by M. E. Carter
“Why do I have to have a baby shower? I can buy everything on my own.”
Not surprisingly, Geni rolls her eyes and Quincy snorts a laugh. “You would be surprised what kinds of crap you don’t know you need until you don’t have it. I wish I’d had a baby shower, if only so someone would have gifted me a couple boxes of size three diapers. Do you know how long it takes to disinfect a couch when they grow out of size twos and you haven’t gone to the store yet? Trust me. These moms will give you stuff you had no idea you were going to need until suddenly you have to go furniture shopping.”
I grimace and make a mental note to pick up some Lysol just in case I need it.
“Besides, it’ll be fun.”
Even Geni can’t hide a laugh at that one.
“Fun for who?” I ask, pointing at the heckler to the right of her. “Geni?”
“Oh, I will have so much fun being an observer at this shindig.” Quincy smacks her leg playfully before turning back to me.
“Ignore her. She’s a hot mess. We can make it really small. Just your closest friends and family.”
It’s my turn to snort a laugh. “That’s a lot of effort for you two, me, and my mother-in-law.”
“You wouldn’t invite your mom?”
“She lives in Tennessee. She can’t afford to come.”
“Oh.” Her face falls temporarily but brightens back up quickly. “What about some of the WAGs?”
I look at her incredulously. “Most of these women hate me, Quincy, remember? They stood around and watched Jessica Funderling beat me up and practically cheered her on. The only reason they leave me alone now is because of you.”
Quincy sighs because she knows I’m right. But she’s not giving up yet. “But the poker guys’ wives. They’re okay, right? I bet they’d come. And some people from your job?”
“I work in the sports department,” I grumble. “I’m the only woman.”
“But there are other departments.”
As much as I hate to admit it, she might be right. I get along with the news producers I work with and a couple of the anchors. It might be nice to invite the production assistant, Casey. I don’t know that she’d come, but I really respect her and her ability to stand up for what she believes in. Maybe even Sasha. I haven’t seen her for a while since I don’t party anymore, but we used to be really close. And Luca’s wife, Josephine, sent us a small gift after we got married. Maybe some of the poker guys’ wives wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Fine,” I finally sigh. Quincy immediately squeals and claps her hands together.
“This is going to be so much fun!” she spouts. “I just need to know your nursery theme and a list of who you want me to invite. I follow some really neat boards on Pinterest and have some great game ideas—”
“No games,” I interrupt. “Do whatever else you want, but do not make people have to identify the chocolate bar in the diaper or some shit like that.”
Geni chokes on her drink at my outburst, spraying liquid everywhere. There’s that payback for rubbing my stomach against my will.
Quincy, on the other hand, deflates a little. “Fine. No games. But you promise I have free rein to do whatever else I want?”
“I promise.”
Geni leans over Quincy’s lap again and pretend-whispers to me. “You know you’re going to regret this, right?”
“I already do,” I say, and pop another piece of cheese in my mouth.
My wife is such a good sport. But I always knew that.
She’s supportive and funny and takes no shit. She recognizes when people are hurting and lets their angry words roll off her back. She doesn’t offend easily and can whip out one-liners with the best of them. But the one thing she absolutely hates is being the center of attention.
Most people can’t tell because of her love of makeup and short shorts and how she walks with an air of confidence. But I see it. I know she’d rather be behind the scenes than front and center. That’s how she ended up with the job she has.
It’s also how we ended up having a “couples” baby shower. Tiffany thought if all the husbands came, it would take some of the heat off her and we could share the limelight. Instead, my dad has commandeered the back porch and turned it into the men’s area. Needless to say, my teammates have all gravitated toward him and his stories of “playing football the real way—when ye used to fall down for an actual injury and not a pansy-ass way to force the other team into a yellow card.” His words, not mine. This has left the living room of my parents’ new home for the ladies. That completely backfired on my wife in a big way.
Several times I told her we could cancel this whole thing, but she refused, saying Quincy had put a lot of work into it, and it wasn’t fair to cancel. Those two have come a long way since they first met.
Right now, she’s sitting in a chair in the middle of the room while people watch her open presents. Like I said, if you didn’t know her, you’d think she was having the time of her life, but I know her. She’s animated and smiling at all the right things, but I know she’s uncomfortable, and not just physically. That smile is forced.
Hearing the raucous laughter outside, I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against as I stare at my wife. As much as I’d rather be here for her, as the daddy-to-be, I probably need to hang with my teammates for a while.
Approaching Tiffany to give her a heads up, she pulls a tiny baby outfit out of a bag. The light blue polo shirt screams nautical, especially since the matching shorts are covered in sailboats. All the women in the room make “Awwwww” sounds. Except for Geni, of course.
“Ugly… ass… sailor outfit,” Geni mumbles as she writes.
“You are supposed to be writing down who gave us what,” Tiffany quips to her quietly, making sure no one else can hear their exchange. “Not judging the gifts.”
“Oh, I’m judging, all right,” Geni spouts back. “I’m judging so hard on some of this shit.”
“When I saw those little shorts, I just knew it would be perfect for Rowen’s son,” Josephine says loudly from across the room in her thick whatever accent. She never lost it when they moved here from Portugal many years ago.
Geni’s face immediately changes into a saccharine sweet smile, which probably means she’s up to no good. “The mommy-to-be just better take pictures and send them to us when Mini-Rowen is wearing it,” she says, eliciting several exclamations of approval from the audience. Tiffany is not one of those. No, she’s shooting daggers out of her eyes at her friend.
Chuckling at the exchange, I lean down to kiss her on the temple and whisper in her ear, “I’m going to head outside with the guys. Are you okay in here?”
“I’m trapped inside an elephant-themed nightmare.” Her tone indicates she’s ready to bolt, but the smile on her face doesn’t give any of it away.
Thinking quickly back to our conversations, I don’t understand why this is a problem. “I thought you wanted elephants for his room theme or whatever that is.”
“I said I was thinking about it. I hadn’t decided yet,” she corrects me. “Quincy took it and ran with it.” Looking around the room at the elephant decorations, and wrapping paper, and giant elephant-shaped cake that is going to be really unfortunate to cut open, she adds, “She may have run a little too far.”
“I’m gonna tell Quincy you said that,” Geni sing-songs happily, clearly enjoying Tiffany’s discomfort a little too much.
Tiffany cocks an eyebrow at her. “No, you won’t. It would break her heart, and you know it.”
“Dammit, you’re right,” Geni admits. “Besides, watching you squirm is way too fun. I hope this party lasts forever.”
“I may be pregnant, but I’m not too fat to kick your ass,” Tiffany grumbles.
Geni just laughs. “It’s nice that you think that, hooker. But all I’d have to do is sit on the floor. You couldn’t bend over to hit me if you tried and your ankles are so swollen, kicking me would feel like a pillow fight.”
Tif
fany lifts her legs up to look at her feet and sighs. “At least paint my toenails while you’re down there, will you? I have no idea what they look like anymore.”
Before Geni can respond, Quincy interrupts them, placing another gift on Tiffany’s lap, oblivious to the smackdown about to happen in front of her. “Excuse me, Rowen. Ladies, we need to keep this party moving! Open this,” she demands.
“That’s my cue.” I kiss Tiffany on the top of the head this time, and she grumbles something like “Sure. Leave me to this torture,” then plasters another smile on her face.
I almost feel bad about leaving her to go be with the guys, but when I step outside, I quickly realize it’s almost as bad out here as it is in there. No, there aren’t decorations and ugly outfits, but apparently, my father has become the center of all conversation out here, and there’s no telling what he’s talking about.
“Hey, boyo!” my dad yells in greeting. “It’s about time ye joined us. I’m regaling yer mates with stories of yer childhood.”
I groan, my hand reaching for a beer out of the cooler. My dad has plans to turn the porch into a fancy outdoor kitchen, but for now, we have to “rough it” with beer on ice instead of in a fridge.
“Did you really whip it out in the middle of a co-ed game to pee on the side of the field?” Christian asks, fist to his lips as he tries not to laugh.
“Hey, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,” Daniel retorts, making everyone burst out again.
Rolling my eyes, I lean against the railing. “You guys really believe his stories? I was three, Da. It wasn’t exactly scandalous. Everyone else was either doing cartwheels or picking flowers.”
“Bah.” He waves me off dismissively. “It’s always scandalous when yer son whips out his wee peter in front of a crowd.”
My friends all laugh, and I just shake my head in amusement. “Where do you think I get it from? Did you tell them the story of how you flashed all those coeds at university when you took off your track pants to run and forgot you only had your tighty-whities on underneath?”
Sammy Marshall practically spits out his beer and immediately starts choking as he laughs. “Seriously?”
“It was only fer a moment,” Da argues.
I raise my eyebrow, beer bottle halfway to my mouth. “You were halfway around the track before you realized why a group of college girls were pointing at you, Dadaí.”
He waves me off again. “I’m sure they got over it. Campus police called it an honest mistake and let me go.”
The crowd erupts in laughter again as we rib each other and tell our most embarrassing team-related stories. Luca almost won the battle of most embarrassing mistake with his game winning point in high school—for the opposing team. But Christian took the cake when he told us about how he snuck up behind his team captain in high school and pantsed him in the cafeteria, only to discover it was his coach. Who happened to be going commando that day. Suddenly, Christian’s speed on the field makes sense—three miles a day at a full sprint carrying twenty-pound sandbags for two months will do that to a guy.
I stand back and observe my friends and family as they continue to pass beers around and break apart into smaller conversations. It’s nice seeing everyone relaxed with each other. It hasn’t been this way in the locker room, maybe ever. But it feels like that’s changing. Like there’s a better camaraderie happening now that the toxic people whose egos come before their skills are leaving. Sure, there’s always going to be a dick or two on any team. But the entire vibe is shifting. I like to think I have something to do with that, but I suspect it’s more about Shivel getting canned, which made everyone else second-guess their shitty behavior.
I don’t have a chance to think about it much more as Daniel approaches, handing me another beer.
“How’s it feel, knowing this is all for you guys?” He settles in next to me, crossing his feet at the ankles and taking a swig of his drink.
I shake my head with disbelief. “I go back and forth between being excited and terrified and waiting to wake up from the dream. It’s surreal.”
“Kids are like that. I remember when it finally hit me that I was Chance’s dad. I know Erik is his birth dad and all that, but we all know how that is.”
We both smirk at his comment. Erik showed up in Quincy’s life after she got custody of her nephew, claiming paternity and wanting custody after having nothing to do with any of them before that. It took his mother getting involved to make him realize the best thing for Chance was to leave him where he was and take on a co-parenting role of the baby. Geni getting romantically involved with Erik seemed to help too, being that she’s Quincy’s best friend. The whole thing is odd, but it works for everyone.
“It was just this weird moment when it suddenly hit me that this little boy was looking to me to be his role model, ya know?” Daniel continues. “That it’s my job to love him and care for him and teach him how to be a good man. It’s awesome, but yeah. Surreal if you think about it too hard.” He points his beer at me. “But you’re lucky to have your parents here to help. It makes all the difference in the world.”
Blowing out a breath, I nod slowly. “I’m sure it will with my mam. My Da? I’m not so sure.”
We look over to see him pinning a button on his shirt. I have no idea where it came from, but it has “Grandpa” written in giant letters. And it lights up.
Turning back to Daniel, I add, “He’s a little too excited about being a Daid mór.”
Daniel chuckles at the comment. “My mama used to be the same way. My sister, Erika, would bitch all the time about her showing up with food or baby supplies randomly.”
“Yeah? What changed?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “She had thirteen other grandbabies and ran out of time.”
Before I can respond, my dad loudly burst out with “Anyone want to help me build a soccer field in yard out there? Me garmhac will be walkin’ before ye know it.”
Closing my eyes in defeat, I mutter, “I am so screwed.”
Daniel just laughs.
“Holy shit!” Caleb exclaims, jumping out of his seat as he watches in disbelief. “Did you see that?”
I should be excited. I should be jumping out of my office chair and cheering. Or at least wobbling out of my chair. A major league grand slam doesn’t happen that often, and it came just when it looked like our beloved Astros were going to lose. That makes it even more exciting. For Caleb.
“I saw. That was cool.”
“Cool?” He furrows his brow. “Tiffany, they just tied up the game in the ninth.”
“I know, Caleb. I saw,” I say grumpily and get back to my typing. I’m paying attention to the game; it’s just easier for me to put in the major highlights of a story as they’re happening, instead of hand writing it or trying to remember as I scroll through the video later.
Caleb drops back into his chair, visibly frustrated by my bad mood. “Geez, you used to love this stuff. What’s the matter with you?”
My eyes snap up to his. “Besides being forty-plus weeks pregnant?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which I probably have. I threw up twice this morning, my back aches, I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time in over a month, and at this point, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be pregnant for the rest of my life. On top of that, I’m discouraged. At my regular appointment yesterday, my doctor checked to see if I’m dilated.
Nope.
Not one centimeter. No effacement, whatever that means. No thinning, again, whatever that means. Although maybe I’m losing my mucus plug, but he couldn’t really tell. There’s not one indication that I’m actually going to give birth, and my doctor won’t talk induction until next week saying, “Some babies just go a few days longer than others.” Yep. I’m just going to be hanging out, looking like I swallowed a giant basketball that likes to have high-kick dance parties every night for the rest of my life.
As if to accentuate my point, little man takes this exact momen
t to kick me in the bladder.
“Oof!” I call out, doubling over and praying my muscles hold and I don’t pee all over myself. If I don’t have this baby soon, I’m going to have to buy adult diapers.
Caleb’s face immediately changes from irritation to concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”
Taking a whiff of my lemon to stave off my nausea, which I’ve done a lot today, I concentrate on calming my irritations as well.
“God, I wish it was. I’m fine.” I sigh. “Just irritated and ready to get my body back.”
“Okay,” he responds, physically relaxing, but still looking concerned. “You sure you’re fine? Do you need more tea or something?”
One thing about working in a department full of men—when you’re very pregnant, they go out of their way to make sure you’re comfortable. It’s like they don’t know what else to do with you, so they overcompensate the only way they know how. I’d be remiss if I said I didn’t take advantage a time or two. Not that they noticed. This time, however, I decide to be good.
“I’m sure.” Making a point to add a smile I don’t feel so he knows I’m serious, I say, “But the next time we argue over whether men or women are more stubborn, I’m going to remind you that this one,” I point to my stomach, “is already three days late with no sign of moving out any time soon.”
Caleb smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Turning back to the screen, we watch in silence as the out-of-town game goes into the bottom of the ninth inning. Good for the Astros. Bad for me. I’d like to get this story written so we can move on to the next game.
Shit, I am grumpy. Wishing for one game at a time isn’t like me at all. I’ve always loved having multiple games happening at once. Keeps things exciting. Rubbing my lower back from the ache I can’t get rid of, I realize exciting is relative. Right now, the excitement of lying down in my bed is what gets me through my days. Plus, this low-grade headache is making me insane and having that much noise in the room sounds miserable.
Just as the Indians pinch hitter hits a line drive to center, making it safely to first base, my phone dings with a message. It’s Denise.