm?” Cole asked.

  I gave up. “Sure.”

  Why The Beast was concerned with luck, I’d never know, but my fellowship did not include getting tummy rubs from the entirety of the team.

  I’d been warned random people would invade my personal space and point out the part of me growing larger and more visible by the day. But I’d expected kindly old ladies, not the entire starting lineup of the Ironfield Rivets.

  But I didn’t mind. Not if Jude was one of the men who lined up for another touch.

  Great. I finally got rid of the morning sickness only to get love sick instead.

  The team managed to finish their newfound ritual before the game started. I followed them as the players took to the field—grinning like a fool as the fans erupted into their favorite howl/cheer.

  “Jude!”

  He was a fan favorite, not doubt. Also my favorite to watch as I stayed tucked onto the sidelines with the medical staff.

  We had been lucky the beginning of the season. No any major injuries beyond the occasional twisted ankle or knee sprains. Unfortunately, that streak ended today.

  In the middle of the first quarter, our offense took the field. Jack threw a quick pass over the middle for Isaac, one of the league’s more gifted receivers. He caught the ball, but Gainesville’s middle linebacker instantly pummeled him.

  The hit was quick, fierce, and so close it jarred my bones.

  I knew the instant it happened Isaac was in trouble.

  The stadium groaned and went quiet as the time-out was called. I didn’t wait for the medical team. I rushed to the grass, ignoring how utterly—udderly?—ridiculous I looked hustling to the player, baby bump first. The game was nationally televised. Fantastic. All of America saw me juggling my jibbles as I rushed to Isaac’s side.

  He sat up, but I didn’t let him off the ground. He blinked too many times, and his words slurred as he swore.

  “Fusck.” He wobbled a little too much. “I thought your tummy was slucky.”

  “It’s lucky, but it’s not a shield,” I said. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Rather give you my number.”

  He’d be fine.

  The other trainers waited for my signal, and we helped him to his feet. I walked beside him, asking him more questions.

  “Can you tell me what year it is?”

  “2016.”

  “Good,” I said. “And where are you playing right now?”

  “Football.”

  “No. Where?”

  Isaac swore again. “Ironfield.”

  “Good. Do you know who your quarterback is?”

  “Play-Maker.” Isaac used this as an opportunity to shout for Jack from the sideline. “I want that ball back!”

  We led him to the bench, but I didn’t like what I saw. Coach Thompson hurried over, casting off his headset and slapping Isaac’s shoulder pads.

  “Don’t be a pussy, Isaac. You good to play?”

  I answered for him. “I need to take him to the locker room for an evaluation.”

  “For what?” Coach Thompson barked. “That was a good, clean hit. Isaac’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t matter if the hit was clean or dirty. He’s exhibiting signs of a concussion.”

  “That’s just Isaac. He’s goddamned quick on the field, but he ain’t smart off of it.”

  “Hey,” Isaac grumbled.

  “But he’s a damn good receiver,” Coach Thompson said. “And I need him in the game.”

  “And I need to take him for an evaluation.”

  “He just had his bell rung.”

  “Isaac had a concussion last year. Any new hit could cause serious damage.”

  “Damage? You want to talk damage? He’s my best fucking receiver. I need an early score in this game, and he’s gonna catch it.” Coach Thompson pointed at me. “He’s up. He’s walking. He’s playing. If he was seriously hurt, we’d know it.”

  Was he arguing with my medical degree? “That’s not necessarily true. Symptoms might remain latent until—”

  “Doctor Merriweather. He has no symptoms. And I think it’s time you let him play again.”

  “I can’t let him on the field. I’m worried about—”

  “Worry about yourself.” Coach Thompson edged a little too close and spoke a little too rough. “I know you’re eager to prove yourself, but I won’t have you interfering with my game. I’d hate to report this insubordination to Doctor Frolla. Do you understand?”

  Now I did.

  My stomach bundled in knots. It wasn’t the first time I feared for a player’s health…but it was the first time I’d ever met a coach who didn’t.

  I didn’t have a choice.

  I nodded, and Isaac hustled to the field.

  This was bad.

  Jack spent the injury time-out on the sidelines, sharing a print-out of the previous play with Jude. I didn’t belong so close to the players, but the team made way for me.

  I kept my voice low.

  “Isaac has a concussion.” My warning was clear. “Don’t expect him to be one hundred percent.”

  Jude tugged his helmet back on. “And you’re letting him play?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. Be careful out there.”

  I worried enough abo
ut Jude on the field. Now I had another reason to fear an injury.

  If Coach Thompson was willing to risk his receiver for a simple regular season game, what would he sacrifice when the team crept closer to the playoffs?

  How many lives would he endanger to win a game?

  And what would happen if it was Jude’s health at risk?

  15

  Jude

  It didn’t worry me that I forgot why I came to the store.

  It terrified me because I forgot driving there.

  The fog was bad today, precipitated by a headache that only cleared when I reached the cereal aisle. It wasn’t a total blackout, but it wasn’t good.

  What a pain in the ass.

  At least I wore matching shoes this time. The last time I had a bad episode, I’d left the house with one black and one brown shoe. As a result, I threw out all but my black dress shoes, black loafers, and my tennis shoes. That made my wardrobe easier. Less of a chance to mess things up.

  Less of a chance for anyone to notice.

  I could handle it. Hell, I was feeling better than Rory. She was twenty-seven weeks of discomfort—cranky, hot, and hungry.

  Still beautiful though. Just…less patient.

  Why the hell didn’t I write down what she wanted before I headed to the store?

  I set the empty basket on the floor and pulled out my phone. Nothing on the grocery list, only my usual reminders to pick up the mail, load the dishwasher, and go to bed at nine since practice was kicking my ass.

  I turned the aisle. The store was so damn yellow. My vision haloed enough without spreading golden blotches everywhere. I stared at the food and tried to remember.

  She had been hungry.

  I volunteered to go out.

  Of course, I used it as an opportunity to hide the headache from her. Reap what I sowed, though my ass was grass if I returned without the food she craved.

  I looked around. This was the wrong aisle too.