CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Four pregnancy tests, two crying jags, and one time on her knees paying homage to the great porcelain god and Gracie had to accept some hard facts. She was a few months shy of thirty, single, and pregnant. Granted she wasn’t the first woman this had happened to, it was just her first time.
A few weeks ago, she accepted she cared deeply for Webb, the child’s father. The man who’d cut her out of his life. For all her complaining to him that love didn’t bloom on sight or in three days, she had to admit, she’d been wrong. Falling for this pro-running back was as easy as her making a foul shot.
“Will you call Webb and tell him?” Diana held a wet washcloth to Gracie’s forehead now that she lay on the sofa.
“He said he needed time away from talking and texting me. Remember? Part of me wants to hear how he’ll react to the news. But if he asks me who’s the father, I think I’ll kill him.”
She reached for a couple more tissues and blew her nose. “Oh Diana, what a mess. I’m a mature woman, not some clueless teenager. Yet, here I am, pregnant and alone.”
“Hey, what am I? Chopped liver?”
“You’re the best friend ever and I don’t know how I’d have gotten through today without you. I bet you never expected your retirement days to be anything like this.”
Diana laughed. “What? Charging into a drug store to buy six pregnancy tests and then pretending they were for me, because the guy at the register was one of your basketball players?”
“Well, he fell for it. You should be flattered.”
Diana laughed. “I think he was just so happy to see you. Coach this and Coach that. And what the heck is a puke hill run?”
“It’s a tradition I started. We meet at the bottom of Hell’s Hill. Everyone gets a pack of cookies and a jug of apple cider. Once they finish, they do twenty-five push-ups and then sprint up Hell’s Hill. The last one to puke wins.”
“That hill is almost vertical. Wouldn’t they have to practically crawl to the top?”
Gracie chuckled. “Yes, they do. And it’s a bonding experience. They tease each other about puking the rest of the season.” She sobered. “I always ran it with them.”
“Honey, you can’t do stuff like that now. You can run on the flat court, but not on hills. I really think you need to contact Webb.”
“Not until I see the obstetrician you recommended. Webb will be full of questions and I’ll need concrete facts to answer them. Meanwhile, I have a job to do. A season to prepare for. Online classes to organize. A book to finish writing and a new series to plot. Pregnant or not, life goes on.” She covered her flat abdomen with her palm. “I have to be responsible for my baby’s sake.”
Those were words she’d never expected to say. She didn’t think she’d ever find a man to love, to build a life with. She might love her hero, but would they be together long enough to create a home life for this child? Her heart beat with a sad tune.
Every day brought another round of morning sickness and zero texts from Webb. She’d sent him two—light, yet caring I hope you’re doing well kind of texts. He hadn’t responded, so she was afraid to put any undue pressure on him by sending more. Or making a fool of herself if he didn’t want to hear from her again. Hell, she didn’t know what to do.
She’d wait to see if he’d reach out. Somehow she didn’t think he would. She had a strong, painful suspicion things might be over between them.
Three weeks later she had her first appointment with Dr. Romano, a respected obstetrician. He confirmed her pregnancy, talked about pre-natal care, and discussed a potential due date. Because she knew the days she’d had unprotected sex, that made his estimation easier.
March Madness would take on a new meaning for her next year.
She’d have to call a meeting between college administrators, the sports department, and her coaching staff. Would they want her at all? As a technical coach in the background, maybe? A coach for part of the season? There were so many questions to answer.
“Ms. Luera, by the size of your womb on my manual examination, I’d like to do a transvaginal ultrasound in three to four weeks. Sometimes there’s extra amniotic fluid causing the womb to measure larger.” He smiled and shrugged. “Sometimes there are twins.”
“Twins?”Oh my God.
Diana, who’d gone with her to the appointment, wrapped her arm around Gracie’s shoulders. “I’m here for you.” Why was there concern on her face?
Dr. Romano scooted his stool closer. “Sometimes there are problems.”
“Problems? With my baby?” Her heart rate doubled. The moisture evaporated from her mouth. Panic overtook her system. “I need water.” The original thought of carrying a baby might have scared her, but she’d had a few weeks to grow accustomed to the idea. She was looking forward to being a mother. Yes, she worried about financial matters, but she’d manage. For her child, she’d do whatever it took.
He handed her a cup from the water dispenser. “If your baby or placenta has irregularities, it’s best we find out as soon as we can. An abnormality can occasionally be corrected. That’s why I want a transvaginal ultrasound.” He patted her hand. “I’ve scared you, haven’t I? Let’s make it for three weeks. The less time you worry, the better for the baby or babies.” He snatched his phone off the hook and spoke to his nurse to schedule an eight-week ultrasound.
Once Dr. Romano completed that task and handed Gracie a slip of paper with the date and time jotted on it, she took charge. “I want to know what could be wrong with my baby. You’re throwing out hints. Words. Vague diagnoses.” She swiped at a falling tear, trying her best to keep things together.
“Dammit, I want to know what you suspect. You mentioned correcting an abnormality. How? Are you thinking of a medical abortion? I want specifics about my child.” Protectiveness surged through her. Her job as a Mother was to safeguard her baby at all costs.
“I can only give you generalities at this point. We might not have a problem at all. Then again, we might have an ovarian mass which might require surgery, once we know the type of mass and its speed of growth. There are many factors, we just won’t know until after the ultrasound.”
Dr. Romano slid his chair away and stood. “I’ll be there for the test. Don’t worry yourself sick. I’m guessing we’re dealing with two future basketball players.”
She really wanted to talk to Webb. But if there was a problem with the baby, an issue that might prove fatal or debilitating, could he handle hearing about it? He was working through enough emotional hell. Or so he’d claimed. Wouldn’t it be better to wait? Shoulder the burden on her own and keep all this information to herself until she knew?
Maybe it was just a big baby. Both she and Webb were tall. Or perhaps she really was having twins. She’d play her Momma cards close to the vest until she got good results from any tests Dr. Romano decided to run. For now, Daddy needed time to heal before he heard about the child he’d helped create.
Night after night, bedtime became a sobbing ritual for Gracie. Itty-Bitty and Cisco, no doubt sensing her distress, snuggled and licked her arms and jaw. She didn’t have to talk to him about the baby, but she did need to hear his voice. Tonight. Something she never expected to crave with such desperation. She needed to speak to him more than she needed bigger pants.
She dialed his number and her call went to voicemail. “Webb, it’s me. I miss talking to you and really need you to tell me to calm down. I hope you’re making improvement. Call me back, please. Anytime. Goodbye.”
If that didn’t make me sound like a needy female, I don’t know what would. Unless I’d cry through the entire message. I really do need to get a grip. These pregnancy hormones are driving me batshit crazy.
As days went on, she wore larger college t-shirts and elastic-waist pants to work. Soda crackers were kept in one of her desk drawers. A colorful M&M dispenser sat on her desk. Bottles of water stocked the mini-fridge. Tomorrow was the day of her ultrasound and she couldn’t think of anything else—except for Webb’s silence.
****
Webb pushed out of the rooftop pool and reached for a towel before sitting at a table across from Skip Townsend. “How’s it hanging, Skip?” He rubbed the water out of his shortened hair and combed his fingers through tresses that were recently cut.
“Hanging like a ball bat, How about yours?”
Webb laughed. “Shrinkage, man.”
A waiter walked by and Webb ordered a glass of orange juice. “I finished therapy today.” He smiled. “You’re looking at a new Webb Mohanty, someone who acts and reacts like a normal human.” He sipped the juice the waiter sat in front of him. “Well, as normal as I’ll ever get.” They both laughed.
“I want to thank you for agreeing to this interview. Mind if I snap a few pictures?”
“No, go ahead. I should apologize you had to go through the team’s public relations manager to arrange to see me. If I hadn’t killed my phone, you could have called me direct.”
“What you do? Drop it in the toilet?” The reporter emptied his coffee cup and motioned to the hovering waiter to refill it.
“No. It had been a rough day at therapy and I couldn’t call the person I needed to talk to. So in a fit of mature rage”—he snorted—“I dropped a hundred-pound weight on it.” He shrugged. “I mean, what good is a phone if you can’t call the person you want? Right?”
“Ah … when you mentioned the word normal a couple minutes ago, I’m taking normal with you is not the same as with everyone else.”
“Fucking A.” Webb smirked before chugging some juice.
“I’m going to record our conversation. Okay?” Skip placed a small recorder on the table and Webb nodded in agreement. “Tell me why you took this time off from pre-season practice to go through intense therapy.”
Webb slouched in his seat. “Man, there were days I asked myself that same question. As you know, I needed help with my reckless behavior and PTSD from serving in the SEALs. I had no idea I’d be shredded, diced, and puréed. Hell, you walk into the sessions a man and stumble out the shell of one, not knowing what blew a gigantic hole in your soul.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Skip, it was day after day of motherfucking torture. I always figured myself as a badass, you know? I had to be the best at everything I did and I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t care if I had to run through someone—man or woman—to get what I wanted.”
“So has Bad Boy Mohanty changed?”
“I sure hope so. There’s a certain woman in my life I have to convince.”
“Oh, now don’t tell me Mohanty is taking himself off the market.”
Webb chuckled. “I’ve been out of circulation since the moment I laid eyes on her.”
“Care to give us her name?”
He shook his head, the glass of orange juice almost to his lips. “Not if I want her to speak to me again. No.”
“When are you returning to practice?”
“In three days. When I wasn’t in the therapist’s chair talking about my alcoholic father or all the stuff I’d done, I was in the weight room working out. But I’ll still be behind the rest of the guys on the team. There’s no workout invented, like the torture games our coaches come up with.
“I’ve been watching videos of practice sessions, Skip. The team is looking great. Meaner. Grittier. A force to be reckoned with this season. If I want to be a part of all that, I’ll need to get my old bones in gear.”
Skip turned off the recorder. “Thanks. I think that’ll give me enough for a good piece. So, when are you headed to Idaho?”
Webb laughed. “You son of a bitch. You don’t miss a trick, do you? This better be off the record.” Skip nodded. “As soon as I shower and get dressed, I’m heading for the airport. I’m going to surprise her.”