by Ava Ashley
Sloane follows me and sits next to me on the sofa.
“I’m not judging, Lennox,” she gives me a playful shove. “Can’t a girl be worried about her ‘fiancé’?”
I grimace. She makes it almost impossible to stay mad at her. “So, you caught that, huh?”
“Kinda hard to miss...’baby’. What was that about?”
“I seriously just wanted to shut that jerk up. All those vultures want is a story anyway, so...I figured I give him one. Even if it wasn’t exactly true. The media spins things however they want anyway. I should know.”
“I sense there’s a story there.”
“Yeah. But, one I closed the chapter on a long fucking time ago.”
But, that was just it. I hadn’t closed it at all. Just kept reliving the agony...over and over again.
“Does it have anything to do with your mom? I mean, it was hard to miss how much Dennison’s snarky little comment got under your skin.”
“Well, germs have a way of doing that,” I quip right back.
“Okay. I’ll agree to that. Kirk is a germ. Actually, he’s more like a virus. He’s like herpes. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of him?”
“He keeps coming back,” I laugh. I like hearing Sloane laugh. It lifts the weight. The weight that’s been sitting on my heart since the day mom died. I look across the sofa at Sloane. Bare feet pulled up under her. Wild mane of honey brown hair bobbing in loose springs when she laughs. Looking carefree and simple in faded denim and her favored white t-shirt (although she’s graduated to maternity tees at this point).
That’s what I want. Simple and carefree.
But, life wasn’t simple. And it damn well wasn’t carefree.
It should have been a simple thing for a teenage kid to come running home from school, excited to share the news that he’d made the JV football team with his mom, the only person who had ever really shown any kind of care or concern for him. Instead, he came home to find her...cold and still...on the living room couch. Empty bottle of pills and vodka tipped over on the coffee table beside her. Why? Because she couldn’t take the emotional and physical abuse of her violent, cheating husband any longer. At least, it was what her letter had said. That and an apology. Explaining she was sorry for leaving him.
Like ‘sorry’ meant anything.
“Hey,” Sloane’s gentle voice shakes me from my reverie. “Where’d you go?”
“Just thinking,” I reply distantly. “How people can do some really dumb things when they feel like they’re backed into a corner.”
A sad smile brushes across her lips. Then she points.
“Like that?” Sloane stares at my hand from under a veil of thick honey lashes. “So. What did you do to your hand?”
I look down at the purpling knuckles. “I may have punched the wall.”
“May have punched the wall?”
“Hey!” I throw my hands up in mock defense. “It was better than punching Dennison’s face!”
She grins sheepishly and holds up her own swollen hand. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly exercise the same self-control.”
“Holy crap!” I laugh. “Sloane Armstrong! You are setting a terrible example for our...I mean your child.”
The accidental slip makes me wince, but it seems to bring the hint of a smile to Sloane’s face. I decide to roll with it. I hand her the ice pack.
“Yeah. Maybe, I’d better stick around. Someone needs to put your bad ass in check and make sure you’re being a good mother.”
We share a chuckle. A few moments of pregnant silence linger between us. I speak first.
“What was your mom like?”
“Who, Ma? She was...she was pretty freaking awesome. You would have liked her.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Sloane smiles and nods. “Yeah. Even if she did like hockey more than football.”
I clutch my chest in mock horror. “No! Say it ain’t so! Was she Canadian, eh?”
Sloane smacks me playfully across the shoulder. “No, you dumb ass. Frank’s kid, Brandon, played.”
“And who’s Frank?”
“Frank’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a dad. He and Ma came up through ranks together.”
“They a couple?”
Sloane shook her head. “Not so far as I could tell. At least, they never made it official in front of me or Brandon. Didn’t matter to Brandon and me though. He was the big brother I never had. We might as well have been real siblings for as tight as we were. Picked on each other. Got each other in trouble. But, we looked out for each other when it counted.”
Looking out for each other when it counted.
That’s really all I had been trying to do for Logan. All these years. Sadly, he didn’t seem to be getting it. A twinge of jealously mixed with regret pinches my gut as I listen to Sloane reminisce.
“So, yeah. We were close. Even after he went to West Point. Brandon played hockey all through the Academy, the West Point Black Knights. And yes, it was a popular squabble that a Squid’s son decided to become a Grunt. Anyone in your family serve?”
I scoff, though admittedly a little ashamed. “Only themselves.”
Sloane shrugs, unjudging. “It takes a certain type. To dedicate yourself to the life of others.” She pauses, lost in thought. “And potentially lose your own in the process. I don’t know if it’s a sacrifice I could make.”
Her blue eyes go stormy grey, and she’s lost. Lost in the deepest recesses of her soul. The wrinkle rooted between her eyebrows tells me she doesn’t like what she sees there. She picks at the fringe on the afghan, considering her own moral merit. Like she’s comparing herself to her mother.
Mentally, I give a wry chuckle. Sloane and I are like two sides of the same coin. Both comparing ourselves to lost parents. Her – to her mom. Me – to my father. Only, Sloane’s struggling to live up to a saint.
I’m trying not to succumb to a demon.
Sloane’s voice slices through the threatening silence.
“Anyway, old Army-Navy rivalry aside, Frank and I would attend every single Knights’ home game with Frank when Mom was stationed in Saratoga Springs, cheering on my unofficial big brother, fists pounding the Plexi. Brandon was good. He had a chance at going to the pros. He had been scouted by the Devils, who had been interested in signing him when his tour was up. Power forward. God, was he fast! Bet he could have beaten your ass in the 40.”
“Hey!” I objected. “Do I need to meet this ‘big brother’ and defend my athletic prowess?”
Another sad smile. “I would have liked that. I would have like that a lot. But, he was deployed to the Iraq in the Second Gulf War immediately after he graduated. Turns out, the IED that killed him was more brutal than any bladed, toothless enforcer on the ice.”
I recognize the fathomless look of loss in Sloane’s eyes. I’ve felt it myself. More times than I care to count. I reach out, gently gripping her small hand in mine. Wordlessly just trying to say “I get it”.
She stoically brushes away the tear threatening to well in the corner of her eye. She sniffs and squares her shoulders.
“Even after Brandon’s passing, Frank and I keep cheering for the Devils, Brandon’s would-be team.” She pauses. “It keeps from having to say goodbye.”
Maybe that’s why I keep bailing Logan’s ass out. Why I keep trying to maintain some kind of relationship with him. Because he’s my one remaining connection to Mom.
So I wouldn’t have to say goodbye.
Sloane continues. “When I can make the time, I even pick Frank up at Mather Veterans’ Village and try to get him to a game or two. He even stuck by me when Ma passed away. That was not an easy time for me. To say I hit a rough patch would be putting it mildly.”
“I’m so sorry,” I offer earnestly, wanting to take away the pain the memory is obviously causing her. Almost instinctually, I pull her into a comforting embrace. She settles into it willingly.
“It’s just that Ma would have done just about anyt
hing for me. It’s why she joined the military. To be able to provide a good life for me. She didn’t grow up with a lot. Hand-me-down clothes. Shared a bedroom in a three-flight walk-up with three other siblings. I guess that’s why she worked her ass off. To try and give me the things she didn’t have. Like that house...which I have totally screwed up.”
“Well, what about this new job?” I asked. “Isn’t it enough to help you get your mom’s house back? Didn’t the bank say if you scraped together a balloon payment, you could get the mortgage back on track?”
She shakes her head. “It’s a freelance gig. I need to turn in the work before I get paid.”
“So, how’s it going? How close are you?”
“Nearly finished with the research,” she mutters.
“Well, that’s great, isn’t it?” I ask excitedly, happy for her. Quick as the elation rises, the sobering realization sits heavy...once her contract is completed, so is our faux relationship.
“Yeah. I guess so,” she replies. She squirms in her seat. “Speaking of stories...after you left, Kirk mentioned something about some big story. Some ‘big bombshell’ Logan was planning on dropping at the debate with Representative Daley. Do you have any idea what that’s about?”
I shake my head. “Not a clue. But, I can guarantee. Whatever it is...it’s all part of Logan’s plan.”
“What do you mean, ‘his plan’?” Sloane raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Remember how I mentioned how members of my family only serve themselves?”
“Yeah.” Sloane nods hesitantly.
“Well, Logan’s made it an art form.”
“You sound like it’s something to be worried about.”
I looked dubiously at her growing belly. “Have you met my brother?”
We share a grateful laugh. Suddenly, I purse my lips in thought.
“So. You’re a hockey fan, not a football fan?”
She grins sheepishly, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
I tilt her chin up to face me. “Well, I think it’s only appropriate that as ‘fiancée’ that you come out to the game Sunday against the Jackals and support your man.”
She pulls back. “My man, huh?”
“You know what I mean,” I scramble to make light of the comment. Though, if I were being honest with myself, I am starting to become way too comfortable with the concept of the title. “You’ll make me look good. Especially since the team owners will be there, including Representative Daley.”
“Logan’s competition?” Sloane asks incredulously.
“Yup. Yet another convenient reason for Logan to despise me,” I mutter.
“I knew he was a Cougars’ fan, but didn’t know he had a vested interest in the team.”
“Yeah. He’s a silent partner. But, he sits in the box, every home game when he’s not in Washington. He should be there Sunday.”
“But, Lennox, I can’t go to a game looking like...this!” She gestures wildly to her plump, rounding middle. “I look like a two-ton heifer!”
I grab her hand and kiss it reassuringly. “You look beautiful.”
The gesture melts her.
I stand up, my six-foot five frame shadowing over her. I tilt her face, with its delicate features, up toward my own.
It melts me.
Chapter 13
Sloane
I am melting.
Seriously. Someone forgot to tell Mother Nature it’s October. The mercury is in the upper seventies and climbing as Sunday rolls around and it’s time for the Cougars to face-off against the Jackals. Lennox had to report early for warm-ups, so I had to drive myself to the stadium. Pretty sure the waiter at The Buckhorn is still laughing picturing me wedging my pregnant self into my tiny little car. Apparently, Volkswagen didn’t have expectant women in mind when they designed the low-slung, abbreviated cabin of the Karmann Ghia.
I felt like a sardine wedged into a tin can.
I likely smell as fresh as one, too. Sweat had pooled between my growing breasts and the cherry red number seven jersey has turned a mottled cerise from the moisture wicking through. On top of that, I had been out of my deodorant! I’d had to snag Lennox’s. I could only hope that his “Alpine Woods” could compete against pregnancy hot flashes.
One of the things Ma never got to tell me is how you effectively become a waddling Chernobyl when you have a bun in the oven. Put aside the raging hormones and metabolic changes and you still had to contend with living as a human radiator. It’s like the baby is levering up the thermostat from inside. As the baby gets bigger, he generates heat. The only way to vent that excess energy is through your cardiovascular system. So, it’s no surprise that with the increased blood flow, amped up metabolic rate, and excess poundage I’m schlepping that I’m feeling like a recently zapped convenience store burrito.
Overstuffed and hot.
At least my poor, swollen feet are comfortable. My size five-and-a-halves are styling in my Chucks. No blisters the size of pancakes because I’m trying to squeeze into designer heels, or ridiculous anxiety attacks because I’m trying to find a maternity dress that doesn’t make me look like The Love Boat. I have Lennox to thank for that.
“Just be you,” he had assured as he had kissed the back of my neck. “It’s one of the things I like about you most, Sloane.”
The tickle of his breath along my neck had sent shivers down my spine. For a split second, I wasn’t certain Lennox would make it to the game on time.
Then he’d made his next comment.
“Everything about you is simple. Honest.”
The baby had done a somersault in my stomach.
At least that’s what I had told myself.
I had been standing in the closet of my room, agonizing over what to wear to today’s game. My room. I had smiled. I hadn’t spent much of the past forty-eight hours in my room. After our long tête-à-tête, Lennox had pulled me in close and hadn’t let go since.
“I feel like such a crazy, out-of-control asteroid lately,” he had said. “But, you ground me, Sloane. I don’t know how to explain it, but you’re my gravity.”
Asteroid or not, Lennox had spent the nights orbiting parts of me that I could no longer see. And I had to admit, Lennox’s California king was inordinately more comfortable as my pregnant body demanded more and more space to sprawl. And I did have quite a bit of the bed to myself. Lennox seemed to be tossing and turning a lot, so he often got up during the night and slipped out to the living room so as not to disturb me.
Lennox’s sleep patterns weren’t the only ones being disturbed, though. Another thing Ma never got to tell me about was the absolute Technicolor realism of pregnancy dreams. I had to admit, over the last few weeks, I had been having some startlingly vivid dreams...some of them about the baby...but, most of them involving Lennox. Emma says that it’s the raging hormones affecting my emotions affecting the way my brain processes information. Difference was, for the past few days, I had been waking up to my dream - snuggled up next to me, arm wrapped comfortably around me, hand resting protectively on my belly.
Now, suddenly, as I entered the owners’ box at the stadium, the dream turns into a fashion faux-pas nightmare. As I swing the door wide enough to accommodate my belly, I’m greeted by a room full of Prada and Dolce and Gabbana punctuated by Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. I stand there in my wholly inappropriate over-sized jersey, trying to keep my jaw from slacking, and feeling incredibly dumb...both kinds.
This is such a bad idea.
I look around at the perfectly coiffed players’ wives in their designer duds and any modicum of confidence I may have still had high-tailed it for Encino. I mean, come on! It was a game day! I thought you were supposed to show support for your team by wearing team colors!
Although, I suddenly really regret the obnoxious foam finger I bought on the way up here. I try to hide it behind my back. Turns out there is something bigger than my four month belly.
Nuts.
I’m rescued from my frozen mute state by a sashaying blonde with flawless chignon.
“Oh, my god! You’re Sloane! You’re Lennox’s girl!” The svelte blond takes mincing steps toward me and envelops me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. She releases the hug and stretches my arms out to the sides, sizing me up with smoky-shadowed crystal blue eyes batting behind voluminous black lashes. She takes particular assessment of my burgeoning midriff. “Aren’t you just the most adorable thing! May I?”
She almost has to lean down in her heels to rub my belly through my over-sized jersey. The sweat makes the polyester-nylon blend stick to my protruding belly button. My face scrunches up in distaste.
Who am I? Buddha?
She must notice the grimace on my face because she launches into a near immediate apology, pulling her hands to her mouth in shame. “Oh, goodness! I am SO sorry! It’s just that I think that being pregnant is, like, the absolute greatest thing in the world. And Aaron and I have been trying non-stop for number two.”
Ah...this must be Angelina Pratt. Lennox had mentioned her insatiable quest to produce her very own NFL defensive line in one of our late night coffee klatches.
Okay...so maybe they were really coffee ice cream klatches.
They weren’t kidding about the crazy pregnancy cravings. And Lennox had proven surprisingly willing to cater to my middle of the night requests.
“Girl, she ain’t lyin’,” a laughter-tempered voice chuckles behind her. A beautiful, cocoa-skinned woman who could have doubled Michelle Obama draped an arm over Angelina’s shoulders. “Every time we turn around, her and her boy Aaron are going at it like jackrabbits. Hey, honey. I’m Monique D’Andre. My man, Ezekiel, is the Cougars’ defensive line. Love your nail color, by the way.”
Monique holds out a neatly manicured hand. I give it an awkward shake. I wasn’t normally a manicure type by nature, but Lennox had insisted I have a “me” day – his treat.
“You’ve been working so hard taking care of that munchkin,” he had said, rubbing the belly, “you need someone to remind you to take care of you.”
So, here I am, one mani-pedi, a haircut that cost more than the rent on my first apartment, and a pre-natal massage later (which could have only been better if Lennox had been the masseur). I should have been loose as a goose. So, why did I feel more tightly wound than a Slinky? Ah, the hell with it.