Stella

Things cooled considerably in the four weeks that followed. Dane turned into a polite stranger overnight. He went with me to every doctor’s visit, and there were many of them. An entire protocol needed to be completed pre IVF, i.e. blood panel, ultrasound…sperm analysis.

He was quite proud of himself when the doctor announced his sperm had “muscle” to them. Then he went ahead and informed the doctor and me “not to fret” because “his swimmers are badass” when the doctor told us not to get discouraged if the first attempt didn’t result in a pregnancy.

He was supportive and cheerful as ever. Otherwise he kept his distance. The teasing and taunting stopped. The showing up unannounced stopped. Sadly, I kind of missed it, the irony not lost on me.

Having completed my twelve days of fertility medications, the big day is finally here. Egg retrieval day. I will be sedated and the egg suctioned out and combined with Dane’s muscular sperm. Five days from now, the fertilized egg will be implanted back in my uterus. All very sexy.

“Hey, Shorty.”

I open to the door to find him with his arms braced overhead, big paws gripping my doorframe, biceps bulging beneath his rumpled blue shirt. And a smile so wide and bright I feel the need to squint.

“I’m not short.” He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. This elicits a mandatory eye roll. “Fine. Compared to you I am, but don’t call me that. I have a name.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The lopsided grin he gives me almost has me smiling back. Almost.

“What are you wearing?” I say this while blatantly running my eyes up and down his inappropriate attire. He runs a hand back and forth over his messy, sun-streaked hair.

“A shirt and jeans,” he replies while looking down at himself, like he has to check to see if he remembered to get dressed. With his shirt half tucked and his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, he looks like an overgrown frat boy.

Closing the door behind me, I lock it and head down the hall to the elevators.

“You realize we have an appointment with the doctor, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re making baby soup today.”

Heaven help me. “Dane––”

“What?”

“This is serious business. And you’re not taking it very seriously.”

He gives me a small knowing smile and his eyes, filled with mischief, crinkle at the sides. “I was just teasing. You seem so nervous I thought you could use a distraction.”

“Nervous? I’m not nervous. What makes you think I’m nervous?”

Looking down between us, he takes my hand, curled into a tight fist, and pries it open. Deep red welts mark my flattened palm, left by the house keys I was squeezing with a death grip. I suck in a breath when the blood comes rushing back into my hand.

“Ouuuuch.”

In his gentle hold, Dane rubs the marred flesh with his thumb. The warmth, the rough callouses rubbing against my palm soothe more than those self-inflicted wounds, they soothe any residual fear––most importantly the one telling me that this man is not cut out to be parent material.

The comfort turns into an electric current traveling up my arm and over my scalp. It makes me shiver and…want those calluses elsewhere.

I try pulling my hand away but he won’t let me, gently tugging back. The elevator doors open and we step inside, my hand still cradled in his.

* * *

Dane

“You haven’t said a word in exactly fifteen minutes.” My eyes fixed on the small and very quiet woman sitting beside me. “You disappoint me.”

Man, I really tried to be good. I worked out twice as hard. That was stupid; I can feel my knee throbbing as we speak. I took meetings with Fox Sports and the NFL channel. I went to Brooklyn every other day. I stayed away. It did not go well. It did not go well at all.

I don’t have an addictive bone in my body. Take football, for instance. The love of my life. I didn’t yearn for it once I decided to give it up. What was done was done. And yet this…shit, this was awful.

It was a constant feeling that I’d left something behind, or something was missin’, something was wrong. I woke up in a shitty mood every day. I went to sleep in a shitty mood every day. All over this quiet woman sitting next to me.

Her undivided attention on the Parenting magazine, she slowly flips pages. She hasn’t said more than two words since I gave her the little hand massage in the hallway. Nothing weird. It’s that seeing her look so tense and frightened––I didn’t like it.

“I thought Latinas were supposed to be fiery.”

She drops a sigh as heavy as a hammer and a smile stretches across my face. Feels good to smile again.

“Don’t be a total idiot,” she says, and flips another page. “And I’m half Irish. You would know this if you’d bothered to read the dossier I gave you.”

I read her daseeyay. Three times. Got the damn thing memorized. She doesn’t need to know that though.

“So…double the trouble, then?”

Another page flip. “I’m going to pretend this conversation isn’t happening.”

“Wylder family?” the nurse standing in the hallway calls, her eyes scanning the busy clinic waiting room. The baby business seems to be booming.

“That’s us,” I automatically answer, my hand raised in eager anticipation. Yes, eager. I’m excited to do this. Once I’ve set my mind on accomplishing somethin’, I go full steam ahead.

Stella’s dark head whips around and her brow wrinkles. She’s scolding me. She gets real cute when she scolds me. “No family. Just Donovan-Wylder,” she corrects, her eyes wide on me.

“She doesn’t need to know our personal business.”

“I’d rather not confuse the doctor. Or set a bad precedent.”

“Yeah, let’s not set a bad precedent with the doctor and allow her to think we’re a family. Come on, Wylder-Donovan.”

I get up and offer her a hand. For a second she hesitates, staring at it as if the fate of the universe hangs in the balance. Until something in her pretty little head convinces her to take it. Her touch soft, her skin pale, and for the first time I notice how small and delicate it is…how delicate she is. Delicate things break easily.

The nurse motions us forward and we follow her down the hall.

“Donovan-Wylder. Alphabetical order,” the small female whispers.

I stop and look down, her blue-green eyes big in her face. “My son’s gonna be a hyphenate?”

She blinks up at me. “Or daughter. Your daughter will have a hyphenated name.”

Daughter? I immediately picture a tiny little thing with tears in her big blue-green eyes and a shudder runs through me. “Let’s think positive.”

I get an eye roll. Some muttered words––in Spanish I think. Then she walks into the office.

Inside, the doc, Dr. Elmendorf, a middle-aged women with a no-bullshit look about her, stands and walks around her desk to shake both our hands.

“Please have a seat. I wanted to touch base with the two of you. Any lingering questions before we get started?”

An image of Stella big and round with my baby pops into my head and I’m gripped by a surge of fear I haven’t felt since my orthopedic surgeon said the words ACL tear four years ago. Women die in childbirth. This is a wrinkle I hadn’t considered before.

I clear my throat and both women turn their focus on me, watching me expectantly.

“I…ah…I want to be sure––” I wipe my palms on my jeans. Fuck’s sake, I haven’t been this nervous since draft night.

“Be sure of what, Mr. Wylder?” the doc says. Now they look confused.

“As you can see, Stella is small.” My eyes bounce back and forth between Stella and the doc. Their expressions alter to suspicion. “I want to make sure my baby won’t…”

“Won’t what?”

The silence continues. I’m starting to sweat. “Break her! You know––hurt her. There’s a good chance this baby ’ill be as big as a pony.”

A snort to my left gets my attention. I do a double take when I find Stella biting on her bottom lip. A tear slips out of the corner of her eye.

“Are you laughin’?”

“I can’t. I just can’t––” She barely gets the words out, wheezing between bursts of laughter. “Break me?” she repeats, followed by more laughter.

“If you weren’t so dang tiny, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’m not tiny, Dane. Five-four is perfectly normal. It’s you who’s overgrown.”

Then she smiles at me. Teeth and everything. So damn pretty she takes my breath away.

“No, Mr. Wylder. The female body is remarkably resilient. Miss Donovan will be fine regardless of the size of the baby. She may need a C-section, but that’s completely routine.”

The doc’s condescending tone puts my mind at ease. I don’t give a single shit if she talks to me like I’m a moron as long as she keeps Stella safe.

“If you say so, Doc.” Another muffled burst of laughter comes from my left. Now that that’s taken care of, I take a deep, calming breath and clap my hands together. “Let’s make a baby.”

* * *

Stella

“No, I don’t want any company,” I say, speaking into my cell as I stare at the non-existent contents of my refrigerator. A lonely, mostly empty peanut butter jar taunts me. Not a single slice of bread anywhere to be found. I should order some take-out. “Because even though they say bed rest is encouraged, the numbers on whether it helps adhere the embryo are inconclusive…I’m trying to get some work done. I’m fine. Really.”

My doorbell rings. My doorbell should never ring unless my doorman has alerted me someone is on the way up. Immediately suspicious, I glance at my cell and see that I, in fact, did not receive a call from the doorman. “Mamá, I’ll call you later. Someone’s at the door.”

Ending the call, I walk to the front door and peer through the door viewer. It’s worth explaining that all I see is his chest…and then a wide grin.

“What are you doing here?” I ask the man standing on the other side. He raises both hands, showcasing bags of food from Serafina.

“I’m here to play Nurse Ratched.”

He hasn’t shown up in weeks, and now he’s here. If this isn’t the most confusing man on the planet, then I don’t know squat.

“I don’t need a nurse.” And then it dawns on me. “How did you get up here––unannounced? There are no women working the door.”

“Eddie is a fan.”

Of course, he is. I need to have a talk with Eddie.

“The food is gettin’ cold.”

“Pizza?” I grumble

“Yep, open the door.”

As soon as the door swings open, his gaze goes straight to the hair piled up on my head in a messy bun. Then it slides past my ratty Princeton sweatshirt, down my yoga leggings, and lands on my super fluffy Titans socks. The amusement drops right off his face.

“You said you aren’t a football fan.” One corner of his almond-shaped eyes twitches, his stubborn chin lifting in sanctimonious disapproval.

Oh brother.

“I’m not,” I say as I force back a smile at his expense. “But if I knew torturing you was going to be this much fun, I would’ve worn these the day we met. Shoes off.”

Arms loaded with bags of food, he toes off his motorcycle boots without losing balance for a second. Even though his athleticism was never in question, it’s amazing to witness firsthand. With all the running and yoga I do I still don’t have a tenth of his natural ability.

Grabbing one of the bags of food from him, I head to the kitchen. Without prompting, Dane trails after me.

“What’s with the socks? This amounts to treason in my book.”

I place the bag on the counter and begin opening take-out boxes, the aroma of food making me giddy with delight.

“Let’s not get dramatic.” I grab a couple of dishes out of the cupboard. “Camilla gave them as stocking stuffers.”

“I’ll get you a pair of Gladiator ones. I’ll get you a dozen.”

“Knock yourself out,” I say loading a plate with pasta and handing it to him. The pasta smells out-of-this-world good. Practically drooling, I start on mine.

“I can’t have my family walking around with Titans shiiii stuff on.”

At the mention of family, my breath hitches and my movements slow. “We’re not a family, Dane.”

A tan hand comes to rest on the counter, next to my dish. I stop what I’m doing and look up to discover an expression on his face that is not only determined, but very serious for once.

He studies me quietly for an amount of time long enough to make me uncomfortable. The intensity of his gaze has always thrown me off a little.

“You’re carrying my child. That makes us family…whether you like it or not, Shorty.” His voice is gentle, but the force behind it brooks no argument.

“We don’t know if I’m pregnant.”

“Let’s think positive. And you need to lie down. Doctor’s orders.”

“There’s no real data supporting––”

“The doctor said you should lie down,” he says, talking over me. “You wanna do somethin’ to jeopardize this baby?”

Sigh. I’m not going to argue over semantics. One of the things I’ve learned to appreciate about him is the transparency of his thoughts. I seldom have to guess what Dane is thinking or feeling because his face tells me. And right now I can tell by the look on his face he’s ready to argue to his last breath over this.

“Fine…but I don’t like to eat in bed.”

He replies with a smug grin. No surprise.

Leading Dane to my bedroom feels weird, weirdly intimate. I pause at the threshold. He takes one look at the bed I speak of and gasps, eyebrows high up his forehead.

“A California king?”

Everybody’s got a fetish. Mine is oversized luxury mattresses. No doubt this stems from the lumpy twin I grew up sleeping in. A shrink would have a field day with this, among other things, which is why I’ve never seen one.

“I like big beds,” I mutter, as I lie down, propped up by a stuffed headboard and a mountain of pillows piled up behind me.

“Marry me?”

“No.”

“Glad we got that out of the way. Hand me the remote.”

Placing his dish down on the side table, he gets into bed, legs spread apart to accommodate the size of his ego. Once he’s made himself comfortable, he grabs his dish and starts eating.

“You have two choices,” I tell him. “Housewives of Atlanta, or the Food Network?” He stops chewing his pasta to give me a dirty look. “Housewives it is.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m working on my laptop and he’s talking to the television. This is unequivocally the chattiest man I’ve ever met. The Housewives thing didn’t work out when he started asking way too many questions.

“That’s bullshit, Coach, and you know it,” he grumbles. Glancing up, I’m not surprised to find ESPN on my television.

My gaze moves sideways, to take a long look at the man making himself at home in my bed. It’s comfortable, having him here. Which is strange because I haven’t had a man here in a long time.

In the last few years there have been a couple of unremarkable first dates, and one uneventful one-night stand due to some questionable judgment on my part at an industry event. Other than that, my dating life has been nonexistent.

I could blame the ridiculous hours I work. I legitimately could. But the truth is it was easier to let time get away than it was to put in the effort it takes to get another person to like me. Especially since dating in this city is an Olympic-caliber competition.

New York runs a surplus of beautiful, accomplished women year in and year out. The men who live here have had it way too good for way too long. They expect you to be all things. Charming, successful, independently wealthy, sexually experienced but not too experienced––all wrapped up in a Victoria’s Secret body.

It’s exhausting. And since I’m none of those things naturally––the Victoria’s Secret body doesn’t even warrant a discussion––it takes colossal effort on my part to get noticed at all. Effort I’m not willing to put in. The problem with being single is that it’s easy.

Turning on his side, Dane faces me while his eyes remain on the television. He plumps the pillow under his head before he settles in.

My attention lingers on the curve of his massive bicep, how the tan fades on the delicate skin under his arm. Two freckles play peekaboo. He smells good, the scent subtle and clean. It kick-starts a slow creeping warmth. Next comes a familiar stirring in my nether region.

This cannot be happening.

Crap…I’m sweating––sweating from embarrassment. I’m the one that railed against such behavior and yet here I am, behaving badly. God help me if he notices.

It’s the hormone treatments. Of course it is. That’s the reason for my body going haywire. Not the testosterone he’s emitting, or the pheromones, or whatever it is he’s got going on.

“Do you miss it?” I’m grasping at straws, anything to distract myself. His large, expressive eyes lift to mine in question. “Playing?” I add.

He turns onto his back, arms up, and stretches. His shirt rides up, exposing a trail of dark-blond hair and a carved abdomen. He strokes it in slow, lazy movements.

No, no, no! Don’t do that! I’m screaming on the inside, so panicked by my reaction that I actually contemplate pulling his shirt down.

“I do, but not the way most players do.” My eyes subtly return to his face. They need to stay there for safety reasons. “Most players miss the guys, the camaraderie. I miss those things too but mostly I miss the work…the grind.”

His lashes throw shadows, his jaw sharp even under the scruff. He really is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Empirically speaking, that is.

“Most players have families waitin’ on them at home––I didn’t…the grind was everything to me.”

“I get it,” I reply, nodding. His eyes lift up to meet me. “My career is everything to me too. I can’t imagine my life without it. What do you think you’ll do now?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m havin’ a baby,” he says with the sweetest smile.

“That can’t be enough. Not for someone like you.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, his voice carries a good amount of apprehension. He thinks it’s a criticism when it’s actually a compliment. Dane is full of life, vital in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

“You’re smart. You have a lot of energy. Some people are happy to slow down and just be––I can’t see you doing that. You’re a man that needs goals…a purpose.”

He studies me thoughtfully. Then his gaze drifts to the ceiling. “ESPN made me an offer.” By the tone of his voice I can safely assume he’s not thrilled with the idea.

“You don’t sound excited about it.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Why did you retire?”

His open gaze returns to me, glides from feature to feature on my face. “My body couldn’t take it anymore. The healing took longer and longer until I was playin’ injured all the time. And I wanted to go out on top. Not get traded to a team with a losin’ record, lookin’ for an experienced set of hands to babysit their rookie quarterback. So I hit my number and hung up the pads.”

“What number?” I murmur, all my attention on the cleft of his chin, on the missing burnished gold scruff where he must’ve had stitches at one time, on the sound of his deep raspy voice.

“Most touchdown catches for a tight end in NFL history.” There’s a subtle poke of amusement in his voice that forces my eyes back to his.

“Is that a big deal?” I sink down lower into the pillows, closer. Intimate talks in bed have never been my thing…and yet I’m enjoying this.

“In my world it is.” A soft smile tips up the corners of his sensual mouth.

“Are you okay with it? Being away from the game?”

The spark in his eyes tugs at me, keeping me present in the moment while the charge between us gains strength with each beat of silence that passes. He exhales softly and it reaches inside of me, filling up some empty corner I hadn’t noticed was empty until this very minute.

“I am now.”