Heavyweight Daddy: An Mpreg Romance

by Austin Bates

  Well, not perfect. He liked sushi, after all. He was secretive too. Eli knew that he had four brothers and a sister, but that was really all he'd heard about his family. He didn't know where Van lived, or if he had any pets. He didn't even know if Van had any hobbies besides boxing.

  And he was pushy. Holy shit was he pushy. He was always making the stupidest jokes and sly innuendos, trying to get Eli to give in. A gentleman would have taken no after the first time Eli had thanked him for his time.

  Eli grunted, losing count on his current set. Setting the weight down with a curse, he dragged his thoughts back to his workout and started again. He didn't need to be dwelling on Vandal Harris.

  He hadn't even known that Van was a nickname until Dean Talbot had commented on how unusual Van's name was. Who named their kid Vandal? And what did they think of the fact that he was a cop? Had he been teased in school? Maybe that was why he'd joined the police force.

  He'd lost count again. Dropping the weight and pressing his palms against his eyes, Eli groaned. He needed to stop.

  The door to the gym swung open, and he glanced up guiltily. "I swear I'm getting to it, Natalie..." He trailed off, dread settling in his stomach as he took in the set of her chin. Kim was behind her, her phone to her ear speaking quickly. There was a furrow between her brows that she hadn't shown since the last time someone asked him how an omega could consider themselves a fighter on par with the great alphas of the boxing world. Something was very wrong. "Natalie?"

  Her eyes slid away from his, and she squared her shoulders like she was getting ready to block a punch. "Eli... There's been an incident," she said, her tongue tripping over the syllables.

  "Don't," he said, getting slowly to his feet. "If this was a Kim thing, she'd be in here telling me herself. Don't try to fit her words in your mouth."

  She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath in Spanish. When she opened them again, there was a too-bright shine to them. "Van's been shot."

  The world spun, and everything was very distant. He watched from outside himself as his reflection laughed, the sound echoing across the space. "Be serious."

  "He was called to a robbery," she said, ignoring the way his reflection collapsed against the weight machine. "...critical condition... surgeries..." Her voice faded in and out as he tried to drag in enough air.

  "Jesus," he said, pressing his hand against his lips. He was shaking, and his shoulder ached; the weight bar was digging into the bone. "Jesus."

  Natalie caught his chin hard, staring at him without blinking. When she was sure he was paying attention, she leaned in to whisper in his ear, "He's at Mountain View." Her accent was heavy the way it was when she got the call about her brother. "I'm not supposed to tell you. Kim says the place is fucking crawling with reporters."

  "I sent him away. Jesus, he wouldn't have been out there if I hadn't sent him." Bile burned the back of his throat, and he gagged.

  Natalie slapped the flat of her palm against his chest, the noise enough to scatter his thoughts. "Shut the fuck up," she hissed. "You wanna whine about how you sent him out there? Maybe you don't send him away, and some kid gets shot instead. Maybe the cops never show, and there aren't any hospitals or surgeries." Her voice broke, and she shook her head. "Maybe his family never gets to tell him goodbye."

  "Natalie..."

  "I said shut up," she snapped, smacking the tears off her cheeks. "Get out of my gym." As she pulled back, she pressed something into his hand. Eli traced the shape of a car key with his thumb as he stuffed it into the pocket of his workout shorts.

  "Thank you," he whispered, stumbling out into the hall. Kim was so absorbed in her phone that she didn't notice him pass by.

  He would have been upset but, as he continued around the corner, she practically growled, "I don't care about your policy, Captain. I need to be able to tell Eli something better than 'we'll have to wait and see!'"

  The keys to Natalie's rental car had a valet ticket attached, and within minutes Eli was pulling out of the parking lot on his way to the hospital. It was early enough in the day that traffic wasn't as much of an issue as it could have been, and the GPS helped him avoid the main streets. Within half an hour, he was pulling into a parking spot without any idea of what he was going to do.

  His phone went off, and he reached over without looking to turn it off. Kim could wait. It wouldn't take her long to figure out where he'd gone. Taking a deep breath, Eli got out of the car.

  The hospital lobby was busy, but it didn't smell sick like he remembered the hospitals always smelling as a kid. This one smelled like antiseptic and air freshener, something called Tropical Fresh or Floral Wonder or something equally inane. He wondered how they got away with it, then he saw the sign about the essential oils used in the lobby to promote wellness. He snorted, and one of the receptionists noticed, rolling her eyes in agreement.

  Hands shaking, Eli stepped up to the counter. "I'm looking for a friend who's in critical condition," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. "Sgt Van Harris."

  Her face fell. "If he's not conscious to give permission, they're only going to allow immediate family in," she said, her voice a professional attempt at soothing.

  "I know," Eli said, honestly, "but I have to try."

  Her eyes softened, and she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, scribbling something on a notepad in front of her. "I can't give out patient information."

  Eli nodded. "I understand," he said, backing away from the counter. His pulse pounded as he forced himself to walk steadily toward the elevators. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he pressed a trembling hand against his temple. Room 1154.

  Unfortunately, as soon as Eli stepped off the elevator, he found himself in a waiting room. The air here smelled like he expected a hospital to, stale and sterile. The only doors were behind the long counter where a grizzled old receptionist argued with a man in a cheap suit that her patients were not to be disturbed, and did she need to get security up there?

  Eli recognized the guy from one of the less classy gossip rags and ducked into the stairwell as the guy stormed into the elevator in a huff. Swallowing hard, he scanned the rest of the people in the waiting room. There was a surprising number, most staring at phones or the floor with numb expressions. He didn't recognize any more reporters though, and most of these people were dressed in jeans and rumpled t-shirts.

  There was only one kid, around ten years old and he was watching Eli with wide eyes. Trying to reign in his panic, Eli dredged up a smile, slipping out of the stairwell and across the room.

  "Excuse me," he said.

  The nurse didn't look up. "Visiting hours don't start for fifteen minutes. Take a seat."

  Eli glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick forward at half speed. "I was hoping to get some information. On Sgt. Van Harris."

  She snorted. "You and every other self-important slime ball this side of the strip. No information; no comment. If you ask again, I'm going to have to call security." She slammed a stamp down on the file in front of her, moved it off to the side and grabbed another without raising her head.

  Slumping, Eli scanned the room. He could have easily gone around the counter and through the doorway, but he didn't want to end up on the cover of the Times for being thrown out of a hospital. The door was far enough from the rest of the room that he wasn't likely to be able to sneak through either.

  The wall behind the nurse's head was covered in signs and whiteboards with names and schedules and bits of hospital code. Eli was no stranger to the hospital, but he couldn't make sense of most of it. One of the boards had what was obviously room numbers; number 1154 written in red with a slew of codes scribbled next to it. His pulse jumped as he tried not to imagine what all those codes meant.

  "Hey, Mister."

  Dragging his eyes away from the board, Eli glanced down to find that the boy had gotten up from his seat and was now standing a few feet away. He smiled again, noticing a few eyes slanted
in their direction. "Hi," he said, swallowing hard.

  "Are you the Champ?" he asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. "My dad and me watched your fight on the TV yesterday. I got to sit on the bed with him. It was awesome!" He mimed a few clumsy punches. "I'm gonna be a boxer too, when I grow up."

  Eli smiled despite the anxiety turning his stomach to lead. "I guess I better watch out, then, huh?"

  "Nah," he said, cheerfully. "Dad says you'll retire with a bazillion dollars before I get big enough to fight you. I was worried, but he says it'll be okay."

  "A bazillion dollars, huh?" Eli said, with a laugh. "He's probably right, but I'll keep an eye out, just in case."

  "Awesome!" He did a little dance, his fists up in front of his face, and his shoulders around his ears. It was terrible form, but then, Eli hadn't been much better at that age.

  "Hey, can I get a picture with you?" Eli asked. "Gotta have something to show off when you're a big star."

  The boy's eyes went wide, and he turned to look at an exhausted looking woman sitting off to one side. She nodded, her hair hanging limply but her eyes bright. When the boy turned back thrumming with barely controlled energy, she smiled and mouthed, "Thank you," at him. Ducking his head, he kept one ear on the boy's excited commentary as he pulled out his phone.

  "What's your name?" Eli asked, maneuvering them both into position.

  "Jeremy," the boy said, too excited to hold still. After four blurry pictures, Eli gave up on getting a good one.

  "Thanks, Jeremy. Look me up when you get to the Championships, okay?"

  "Yeah!" Jeremy danced back to his mother, who tucked him close and kissed his hair.

  "Can I get a picture next," a guy sitting nearby asked. He couldn't have been more than twenty for all that the deep hollows of his eyes made him look older.

  "Of course," Eli said, keeping his voice down.

  "Me next," a girl said, last night's club makeup smeared around her eyes.

  Soon it seemed like everyone wanted a picture, the room echoing with people talking over one another to get his attention. Eli watched the clock tick over, more and more people coming out of the elevator as visiting hours got closer. His eyes were dancing with spots from flash after flash, and he kept seeing people rushing around through the long window on the door.

  Were they rushing to help Van? What if he was dying even now, all alone in this place that smelled like bleach and too many people breathing the same air?

  Eli jerked his attention back to the man in front of him, going on about some fight he'd been to twenty years ago. He was breathing too fast, and he forced himself to count to ten before he sucked in another breath. Van was fine. There were no alarms going off. He was okay. For now.

  The elevator dinged yet again, and Eli cringed. The crowd around him was four deep even now and, according to the clock, they'd ticked over into visiting hours almost two minutes ago. No one had moved toward the door.

  Forcing a smile onto his face for the new arrivals, Eli's heart sank as the first two people out had press credentials poking out of their jacket pockets. He didn't recognize them, which meant they were probably local. They definitely recognized him, eyes widening as they took in the crowd. Their gazes tracked along his chest in his too tight workout shirt, glinting greedily.

  Eli was used to looks like that. Even people who found him attractive had that avaricious sheen that told him they were more interested in his title and what he could do for them. Van hadn't. Van had looked at him, and there had been nothing but lust in his eyes. If he hadn't known better, Eli would have thought Van didn't know who he was. He needed to get to Van.

  Fists clenching at the thought of having to give some bland soundbite while the reporters poked and prodded for weakness, Eli put his head down. "Excuse me," he said, pressing toward the elevators.

  "Mr. Thompson, care to make a statement? Are you here visiting anyone in particular?" One of the reporters tried to stick their recorder out over the crowd, and the girl with the melted makeup knocked into it.

  "Hey, watch it," she said, her voice shrill. Glancing at Eli over her shoulder, she winked.

  Grateful to his core, Eli stepped forward more quickly, hearing the elevator ding, disgorging more people into the overly crowded lobby.

  "Eli?" The voice was vaguely familiar, but Eli kept his head down. "Eli, man, hold up." A hand hooked through his arm, and Eli stumbled to a stop.

  He growled under his breath, whipping around to glare, only to fall quiet when he saw Wilson staring up at him curiously.

  "Man, you look rough. Come here a second." The cop was in full uniform, and even the milling fans were giving him a wide berth. He ran his eyes over the crowd, the lines around his lips deepening as he caught sight of the reporters. "They been bothering you?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  "They haven't had the chance yet," Eli said, his voice coming out more bitter than he'd intended.

  Wilson pulled out his badge and flashed it at them, driving them back a few feet. They immediately took the chairs nearest, not even hiding the fact that they were eavesdropping.

  Grimacing, Wilson pulled Eli over to the stairwell door. "You look like shit, man," he said. "Have they told you anything about Van?"

  "No," Eli said. It came out close to a sob, and he had to count to twenty to get his breathing under control again. "Nobody will tell me anything."

  He stared at Eli's face a long moment, then flicked his eyes over to the reporters. "Shit..."

  Eli wanted to shake him, make him give him any information that he had, but anything they said was going to end up in the papers.

  "NO! I don't wanna!" Eli jumped, his shredded nerves taking another hit as Jeremy threw himself on the floor and screamed. "I won't!" He was surprised that the kid's mom didn't look more upset, watching him throw himself around on the floor with an amused half smile.

  When she caught Eli staring, she slid her eyes across the aisle to the reporters. Eli's eyes widened, and he had to blink hard to fight back the burning tears that welled up.

  Wilson was watching the kid with an appreciative smile. "Smart kid. I could use a guy like that in my undercover division in ten years."

  "He's gonna be heavyweight champion in ten years," Eli said, too tense to smile, but he could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest. "Is Van okay?"

  It shouldn't have been such a relief when Wilson rolled his eyes. The amused way the other cop shook his head made the tension in Eli's back evaporate, leaving him swaying.

  "He's fine," he said. "Idiot went and got himself a graze along the ribs. Lots of blood and a great scar for the ladies…" eyes tracking over Eli's face, Wilson coughed, "…or whatever. No real damage."

  "They said he was in surgery." Eli's fingers were cramped, they clenched so tight. Beside them, Jeremy had moved on to screaming about how he wanted an ice cream.

  "Yeah, there was some worry about a bone chip off one of his ribs, but it turned out to be nothing. They stitched him up and pumped him full of drugs, but he's fine. Department policy says he has to stay for at least three days, but he was already complaining the last time I saw him."

  "Thank God," Eli said, his knees going weak.

  "Whoa," Wilson caught him by the arm, his ears flushing red as they steadied. "So," he said, clearing his throat, "you and Harris, huh?"

  Eli ducked his head. "I don't know."

  Nodding, Wilson clapped him on the arm. "He's a good guy. Watch out for the family though." Glancing at the desk, he smiled. "I'm gonna see what kind of information I can get. You sit tight and let the professionals handle this," he added, loud enough to be heard over Jeremy's screaming. "Better yet," he added, as Jeremy abruptly got up off the floor and settled into a chair with a cherubic smile, "head back to your hotel. We'll call." Winking broadly, he headed for the desk, the nurse watching his approach with a resigned glare.

  Wringing his hands, Eli stared at the door to the rest of the floor. The visiting room had em
ptied out some, people trickling out rather than listening to Jeremy's tantrum, but the reporters were still there. Taking a hesitant step toward the elevator, he paused as the reporters immediately got to their feet.

  "We'll walk you out, Mr. Thompson," a soft voice at his elbow said. When he turned to look, it was Jeremy's exhausted mom, smiling broadly. She hooked her arm through his and tugged him toward the elevators.

  The reporters ducked in first, followed by Jeremy and his mom. Eli stepped in last, dread rising up into his throat at the thought of being stuck in a small space with two story-hunting journalists. He was surprised when, as the door slid closed, four small hands shoved him out of the elevator, Jeremy cackling behind him as the reporters shouted in surprise.

  Standing alone in the small waiting room, Eli blinked. Then he started to smile. Wilson had the nurse digging around in a file cabinet for forms, and there was no one to stop him from slipping through the door.

  So he did.

  Room 1154 was at the end of the hall and Eli walked quickly past a dozen rooms, keeping his head down as he passed the nurse's station. Nobody paid him any attention and he breathed a little easier until he got to the doorway.

  Van was too still, propped up in bed with wires and tubes coming off of him. His skin was gray under his Vegas tan, and one side of his face was swollen with bruises from a bare knuckle punch. Right cross and the guy didn't know how to tuck his fingers correctly. There was probably some punk out there with a broken hand from how badly he'd messed up that punch.

  A door down the hall closed and Van ducked into the room on reflex, finding himself at the side of the bed before he was ready. Van's hands were resting on the sterile white hospital blanket, one covered in wires and tubes and the other just lying there. Eli reached out to pick it up but jerked back at the last second. Van's hands were always so warm. What if this hand was cold? What if it felt wrong?