by Kate Meader
As Elle got ready in the exam room, she thought about what Theo had said. Or another brain aneurysm strikes me down. How could he be so blasé about his future? And why the hell was he playing a game where he could get knocked over and hit his head, suffer a concussion, or get so worked up a bubble in his brain might pop? She didn’t care about his money, she wanted him to be around for their baby.
Dr. Patel came in, her smile big and white against her brown skin.
“Eloise?”
“I prefer Elle, actually. This is Theo.”
“Elle. Theo. Lovely to meet you both.” She shook hands with her, then with Theo. While she washed up and turned on the gadgets, she chitchatted, asking questions about how Elle felt and what she was eating.
“She thinks Cheetos are a vegetable, Doc,” Mr. Perfect said.
“Snitch,” Elle muttered, to which Dr. Patel merely smiled.
“Let’s see what we have here.” She rubbed the clear goo onto Elle’s abdomen.
Elle caught Theo staring at her stomach, across which the skin was starting to stretch taut. Remembering that this was the first time he’d seen so much of her since Christmas, she fought the blush climbing her cheeks. This shouldn’t be awkward but she didn’t feel attractive anymore—not like how she’d felt when Theo had slid inside her in the dark, whispering how sexy and beautiful she was. Nothing illustrated the change in her hotness levels than the extra poundage she was carrying around.
“I know, it’s a little cold,” Dr. Patel said, misinterpreting Elle’s reaction. She jiggled a few buttons on the screen. “Here we are. Okay, you’ve got a spirited one there.”
“We do?”
It was hard to make out, to be honest, just a black and white blur. We can put a man on the moon but we can’t show ultrasounds in color yet? But then Elle started to see the outline of a head, legs, and butt. This was a real, live baby.
“Everything looks to be in normal range,” the doc said, her eyes still on the screen.
“Are you sure?” Elle asked.
“Oh, yes. Very healthy with a strong heartbeat.”
Elle had avoided looking at Theo, worried the emotion of the moment would overtake her. Would make her feel things she wasn’t ready to explore. Looking up, she found him staring in wonder, and that lovely longing in his expression was something she’d remember for the rest of her life.
Theo Kershaw was a very emotional man. She couldn’t have chosen a more suitable donor, and that was exactly what he would think if he ever found out who she really was.
Only when he loosened the grip on her hand did she realize it had been so tight—or that he’d been holding it at all.
He didn’t let go completely. That felt right, too.
Struck by a quirky notion, she turned back to Dr. Patel. “So, Doctor. You don’t think that maybe the baby’s butt is a bit too … big?”
Theo snorted.
Dr. Patel looked confused. Clearly no one had brought this concern to her attention before. “I’d say the baby’s butt is within, uh, acceptable size ranges.”
“Thank God for that,” Elle said, catching Theo’s sparkling green eyes. “There’s genetics, you see. The dad has a rep for it. Most famous ass in pro sports.”
“Jesus, Ellie,” Theo muttered, but she could tell he was enjoying her teasing. It had been a while since they’d kept it light like this. All their conversations since the news had been weighted with worry: who to tell, what to eat, how to handle it.
Dr. Patel’s eyes brightened, catching on at last. “Ah, I see. Well, usually that kind of thing doesn’t manifest until the child’s older. Plenty of time to inherit Daddy’s butt.”
“Me and my butt are right here, y’know!”
“Has a Twitter account, too,” Elle said, ignoring him. “SuperGlutes. You should check it out, Dr. P. Hours of enjoyment.”
“I might just do that!” She gave Theo a closer look and her sly glance at Elle was one of congratulations for landing that fish.
Theo squeezed her hand, his smile big, warm, and completely infectious. He winked. “Knew you missed my ass, Ellie.”
She had no response that wouldn’t sound like a complete lie.
15
Day one of the playoffs! Can the @ChiRebels handle the bite of the @BostonCougars in this crucial opening game? Stick with @HockeyGrrl for all your round one analysis!
“Morning, Rebels lovers! Just checking in with my favorite people to gauge excitement levels for the game tonight. We’re in the playoffs. Woo to da hoo!”
Elle couldn’t believe she was still doing this: sneakily checking out the father of her child’s videos on Instagram because it was safer than having to deal with sexy, in-person Theo. A cascade of hearts and thumbs-up symbols floated over the video as Theo’s collective fandom made their feelings known. These people were obsessed. (And no, she wasn’t like them!)
“Oh, you like the playoff beard?” Theo rubbed his jaw, which looked to have about four days of scruff. Heat bloomed between her thighs because all hail the hottie-in-chief, that was some fine facial hair.
“Yeah, I’m trying, but man it’s hard to beat Burnett’s. That guy just has to exhale and he looks like a Grizzly bear-fighting survivalist. Now I’m heading into the gym for a little warm-up before morning skate. Let me turn the camera around.”
Seconds later, the camera was pointed at the gym at Rebels HQ. Elle recognized the players in frame: Petrov, the aristocratic Russian captain with the sexy tattoos raised an eyebrow in Theo’s direction as he lifted the bar on some complicated piece of equipment. Hunt scowled as Hunt was wont to do. Erik, the goalie, gave a friendly wave. That guy was such a sweetheart, one of her nicest customers, and always making eyes at her.
Theo talked over the filming. “So this is what Playoffs Day looks like, guys. Pretty relaxed, but I imagine the nerves will kick in later.” The camera angle switched back to Theo. “I’d better change into my shorts and … what’s that? No, I’m not going to do that on camera! Gotta keep some mystery, people. Catch you later!”
End video.
Theo in shorts. That would have been nice.
Elle scanned the comments. From the avatars, it looked to be a mostly female fan base, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was how graphic some of these comments got. People had all sorts of filthy-minded opinions on his pecs, his biceps, his abs, his ass. Of course, it was what he was famous for.
Frankly none of this bothered her—much—but it did help with her cover story. As long as Theo’s fandom was as rabid as hyenas in heat, she could use it to justify maintaining secrecy about the pregnancy. When really she was protecting him from her freak show of a family.
From the real her.
She scrolled through her messages, stopping on the ones from Theo, who had taken to checking in every morning. At first she’d thought it too much. A lot of what Theo did or said was too much.
Then she realized that because they weren’t spending time together like a regular couple, this was necessary for him to feel involved. She loved that he was finding a way, fighting the tide of Elle.
Sometimes he sent a joke—Dad jokes he called them. Getting a head start!
On other days, he sent a link to an article about nutrition in pregnancy or a think piece about playing music to the hatchling.
However, this morning he’d checked in with: Hey, can we talk later? Sort of serious and subdued with not a smiley face in sight.
Unease shivered through her while she waited for him to come over after morning skate. Had he found out something about her? Surely he had people who looked after his money, proxies who would be rightly skeptical of this blow-in with her claims on Theo’s fortune. The first thing he should have done was run a background check.
The buzzer sounded and she jumped, holding a hand protectively to her stomach. At almost four months, she had started to show, though anyone who cared to ponder it would never in a million years think a superstar pro-athlete’s genetic material was
responsible.
The heavy clop-clop up the stairs got louder.
“Hey!” His smile was big and bright against that sexy beard. Her nipples hardened at the sight of him and a warm, dangerous wriggle started up in her core. Horny, hungry, and hormonal, the trifecta of trouble.
“Good practice? You guys ready?”
“Yeah, it was good. As for ready? Who knows.”
“That doesn’t sound like The Theo Kershaw. Something wrong?”
He scrunched up his mouth, as if surprised she’d even ask. Was she that tuned out to his wellbeing that such a query was weird from her? She needed to be a better partner.
“It’s kind of a big deal. We haven’t made the playoffs in three seasons. The last time I came close was in LA, but I missed out.”
When his aneurysm ruptured. Not how you want to leave the ice.
She stepped back to let him in. “You’re not worried about it happening again, are you?”
Given what she knew about survival rates and recovery, Theo Kershaw was a walking, talking, skating miracle. Recurrence was relatively rare, and she imagined someone with Theo’s resources would be getting amazing follow-up care.
“No, not really. I’m all good.” He grinned at her tilted head response. “As far as aneurysms go.”
“You’re worried about letting the team down if your ass decides to throw off your center of gravity.” She checked him out as if joking, but y’know, not joking. You could park a cup of coffee on that shelf of perfection.
Abandon that line of thinking now, Butler.
“No one likes to let anyone down, Elle-oh-Elle,” Theo said drolly.
So not exactly the most incisive of comments, but she wanted to be a good friend to him, just as he was to her. He’d been nothing but kind and considerate.
For the baby. He’s a friend because he’s a decent person and he wants to ensure the baby’s health, not because he’s truly interested in you.
Proving her point, he held up a Whole Foods shopping bag. “How about I make you a smoothie and lunch?”
“Oh, if you must.”
This was a common occurrence over the last eight weeks. Theo often came over to feed her breakfast smoothies before his morning practice, then stopped by for lunch after when he wasn’t on the road. He did her grocery shopping, filling her fridge with all manner of healthy greenery (making up for all those stolen sandwich fixins, Ellie!). She’d already stashed the goldfish snacks and popcorn in her bedroom before he came over.
Now, he was in her kitchen slicing up mangoes and strawberries. She enjoyed these visits, the quiet domesticity, the ease of being with him. He was usually such a restless person that it was fascinating to see him in a calm—or calmer—state. Drawn to his hands, she found herself mesmerized, imagining them as he rubbed her belly then wandered—north or south, she wouldn’t mind.
He looked up and smiled in a way she felt all the way to her toes.
Rather than encourage him with a smile of her own, she asked, “What did you want to talk about?”
“Do I need a reason to visit my baby incubator?”
“Hi-larious! You sent me a text with no emojis or jokes or links to cat videos, so I’m guessing something is up other than the need to feed your progeny.”
“Progeny,” he murmured. “God, I hope the kid gets your brain and not mine.” She was about to tell him not to be so down on himself, when he said, “So, I was reading a meta-analysis about night work and pregnancy outcomes—”
“Reading a what?”
“A meta-analysis? It’s a type of academic review article that systematically captures all the medical evidence to answer a particular research question and comes up with a clinical bottom line.” She must have looked flabbergasted because he added, “I asked the team doc.”
“Oh. I see,” she said though she didn’t.
“This article said that night work can result in premature births, low gestational birthweight, and possible depression in the offspring. And while I think those preemies are cuter than buttons and we can always get therapy for the kid, maybe we could avoid all that drama by getting you off your feet at night.”
She could think of sexier ways than giving up her job, most of them involving Theo and the sofa not ten feet away. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d insinuated that bartending was beneath the mother of the golden child.
In full flight now, he continued making his case. “You could take more classes. Maybe enroll in something full-time and work towards a degree, like you planned before.”
“And how do I pay for rent? Or groceries?”
He held his hands out, palms up. “You could let me help.”
“I can’t take money from you. For me.”
“This would be for both of you. For your health, the baby’s health, and so you can plan your future as a hotshot investor or a Fortune 500 CEO that makes us all a shit-ton of money. This would get you on the road to your next level sooner.”
But at the expense of owing someone before her future had even begun. Her universal ledger of balance would be completely out of alignment.
“I’m not overdoing it when I work. Standing is better than sitting in front of a computer all day. I’m taking breaks, drinking plenty of water, eating right.”
He shook his head at her stubbornness, but he knew better than to get her riled over this. Instead he smartly changed tack. “So what I really wanted to talk about was the game. Come tonight. As my guest.”
Surprise clotted her throat. She turned to the fridge so he wouldn’t see how much his request affected her.
“I have to work.”
“I checked with Tina. She said she’d give you the night off if I can get a temp bartender in, which I can. But if you don’t want to come, I understand. You’re not a fan.”
“Kershaw, quit it with the guilt trip,” she said to the leafy contents of her fridge, annoyed he’d already talked to her boss about it. Still, she kind of liked the idea. She wanted to support him as much as he supported her, and time was the only thing she had of value. “Maybe I could sit with Jordan in the press box like last time.”
“On the night of the first playoffs game? The box would be full. You could probably hang with the WAGs, though.”
The wives and girlfriends? “That might get the rumor mill grinding.”
“Is that such a bad thing? People have to know sometime.” His perfect eyebrows slammed together. “I hate lying to my gran.”
She faced him. “You’re not lying. You’re just not … telling her. Yet.” Even she knew it was a lie. After all, she was an expert. “People wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“Why?”
She cocked her head. “Kershaw. Come on.”
He had the decency to look handsomely baffled.
“I’m not really hockey WAG material, am I?” She’d done her research. The Rebels wives and girlfriends had all graduated summa cum laude from Supermodel College. “They’ll take one look and ask ‘how much alcohol was involved?’ or ‘how dark was the room?’”
“So you had to draw the blinds and get drunk to sleep with me—”
“Theo!” She laughed, shaking her head at his efforts to be kind. “We both know that given a do-over, I would not be who you’d choose to be your baby incubator.”
He nodded vehemently. “Correct. I’d find someone pliant and cooperative and who eats her vegetables. How about the owner’s box with the Rebels management?”
“The owner’s box with the what now?”
“For tonight’s game. Try to keep up, Elle-oh-Elle.”
Oh, that sneaky mother pucker. “You’ve already arranged this, haven’t you?”
“Might have.” He grinned as he pressed the button on the blender—the one he’d bought specially to ensure his spawn was pumped full of nutrients. He stopped, poured, and passed over a dreamsicle-colored mess. “I’d like you to be there. For you both to be there, so …” He trailed off.
“So what?”
&
nbsp; “So I can tell the little one he was in the house at the start of a title run.”
“He? Could be a she or a they. And they won’t remember a thing!”
He gave an embarrassed shrug. “But I will.”
Oh. This was really important to him. Coming from the army, she should have understood better the art of compromise, but she was just getting used to doing things her way that it was constricting as all hell to have to consider the wishes of someone else.
Two someone elses. She absently ran a hand over her abdomen, only to see Theo track her movement.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. The second trimester is a breeze so far.” She was still feeling nausea, but she’d taken to keeping it to herself. It would be too easy to lean on Theo for both her physical and her mental well-being, to fall into the comfort of those lovely arms, hard chest, and delicious, just-showered man scent.
She’d done that before. Relied on someone, or tried to, and got burned for it.
Tale as old as time. Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy finds out girl’s parents are bottom-feeder scam artists looking for a score. Boy tells girl to take a hike.
She didn’t blame Preston Carter the Third, or PC3 as he was known seven years ago. The guy was going places, the scion of Miami’s elite. And even though her family had promised they wouldn’t interfere or bring their usual torrent of destruction, even though they’d promised her this one thing she could call her own, it hadn’t gone her way. Preston’s family ran a background check, had even put a private detective on the case—and why not? She was a potential fox in the henhouse of his glittering future.
She’d insisted that she didn’t want his money. She’d sign anything he put before her, fork over any future rights, prove that while she might have tainted blood in her veins she was more than what nature had given her. She was Elle, the fun waitress Preston had flirted with the night of his brother’s bachelor party. She was Elle, the girl he’d taken ice-skating on that magical weekend to New York.
She was Elle.
But that girl wasn’t enough, not when she came with all that baggage. When Preston said his family would never accept her, he’d meant he would never accept her. He’d always be looking over his shoulder waiting for the knife to plunge between his shoulder blades. He wouldn’t fight for her and she wouldn’t beg. No guy was worth that level of humiliation.