Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance (2 page)

He surveyed my impromptu office with the lone degree on the wall. His voice—that mixture of quiet poise and rugged masculinity, riveted me in place.

“Or should I call you
Doc
now?”

“You can call me whenever—uh, whatever you want.” My tongue twisted as I greedily licked my lips. “How…how are you?”

Jude smiled once more. “Feeling good. Ready to play.”

No lie. Jude looked better than he had in years—proud, refined, and he’d dressed in a suit. A handsome man in formal dress had always been my Achilles’ heel—just the place for Cupid’s arrow to strike. Men in pads and jerseys didn’t do it for me anymore, probably because my step-brother played defensive end for the Atwood Monarchs. But a
suit
?

Jude filled out the material with solid muscle, not shoulder pads. The jacket obscured his broad shoulders and thick arms, but the fine silk still bulged and stretched where he flexed. He’d never been bulky, preferring lean muscle, agility, and speed to mark him as one of the best running backs in the league. He only appeared stronger now, even taller. But maybe that was because I lost myself in the gun-metal grey of his eyes.

The old league veteran hadn’t changed a bit. Even his dark hair, the waves that fell to his shoulders, hadn’t grayed. It gave him a youthful appearance, especially tucked into a neat, low ponytail.

At least when I swallowed my tongue, I’d have a pretty good chance of throwing it back up.

“So.
Jude
.” Even his name seemed like a naughty secret. “I didn’t know you were signing with the Rivets. I…didn’t know you were coming back to play at all, after what happened.”

“I’m fully recovered.” Jude had the decency to keep his eyes upwards, unlike Coach Thompson.

Cool air brushed my skin. It felt good over the embarrassed heat that suffocated me. Good thing I shared my father’s dark complexion. At least I couldn’t humiliate myself by turning pink.

I crossed my arms—tight, tight, tight.

Coach Thompson nodded and flashed me a smile. As usual, it made my skin crawl, but apparently that was common sentiment around the league. His reputation as a cheater preceded him, but I didn’t care how he planned to steal his victories. I only wanted to protect the players from concussions and head trauma.

“I’m glad you know each other,” he said. “This should go nice and easy. Doctor Merriweather, we need Jude cleared to play. Call my office once the exam is done. And Jude…” They shook hands. “Tomorrow morning, come in early to sign the contract. We’ll have you on the field with the team for AM Drills.”

“Excellent,” Jude said. “Thank you, Coach. I look forward to it.”

I stiffened, but the prickle of dread wasn’t the metal claw of my bra digging into my skin.

Jude wanted to play football again? After his last concussion? Was he
insane
?

Coach Thompson left us, closing the door behind him. Just me and Jude now, with nothing but a broken, unlatched bra separating me from absolute mortification.

“So…” I said. “You’re here?”

Jude took off his suit jacket and wrapped it over his arm. The white dress shirt tucked into the trim waist of his perfectly creased trousers. Too bad I was only looking at the shadow of a particularly interesting bulge.

“I’m here.”

My eyes darted up. “It’s great to see you.”

“Gonna give me a hug? It’s been what? A year?”

I forced a smile, but my eyebrows danced a far more panicked twitch. “Felt like an eternity without you.”

I leaned in close, shrugging as I attempted to fix the bra pinching off circulation to one very important nipple.

Why did he have to smell so good? A blending of earth and grass and spice.

“You look great,” I said. “How are you feeling—?”

I tried to pull back but couldn’t move. Jude twisted, and the jagged bit of underwire poking from my bra latched onto him like the material was made of superglue, magnets, and the endless criticism of a disappointed step-mother.

Why haven’t you found a man yet, Aurora? Why are you specializing in neurology?
I
wouldn’t waste a year of my career on this fellowship.

I couldn’t find a man because I was a ridiculous, pregnant disaster, and hopefully studying neurology with this fellowship would eventually find a cure for terminal awkwardness. None of this helped me dislodge myself from Jude’s arms.

“Hold still—” He grimaced.

“Oh, wait. Hold on—”

“I think we’re attached.”

If only. “I’ve always had a special bond with you.”

“Your…uh, bra is…”

Going to be an effective noose for later? Yep. “One sec…”

I turned. He ducked closer. The wire slipped.

And my elbow clocked him on the side of the head.

Down went Jude Owens, the greatest crush and curse of my twenty-nine years of life.

The bra sprung free, tumbling onto his lap as he sat on the ground. Oh, hell. He could keep it. He’d earned it.

Maybe this was all a dream. I’d click my heels three times and wake up with the ruby slippers jammed in my mouth. Or maybe I’d wear them while I begged the wizard for a functional brain, a non-palpitating, lovesick heart, or a goddamned backbone so I could finally tell Jude how I felt about him.

“I am so sorry.” I knelt beside him on the ground.

“Guess I’ve fallen head over heels for you, Doc.”

“Elbows over ass is more like it.”

He rubbed his head, shaking away whatever cobwebs I struck loose. There couldn’t be too many. Jude’s brain had been battered, bruised, and bombarded with his last injury. It was a miracle he was even walking, let alone
thinking
of playing another season.

Jude plucked my bra from his lap and smirked. Of course the lacy material would be harlot
red
. Something sultry, sexy, and the only thing that had still fit. It was better suited for a naughty nurse fantasy than a struggling resident completing her fellowship.

He handed me the bra. “Isn’t the patient supposed to strip for the doctor?”

“I’ll put some music on.”

“Good thing Magic Mike was the only movie ever on in the hospital.”

“Picked up some new moves?”

“I’ll either burn the defensive line or seduce them. Either way, it should be an interesting season.”

I helped him to his feet and ensured all parts of me were covered. “You’re serious about this?”

“Well…about the season.” His smile was familiar, comforting. “I’m still not that great of a dancer.”

“You’re going to
play
?”

“I’m signing with the Rivets as soon as the staff neurologist clears me to play. Couldn’t have asked for a better reunion.”

My stomach twisted, but not for the usual reason. I tried to count the years on my fingers. He’d been drafted the same year as Eric, but my step-brother could handle a few more seasons.

“But this is your…twelfth season.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure you want to put yourself through this again? Everyone thought you wanted to retire after…you know.”

“Cole Hawthorne’s hit. I know. The whole team is talking about it, trying to make some sort of peace between me and Cole. But there’s no bad blood. Cole visited me in the hospital specifically to apologize. Everything about that hit is in the past.”

Or so he thought, but I’d studied the MRIs, scans, and tests of players suffering from concussions far less severe than Jude’s. The worst wasn’t behind him—it was yet to come. Ten, fifteen, twenty years into the future.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” I tossed the bra away. The damn thing arced over the desk and draped on the degree hanging on the wall. I’d never make that shot again.

“Absolutely. I know I have another season left in me.” Jude’s grey eyes hardened without being intimidating. Confident, but not arrogant.

And more than a little naïve.

“Don’t you think—”

“I’m only signing a one-year deal, just for a shot at the championship.” Jude ran a hand through his hair. “How crazy is this? I never thought I’d be one of your patients.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t be. I usually only work with injured people.”

“Good thing I’m fully recovered. I’m surprised though—Eric didn’t say you were working for the Rivets.”

I chuckled. “It’s only my first day. And you know better than to get your information from Eric—he couldn’t tell neurology from nephrology.”

“He was always an unsophisticated boor.”

“You don’t know what nephrology is, do you?”

“Raising skeletons and people from the dead?”

“That’s necromancy.”

“Could have studied that. What would Regan have said?”

I snorted. “My step-mother hasn’t forgiven me for not going into pediatrics like her. Or getting the same grades as her. Working through med school, like her. Becoming an accomplished pianist, like her…”

Jude grinned. “Well, you know I’m proud of you, Rory. You got your degree. Made it this far. You have one hell of a future ahead of you.”

Sure, I hopped out of med school and was about to dive into Lamaze classes. Definitely
not
what I had in mind.

“Well, you’re my last patient of the day,” I said.

“But not least, right?” He rubbed his head. “Or do you hit all your patients?”

“Only the unlucky ones.”

“Do the lucky ones get hit
on
?”

I arched an eyebrow. “You think I’d breech my ethics for anyone but you?”

“I just don’t want to get jealous.”

“Does it help to know that you’re the only patient I’ve flashed today?”

“It does, actually.” He winked. “I’m flattered.”

And I was still mortified. “Anything for you.”

“Fair is fair. Why don’t you give me a once over too?”

The shock stunned me for a long, idiotic second before I realized he meant the
exam
. I coiled my tongue in my mouth before I unceremoniously panted.

I was pregnant—this was
not
the time to indulge in any sort of crush.

“I’d love to look at you—love you over—
look
you over.” And that slip of the tongue would shame me awake all night. “I would examine you, but Lachlan Reed just blew up my computer.”

“I wouldn’t normally ask this—”

“Uh-oh.”

“Can’t you pull some strings? I’d take anything you’re willing to give, Doc.”

Likewise.

But
denying
his medical clearance was the only logical and safe course of action. He was an amazing athlete, but he was so concussion prone. And he was probably still recovering from what should have been career-ending head trauma.

“I’ll do anything, Rory,” he said. “The sooner this is done, the better. I gotta start learning the plays and getting comfortable with Jack Carson. It’s hard enough playing on a new team, let alone starting fresh after an injury.”

This was a bad idea. “There’s a verbal test you can take…but I’d feel a lot more comfortable with a thorough exam.”

“You want MRIs? I got em. Tests and scans and blood work and a complete physical. All yours, Rory. I’ll give you whatever you want so I can play some football. Can you help me out?”

Oh God, that smile. I spent years trying to memorize it. Now I just wanted to ignore it.

“Okay, I’ll do this like an interview,” I said. “I’ll ask you a series of questions—most are just generic wellness surveys, others will be memorization and logic tests. I want to get a standardized, point-based review of your current cognitive abilities.”

Jude took the chair opposite my desk, studying me like it was the first time he’d laid eyes on me. Probably hadn’t seen me without a bra before, so there was that.

“Gotta say, Rory. You’re really impressing me with all the medical stuff. I’ve been surrounded by doctors for the past year and a half, and it’s nice to have a familiar face.” He shrugged. “Prettiest doctor I’ve had too.”

I plopped into my seat. Too quick. The motion swirled an already churning stomach.

Everything lurched.

This wasn’t happening.

I gave the universal motion for a time-out and bolted from the room. I’d stashed a waste bucket in a supply closet halfway down the hall for just this sort of emergency.

Confetti cake for lunch was a bad, yet flashy, idea.

Streaks of red, blue, and yellow stained within an eruption of pink. My morning sickness bedazzled in a glitterastic moment of disgust. Granted it was festive, but it only reminded me, in a rainbow of regret, that I was in absolutely no condition to flirt with Jude.

I pitched the trash can in the restroom’s larger garbage bin and hurried back to Jude.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Everything okay?” He rubbed his head. “Usually girls like it when I call them pretty.”

“And don’t think I haven’t heard the stories.” A good misdirect. “Last I heard, you were the league’s most eligible bachelor.”

He groaned. “People keep saying that like I’ve got a crown and scepter.”

“Had an article in a couple of magazines.” I grinned. “Eric saved them.”

“Yeah. Eric also took out a half-page ad in my local newspaper to torment me.”

“Most guys would like a good wing-man.”

“Not me. My focus is, and always has been, on the game. No distractions. I eat, live, and breathe football.”

Great. He was going to hate me.

I’d kept a copy of the paper test with my clipboard. I hardly needed to ask the questions. I knew the result I’d get.

“Answer these as honestly as you can,” I said. “Name?”

“Jude Owens.”

I smirked. “Age?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Birthday?”

Now
he took offense. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

It was hard to forget when he shared mine. “You tell me, and I’ll let you know if you’re right.”

“February eighteenth.”

“Perfect. Team position?”

“Running back.”

“Medications?”

He hesitated. “Uh…Ritalin.”

“…Really?”

“Helps me focus.” He leaned forward. “And… Propranolol.”

“Oh.” The word trembled from my lips. I hated asking it. “Migraines?”

“Not so many anymore. It’s really been improving these last few months.”

“Good,” I said. “And what about your life? Any sex—
symptoms
? Any recurrent problems from your last concussion? Dizziness?”