by Frost, Sosie
Freddie dropped his recording equipment in a heap on our office floor. He grinned at me, knowing full-well I didn’t have a voice to chastise him.
“You do realize there’s fifty-two other men on the team?”
I tilted my head.
He scooted behind me, pointing to my laptop. He scrolled through the hundreds of photos I had taken for the day.
“There’s one of Lachlan,” he said. “And there’s one of Lachlan. And another of Lachlan. And a fourth, fifth, sixth...” He stole my mouse. “And whadda know? Another of Lachlan. Lachlan. Lachlan…”
I pointed to the picture of the quarterbacks, centering on the play-maker in his red jersey.
“Oh, sure. That’s Jack. And right there behind him…” Freddie tapped the screen. “Lachlan.”
Damn it.
My groan was silent. That was getting annoying.
Day three of muteness, and the laryngitis had no intention of fading. But I wasn’t sick. I’d lost my voice after a very unfortunate hiccup that was not a hiccup. I’d learned a wise lesson that day. Never trust a bodily function while pregnant. My stomach was a swirl of nitroglycerin, and any little bump, quiver, shake, smell, taste, or internet video of the birthing process was like swallowing a lit fuse.
One unfortunately timed heave had occurred at the same time as a cough, and I’d accidentally doused my larynx with a healthy portion of everything unhealthy from my stomach.
The doctor said it was a recipe for a persistently sore throat and a complete loss of my voice.
Freddie laughed as I shut the lid to the laptop and packed my equipment with a huff.
“I’m just saying, Elle. You’re allowed to have a crush on your husband.”
I tried to speak, but I could only wag a finger. Fortunately, it was my index instead of one far more expressive. I stormed from the room.
A crush on my husband?
That was the most ridiculous, idiotic, absolutely absurd accusation in the world.
I did not have a crush on Lachlan Reed.
…I was in love with him.
And that realization sent me sprawling for the closest bathroom before my stomach, mind, heart, and every other part of me detonated.
I loved him.
And it had been obvious to everyone except me.
He had somehow become a permanent fixture in my life and photography. So many of my pictures included his virtue-stealing dimples. It was like I’d deliberately captured scenes with his eyes, just to marvel at how they were greener than even a hundred yards of grass.
Why didn’t I realize it—especially after our night at the charity gala? None of my worldly travels or once-in-a-lifetime pictures had thrilled me as much as our night spent entwined, hidden beneath the stars.
I fell for him so hard I probably left a crater on the fifty-yard line.
Lachlan was right. I did love him before the sunset of our third date.
Worse, I loved him ahead of schedule.
Oh, this was bad.
…Or maybe something good?
But it wasn’t anything I could figure out in the middle of training camp, not when I was exhausted, sick, and still walking on eggshells to duck Peter whenever he got close. I left early, and not a moment too soon. The only reason I could drag my butt through the door was by bribing myself with a nap.
I dropped my purse on the floor and collapsed on the couch.
At least the baby and I were in it together.
Life was about to get complicated. Not only was I pregnant, not only did I somehow fall in love with my husband, I was stuck in the middle of a potentially season-ending conspiracy that would ruin the team.
I never used to feel like a fish out of water, but somehow life had trapped me in a net of my own fears and doubts.
But Lachlan could untangle me.
If only I knew how he’d react to my pregnancy.
Hell, I hadn’t broken free of the shock yet.
But It wasn’t like my life would be ruined, just changed. I could still take a baby hiking. They made those contraptions that strapped to mother’s backs. And all kids like the ocean. The Rocky Mountains were beautiful for any age. I had a lot of plans for my life—everything visiting the Great Barrier Reef and seeing the pyramids and hiking old Inca trails.
Maybe having a baby wouldn’t stop that?
Maybe instead of trekking the world, taking pictures for my Instagram and selling the good ones to periodicals and news outlets…I could take some photos of my family.
It seemed so cliché, a little kid making faces in front of a Hawaiian waterfall or pushing on the Tower of Pisa. But when I imagined a little girl in pigtails or a boy who happened to look just like Sebastian, just a few shades darker?
It seemed…right. Especially if that imaginary picture included Lachlan.
As if he realized I thought about him, he texted me. I pulled out my phone and read the flurry of messages.
On my way over.
Want to see you.
NOT a date.
Unless it goes well.
Then I’m all yours
This man.
I answered with a winky face. Did they make an emoji that could tell an unsuspecting man that I was pregnant with his child? Might have helped.
But he had to know.
Except when I answered the door, I worried it wasn’t the best time. I smiled and let him inside.
It was the first time Lachlan didn’t return my grin.
“Hey.” He pulled me close for a kiss, but he grimaced when I accidentally bumped his ribs. He shrugged away my cautious touch. “I’m fine. Just sore from practice.”
I didn’t like that.
I searched for the bottle of Ibuprofen. Lachlan waved away the offered pills.
“Nah,” he said. “They injected me with a bunch of stuff after practice. I’m okay.”
A cold shiver nearly shattered my spine. I grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay, Elle. Nothing illicit. They wouldn’t do that.”
After what I’d seen? The photographs? The blackmail? Signing Cole Hawthorne to act as the team’s bounty hunter, hurting any player who crossed his path?
Hell no. I didn’t trust a damn thing they put into Lachlan’s body.
He collapsed on my couch, groaning as he sat on a wayward trinket. The worst one to sit on—a stylized comb with thick prongs.
“Knick-knack or hair supply?” he asked.
Neither. It was actually art—a comb crafted from a fork. I took it away before he poked his eye out.
“How’s your voice?” Lachlan pulled me beside him. “Still mute?”
I nodded.
“Guess I’ll do the talking.”
Good thing he loved the sound of his own voice. I snapped my fingers together, puppeting a fake mouth. He grabbed my hand and rendered it mute too.
“If you don’t enjoy my company, maybe I’ll see myself out.”
I tugged his collar, pulling him close for a kiss. The shirt revealed a dark bruise blossoming over his shoulders. I touched it.
“Huh. I don’t even know when I got that one,” he said. “These guys hit hard…and really fast.”
His shattered confidence worried me, and it had started to show on the field. The guys sacrificed their bodies day in and day out, but Lachlan’s play didn’t suffer because he wasn’t tough enough.
His pride was bruised worse than his body.
And he’d never admit that he needed help, that he was slowly losing control.
Like a baby would help that. This truth would hit him harder than any linebacker.
I touched my throat and motioned for him to listen—or watch—what I was about to say.
Lachlan folded his hands behind his head. “You gonna give me a show, Red?”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. It’d probably would shock him more than any episode of Game of Thrones.
“Should I put on some music…or are you just gonna wiggle your hips?”
I smacked his kne
e. Christ, I wasn’t stripping for him.
Not yet.
Though the idea was appealing, even if it was how we got in this trouble to begin with.
Charades it was then. But how to get the message across?
Easy enough. Fake a baby.
I crossed my hands, angling my shoulders as if I held a baby in the crook of my elbow.
Lachlan stared at me, frowning. I gave my arms a little rock and hoped for the best.
His eyes widened.
He rocketed off the couch.
“Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“Jesus Christ, Red!”
He ran his hands through is hair. The panic was going to be bad.
“I expected this from them, but not you.”
What?
Lachlan practically growled. “I’ve already had this conversation with Coach Thompson.”
He did?
“And now you’re on my ass?”
Wait. Had he gotten Coach Thompson pregnant too?
“Look, I know I fumbled a couple times today at practice.”
For the love of—
“And I know I have to work on my hold. It’s lazy, and it’s a problem.”
I waved my hands. Lachlan wasn’t listening. He paced the living room and swore.
“Tomorrow’s practice includes an hour-long drill where the defenders will do nothing but try to strip me.” He huffed. “And not the good kind of stripping I imagine you doing.”
I whacked his knee and pointed two fingers at my eyes, forcing him to look at me.
“Oh…” He smirked. “You weren’t talking about fumbling.”
Oy.
This was going to be harder than I anticipated. This next charade had to be fool-proof…or Lachlan-proof.
I rested my hand on my tummy. Even pointed to it so there’d be no confusion.
Lachlan nodded. I rubbed over the baby, probably just as frustrated with his father as I was.
“Are you still sick? Do you need help?” He frowned. “Is it something contagious?”
Really?
I nearly gave up as he listed off every ailment except pregnancy.
“Food poisoning! Appendicitis!”
I shook my head.
“Dysentery. Cholera!”
Good God. Could he at least list diseases that threatened us in this century?
“Oh!” Lachlan pointed at me. “You’re hungry!”
I’d bred with this man.
I pulled my hand away from my belly, extending it outwards. No way he’d miss this one.
“Oh.” His words quieted.
Maybe he got it?
“Red…Elle…” His voice softened. “Baby…”
Yes! I pointed at him. Yes, yes, yes!
“There’s no way you’re fat. You can eat whatever you want.”
I counted backwards from ten.
First the morning sickness took my appetite. Now it stole my patience.
Fuck it.
One last attempt. Nothing held back. No option too crazy.
I marched to my easy chair and plunked into the cushions, my feet raised onto the arms like they were hooked in stirrups. I stared Lachlan in the eyes, mimicked the big belly again. Then I flailed my arms with my best Alien impression because hell if I knew what birth was supposed to be like, and I wasn’t about to YouTube that freak show.
My frustration. The motion. My waving hands.
It only confused the poor puppy.
Lachlan stared with a furrowed brow, though his attention drifted as the unfortunate position tugged on my leggings and framed my—totally classy—camel toe.
“O-kay. I’m not sure what that was…but if you want to get eaten out, I’m game.”
God bless Jack Carson and the rest of the offense. I had no idea how Lachlan didn’t get lost on his way to the damn huddle.
But that only made me feel worse.
Lachlan was stressed and hurt. He’d come to visit me for comfort.
And here I was—trying to force a life-changing game of charades onto him.
I could have picked up my phone and texted I’m pregnant, you alpha-male blockhead. Somehow that felt…cruel.
I curled my finger, inviting him to the chair. He settled between my legs, more than ready to deliver on his promise. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss.
Just something little. Gentle.
Comforting.
It worked. Lachlan brushed my cheek with his hand.
“You don’t know how much I needed this,” he said. “You’re confusing me a bit now, but you take the stress away. The team. The camp. It’s…rough.”
I kissed him again. The hard bulge of his cock pressed against my leg.
Obviously he wasn’t that worn out from practice.
“You’re the best part of my day, Red. Well, except for what I do every morning in the shower, but, trust me.” He tapped his temple. “You’re always right there.”
That was…so sweet?
I just wished he’d admit that he needed help. I could see the strain in his eyes, feel the tension he carried in his shoulders and back.
Telling him about the baby would comfort me, but it’d do nothing to help him. Not yet. Not when he needed to concentrate on the field, the offensive plays, and his technique.
So I’d keep it as another secret. I collected enough things anyway, why not life-altering crises too?
The Rivets’ cheating.
My feelings for him.
Our baby.
In the fairy-tales, the princesses were usually the ones ensnared in danger. Most waited for their prince to rescue them.
Not this fairy-tale. I had to help my Charming anyway I could.
And I’d make sure that no one could destroy our happily-ever-after.
16
Lachlan
I expected my first exhibition game to go badly.
And it did.
But the second game was going worse.
I hadn’t learned shit since our preseason game—only that my body, knees, arms, back, and fingers would inevitably get crushed on the field.
And that was fine. I didn’t mind the pain. It was part of the game. Just another adrenaline rush, something to keep me moving, my mind on the play, and my feet planted in the grass.
But this was not like college ball. The players charged faster, the tackles hit harder, and the plays crashed over in seconds. Every snap became a game of Russian roulette, but instead of a gun to the head, I had cleats kicking my temple.
The second quarter blitzed faster than the first. I stared at the play clock.
Did the seconds speed up? How was I supposed to catch my breath?
I took my spot on the line of scrimmage, listening to Jack’s barked cadence. The ball snapped, and I rushed forward only a couple yards, just enough to block the linebacker’s timed charge through the line.
He hit me like a goddamned train, slamming through me. I dug my feet in and surged from my hips to keep the monster busy as Jack handed the ball off to Bryon. Our running back churned through the opposite end of the line for a four-yard gain.
The whistle blew. My opposing linebacker roared at me.
“Coming for you, rookie! I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll hand me that signing bonus!”
I got in his face. “Just say you love me and promise to cuddle.”
“You gonna eat those words.”
Caleb hauled me into the huddle. I blinked away the spots before my eyes, rubbing away the sweat. Nothing eased the ache in my muscles. I had to force my hands to clap at the end of the huddle.
This wasn’t exhaustion.
This was a beating.
We lined up again. Second down. Similar play. A run up the middle, and I was supposed to pick up the blitz.
I saw it coming—I could read a defense. But nothing prepared me for catching a three-hundred-pound prick as he thrust through the line and raced into the backfield.
I collided with him, our bod
ies crashing hard enough to twist my helmet and block my vision. He cut left. A fake-out. I lost a step as he spun to the right. I couldn’t stop him, but Bryon had already darted past the center and earned us another three yards.
Was this what it was going to be like?
A couple seconds of agony interspersed with a bone-chilling fear that I’d missed my block and let a defender past?
My entire fucking future rested on a split second after a ball was snapped.
Jack grabbed my facemask in the huddle. I panted, trying to fill unresponsive lungs with as much air as I could get.
“Step it up, rookie.” He patted my helmet. “This pass has got your name on it.”
“Give it to me, baby.”
Jack grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”
At least I could still fake the confidence.
We ran the same play we’d drilled for so goddamned long at training camp. I had fucking dreamt of the timing pattern, chasing away any and all sexy visions of Elle. I preferred dreaming of a naked, desperate woman, but all I had were nightmares anymore. Every night, I ran along endless hash marks, towards an end zone that never got any closer.
We lined up. I exhaled, expelling the shadowing doubts and lingering pain. I’d be damned if I let tomorrow’s bruises fuck with me today.
The ball snapped.
I sprinted down the field, counting the seconds in my head.
Three. Two. Hook back. One. Catch the ball.
I spun. Jack delivered the strike directly into my hands. I clutched the ball.
And the blindside hit nearly shattered every bone in my body.
I crashed to the grass as the cornerback wrapped me up the instant the ball hit my fingers. I grunted, saw white, and, for one frightening second, everything faded to black.
Until I blinked and realized I was face-down in the fucking grass.
No ball.
No catch.
No first down.
And no one helped me to my feet. That was fine. I walked to make sure my spine hadn’t snapped on my way to the ground.
Nothing broken except my spirit.
I stumbled to the sidelines, grasping for water.
Jack patted my shoulders. “Hell of a hit.”
I nodded. Couldn’t answer. Hadn’t breathed yet.
“You’re gonna get the shit kicked out of you when you run routes down the middle,” he said.