Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,69

“I’m checking you all for head injuries after this game.”

Lachlan grinned, rushing forward to pat my tummy. Unfortunately, Jack lined up behind him.

“I don’t need luck for this game…” Jack gave a sheepish grin. “But I’m hoping pregnancy is contagious. Leah’s gonna have a nervous breakdown if I don’t get another baby.”

“I’m either a good luck charm or a fertility idol,” I said. “Pick one.”

The linebackers overheard. They descended like locusts, led by Cole Hawthorne.

“You’re a good luck charm?” Cole asked.

I gave up. “Sure.”

Why The Beast was concerned with luck, I’d never know, but my fellowship did not include getting tummy rubs from the entirety of the team.

I’d been warned random people would invade my personal space and point out the part of me growing larger and more visible by the day. But I’d expected kindly old ladies, not the entire starting lineup of the Ironfield Rivets.

But I didn’t mind. Not if Jude was one of the men who lined up for another touch.

Great. I finally got rid of the morning sickness only to get love sick instead.

The team managed to finish their newfound ritual before the game started. I followed them as the players took to the field—grinning like a fool as the fans erupted into their favorite howl/cheer.

“Jude!”

He was a fan favorite, not doubt. Also my favorite to watch as I stayed tucked onto the sidelines with the medical staff.

We had been lucky the beginning of the season. No any major injuries beyond the occasional twisted ankle or knee sprains. Unfortunately, that streak ended today.

In the middle of the first quarter, our offense took the field. Jack threw a quick pass over the middle for Isaac, one of the league’s more gifted receivers. He caught the ball, but Gainesville’s middle linebacker instantly pummeled him.

The hit was quick, fierce, and so close it jarred my bones.

I knew the instant it happened Isaac was in trouble.

The stadium groaned and went quiet as the time-out was called. I didn’t wait for the medical team. I rushed to the grass, ignoring how utterly—udderly?—ridiculous I looked hustling to the player, baby bump first. The game was nationally televised. Fantastic. All of America saw me juggling my jibbles as I rushed to Isaac’s side.

He sat up, but I didn’t let him off the ground. He blinked too many times, and his words slurred as he swore.

“Fusck.” He wobbled a little too much. “I thought your tummy was slucky.”

“It’s lucky, but it’s not a shield,” I said. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Rather give you my number.”

He’d be fine.

The other trainers waited for my signal, and we helped him to his feet. I walked beside him, asking him more questions.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“2016.”

“Good,” I said. “And where are you playing right now?”

“Football.”

“No. Where?”

Isaac swore again. “Ironfield.”

“Good. Do you know who your quarterback is?”

“Play-Maker.” Isaac used this as an opportunity to shout for Jack from the sideline. “I want that ball back!”

We led him to the bench, but I didn’t like what I saw. Coach Thompson hurried over, casting off his headset and slapping Isaac’s shoulder pads.

“Don’t be a pussy, Isaac. You good to play?”

I answered for him. “I need to take him to the locker room for an evaluation.”

“For what?” Coach Thompson barked. “That was a good, clean hit. Isaac’s fine.”

“It doesn’t matter if the hit was clean or dirty. He’s exhibiting signs of a concussion.”

“That’s just Isaac. He’s goddamned quick on the field, but he ain’t smart off of it.”

“Hey,” Isaac grumbled.

“But he’s a damn good receiver,” Coach Thompson said. “And I need him in the game.”

“And I need to take him for an evaluation.”

“He just had his bell rung.”

“Isaac had a concussion last year. Any new hit could cause serious damage.”

“Damage? You want to talk damage? He’s my best fucking receiver. I need an early score in this game, and he’s gonna catch it.” Coach Thompson pointed at me. “He’s up. He’s walking. He’s playing. If he was seriously hurt, we’d know it.”

Was he arguing with my medical degree? “That’s not necessarily true. Symptoms might remain latent until—”

“Doctor Merriweather. He has no symptoms. And I think it’s time you let him play again.”

“I can’t let him on the field. I’m worried about—”

“Worry about yourself.” Coach Thompson edged a little too close and spoke a little too rough. “I know you’re eager to prove yourself, but I won’t have you interfering with my game. I’d hate to report this insubordination to Doctor Frolla. Do you understand?”

Now I did.

My stomach bundled