Fair Game: A Football Romance (37 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Major

Yeah I know, I am an asshole

“You said ten o’clock!” I yell. “It’s scheduled at ten and I was ready at ten. Now you tell me I’m supposed to be there at one?”

“Sir, it was changed last week. I updated your itinerary two days ago.”

“You should have reminded me. I have a lot of shit going on right now. I need to know where the fuck I’m going and when. Do you understand, Staff Sargent Jamison?”

Jamison’s body tenses when he replies, “Yes, sir.”

I sit down at my desk and press the power button on my computer and adjust the tape dispenser a centimeter to the left. The last two months have been straight hell. People are walking on eggshells around me, and with good reason. I’ve been an asshole.

Ever since I let Violet walk out of my life without a fight, all I want to do is fight—about anything, with anyone. People see me coming, and if it’s not too obvious, they turn the other way to avoid me. I am impossible to be around, and I don’t give a fuck.

I had no idea of the effect that woman had on me until she was gone. I’ve almost called or texted her a million times. I even went to San Diego and followed her into a bar the first weekend after she left. She was so close, I even brushed against her when we passed in the crowd, but when I thought she might have spotted me, I did the fucking right thing to do. I left.

I have been torturing myself, imagining her in someone else’s arms at night, another man’s bed. I want her so badly I can feel it in my bones, but then I remember what happened with Katie and I rein in my selfish desires. I am proficient at one thing in this world, and that’s being a Marine. Being a husband was the biggest fail of my life, and I refuse to repeat that disaster. Losing my chance with Violet is one of the worst punishments I’ve endured, second only to losing my wife.

An attitude adjustment is long overdue, and there is only one person who knows how to handle me. I take my phone from a drawer in my desk and call Sabrina.

“Hey, you busy?” I ask when she answers out of breath.

“No, just off the treadmill. What’s up, love?” she says in her beautiful British accent.

“I need some company. Can we meet?”

“Of course, what do you have in mind?”

“Well, since you’ve already worked out, why don’t you let me feed you?

“All right, give me an hour, will you? I need to shower.”

“Meet me at Gilly’s.”

“Don’t go bossing me about, Sawyer. I’m not one of your little plonkers, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I
apologize
. Let me start again. Will you
please
honor me with your presence at Gilly’s for lunch?”

“I would love to. See you soon then.”

“Goodbye, Sabrina,” I say, but she senses something in my voice is off because she pauses before hanging up.

“Sawyer?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you too.”

The line goes dead, and I slump back into my chair and stare at whatever the hell Jamison has pulled up on my monitor. I can’t think about work anymore today.

“Jamison, cancel everything for this afternoon. I’m leaving.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter Sixteen

Violet

Shit storm surprise

My lungs hurt, it’s hard to breathe, and I just want to go home and crawl into bed. Unfortunately, per the usual lately, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this project and I can’t leave.

“Violet, you sure you don’t want to go and lie down for a little while? You’re looking sort of pale,” Gene says.

Gene is sweet. He’s the total nerd package, though, all work and zero play. I know computer nerds are in style lately, but Gene isn’t the cool kind of nerd. He’s the nerdy kind of nerd. I find it amusing that a person who is so socially inept is a major computer designer for one of the largest social media platforms of our time.

I cough, and it hurts so bad my eyes water. “No thanks, the sooner we get done, the sooner I can go home to bed, so let’s just hurry, okay?”

“Sure, Violet, got it, hurry,” he mutters to himself, and I tap halfheartedly on my keyboard.

When I look up twenty minutes later after a long coughing jag, Gene looks like he’s at the end of a long tunnel. He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The next thing I remember is Marie gently patting my cheek and telling someone to call an ambulance.

I try to open my eyes and tell her it’s not necessary and that I probably just passed out from coughing so hard, but I close my eyes and they are gone again.

The next time I come around, I’m looking into the face of a man in scrubs.

“Hello, Miss Washington, how are you feeling?”

I feel something pressing on my face and reach up to see what’s causing the discomfort.

“Oh no, let’s just leave that there for a while. We’re giving you some oxygen. You’ve got quite a bad case of pneumonia. Have you been to the doctor for your wheezing recently?” he asks, and a nurse enters the room and hands him a chart with my name on it.

“No I uh, I’ve been so busy at work and I just thought it was a bad cold or something. I have pneumonia? Are you sure? I don’t think I felt that bad,” I say, my voice cracking and croaking.

“Yes, I’m quite sure. Your oxygen saturation was in the upper seventies, low eighties when they brought you in. You fainted in your office, do you remember that?”

He’s flipping through the pages of the chart while he talks. Something he sees makes him stop suddenly.

“Sort of, I remember having tunnel vision and then I woke up for a minute, but other than that, not so much.”

Little spirals of smoke rise from the mask that’s muffling my speech. I watch them swirl up and away from my face and try to think about exactly how long I’ve been sick. It’s been a week, maybe ten days. I’ve been working so hard the past two months and my immune system is shot. I’ve caught every bug that’s gone around the office. I just figured this was another viral thing that I’d get over on my own. I guess not.

“Ah, Violet . . . is it okay if I call you Violet?” the doctor asks. At least I think he’s a doctor.

“Yes, sure.”

“I have some lab results here that I need to discuss with you.”

I blink. My eyelids are heavy, but I open them wide and make an effort to stay alert. Lab results, he needs to talk. Okay, pay attention, Violet, and then you can go back to sleep.

“Whenever we get someone in the ER who is unconscious, we order a few blood tests for the patient’s safety.”

“Okay, blood tests. Go on.” I’m so fucking tired and my chest is so heavy, I could really care less about the blood tests. Just give me something to make me better so I can go home to my own bed.

“Were you aware that you’re pregnant?” he asks.

I’m sure I just heard him wrong. I’m sick. I’m here for pneumonia. He didn’t just try to tell me I’m pregnant.

“Violet? I’m going to take it that your lack of response and the shock on your face means that you weren’t aware of this.”

“Did you say I’m pregnant? As in a baby?” I ask.

I’m shocked as fucking hell. No, I wasn’t fucking aware of this, mostly because it can’t be true, it isn’t true. I’m on the pill, I always use protection . . .

“Oh my God,” I say, my voice nothing but a whisper. Major and I didn’t use a condom the second night we spent together, and we had sex four, five . . . hell, I don’t even know how many times. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’ve just started to make it through an entire day without thinking of him, without my heart bleeding in my chest.

“Yes, as in a baby. You’re about eight weeks along. When was your last period?”

I think back. Crap, I know I had a period the week before we left for the wedding because I was happy I wasn’t going to have it while I was on vacation. I’ve been working so hard, I didn’t even realize I missed it last month.

“The end of April, first week of May.”

“Well, that lines up perfectly with what your blood results say. We will have to do an ultrasound to verify the pregnancy and get an actual due date, but I’d guess around the last week of January or the first week in February is when you’ll be full term. Were you using birth control?”

“Yes, the pill,” I say, staring straight ahead of me at an ugly painting of a field full of daisies. Why do they always have such ugly artwork in hospitals? Why do they have artwork in the ER at all?

I’m on the pill. This isn’t supposed to happen. I don’t know shit about babies. I was a computer nerd growing up. I didn’t babysit like the other girls my age. I fixed computers, I was in the computer science club, I tutored people in chemistry and physics. God, what am I going to do?

“Birth control pills are 99% effective. This doesn’t happen often, but obviously it happens sometimes. I’m sure you have a lot of things on your mind right now, so I’ll let you rest while this sinks in. We can talk about an ultrasound in the morning when you’ve had some antibiotics and a few breathing treatments. Is there anyone we can call for you, someone to come sit with you for a while, bring you some things perhaps? You’ll be here a couple of days for the pneumonia.

“My phone, it’s in the pocket of my sweatshirt. I need to call my mom.”

The good doctor rummages through a plastic bag that I assume is holding all of my belongings and pulls out my phone. I don’t even want to know how I got undressed and into this gown. Lord, I hope Gene didn’t have anything to do with that.

“Here you go, you have a couple of friends in the waiting area. Would you like me to send them back or tell them you’re too tired?” he asks.

I really just want to sleep, but I would feel bad if I didn’t thank whoever came with me to the hospital.

“They can come in, but doctor . . . what was your name again?”

“Dr. Kumar, I apologize. I don’t think I introduced myself.”

“That’s okay, Dr. Kumar, could you please not mention the pregnancy thing to anyone?”

He reaches out and covers my hand with his. “Of course, it’s a HIPPA violation to discuss your condition with anyone who’s not involved in your care.”

His hand is cool on mine. It feels good. I must have a fever, because it’s hotter than hell in here. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me with any tenderness. Eight weeks, to be exact. It’s nice. He has a good bedside manner, and he’s not hard to look at either, with his big, dark eyes and his longish jet-black hair pushed off his forehead with a chunk flopping in his eye. All right, this is ridiculous. I must be feverish. I’m having flirty thoughts about my physician, and I’m sick and pregnant.

And alone.

Shit, I need my mother.

Dr. Kumar smiles and slides my chart into a slot at the end of the bed before leaving.

“Rest. I’ll see you on rounds in the morning.”

“I’ll be right here,” I say, holding up my arm to show him that I’m tethered to my IV. He chuckles and tilts his head to the side for a moment. He’s thinking, but it doesn’t feel like he’s thinking
Doctor
thoughts. He looks like he’s thinking
man
thoughts.

“Goodnight, Violet,” he says and closes the door.

My God, this has got to be the biggest shit storm I’ve ever been in. I have pneumonia, I fainted, I rode in an ambulance for the first time, and I don’t even remember it. I’m hospitalized, pregnant, and I’m pretty sure my hot doctor is interested in me as more than a patient.

I press
Mom
on my contact list and she answers on the first ring.

“Violet, what’s wrong? You never call this late, are you okay?”

Wow, now that’s a loaded question. I think I’ll start with the pneumonia and work up from there.

“Not really, Mom. I’m in the hospital. Apparently, I have pneumonia. Can you come and bring me my toothbrush and stuff? The doctor says I’ll be here a couple of days.”

“Violet Rhea Washington, I told you days ago to see a doctor about that cough. You didn’t listen to me, did you?”

It’s obvious I didn’t, but moms will be moms, so I give her this.

“No, I’m sorry. I was so busy at work. I just didn’t take the time.”

“You’ve been working entirely too much lately. You’ve worn down your immune system and now you’re really sick. I can’t believe—”

“Mom,” I say, interrupting her rant.

“What?”

“Will you please just come? It’s hard to breathe. I can’t talk anymore.”

What an awesome excuse, and it’s even true. I’ve been holding up the oxygen mask to talk to her and it’s harder to breathe.

“Yes, of course, I’m coming.”

“Do you still have a key to my apartment?”

“Yes, I’ll stop and get you some things.”

“Thanks, Mom, and Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Good Lord, I better get up there. You must be delusional. You never tell me you love me anymore.”

“Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry up.”

I hear her huff and hang up the phone. She’s right. I don’t tell her I love her enough. I don’t do anything lately other than work. I’m going to need her support now more than ever. I’d better get out the pink hearts and red markers and start proclaiming my love—and often.

***

For a place where you’re supposed to rest and heal, they sure as hell wake you up enough. I haven’t slept longer than an hour all night.

Mom arrived around midnight, and luckily, that’s when the nurse wanted to check my vital signs and the respiratory therapist stopped by for a friendly chat and a breathing treatment. But that’s where the convenience ended. Since two a.m., my room has been a constant stream of changing IV bags, hanging different antibiotics, and checking my temperature. I plan on complaining to my new favorite, Dr. Kumar, as soon as the sun comes up.

I’m envious of my mother sleeping in her cot by the window. Last night was proof that she can sleep through absolutely anything. Maybe it’s because I feel so crappy, or I suppose it could have something to do with the fact that I have a human being growing inside of me that I didn’t even notice for two months. I’m off to a great start at this mothering thing.

The hardest part of the whole thing is that I know I’m going to have to confront Major. He’s the father, there’s no doubt. I haven’t slept with anyone for months before or after him, and even then, I insisted on using a condom.

What the hell was I thinking? How could I be so careless? I can’t even take comfort in knowing that it was fifty percent his fault because he asked me before we did it.

In the heat of the moment—yep, been there, done that. Big time.

I try to turn onto my left side and get tangled up in my damn IV and oxygen tubing. The oxygen yanks my head the opposite direction, and I yelp.

“Oh, hey there, let me help you with that,” Dr. Kumar says, hustling from the door to the bedside. He surprised me. I didn’t know he’d be rounding so early.

“I can’t move in here. I’m hung up on something over here, and my face is—”

“Shush, shush, just hold still, I’ll fix it.”

And he does. My arm is stuck on one side of the bed where my IV is tangled in the bedside rail. Dr. Kumar carefully tugs it free, and I’m given enough leash to roll to my side.

“Thank you,” I murmur through the oxygen mask. It’s just barely dawn outside, and the room is slowly growing lighter as I watch Dr. Kumar work at untangling my oxygen tubing. I didn’t notice last night, but he has the most beautiful thick black eyelashes. He catches me staring at him and smiles.

When I’m tangle free, I thank him again.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I can’t have you hanging yourself with tubing when I’m trying to fix your lungs. How are those lungs this morning anyway? Are you feeling any better?”

He removes the stethoscope from his neck and places it on my chest.

“Deep breath in.”

I do as I’m told and answer one of his questions between breaths.

“They hurt.”

“Again, inhale. Good, now exhale.”

His voice is hypnotic, like one of those meditation tracks you listen to when you’re trying to relax.

“And no, I feel like shit,” I say when he lifts the stethoscope and places it down on another part of my chest.