Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,195

first known a winning season, and she’d baked a cake to celebrate. And finally, the parking lot of the hotel.

Out of the car and through the front doors. Knowing that he was sweaty, that he was filthy, that people were staring. That this would be in the news eventually, inevitably, because there was no entertainment like somebody else’s pain. All that knowledge and all the faces scrolled by like the newsfeed at the bottom of the screen giving you the sports scores, and then he and Jennifer were alone, heading up in the elevator. Down another hall. Into their suite.

He was made of glass, brittle and rigid. His movements were jerky as he took off his shoes and socks, and his hands had started to shake.

It was Jennifer who unbuttoned his shirt, Jennifer who unbuckled his belt and finished undressing him. Jennifer who pulled off her own clothes, took his hand, and took him into the shower. Too small for two people, especially when one of them was big and the other one was pregnant, but she got in with him anyway, grabbing a washcloth along the way.

Jennifer, washing him down, getting rid of the sweat and the dirt and, finally, the tears, when the dam that had been inside him for so long finally burst its banks. When he had his palms flat against the wall, his forehead resting against the cold fiberglass, and his shoulders were shaking, his legs trembling, his chest heaving. Jennifer stood there as the water beat down on them, her belly against his side, and washed him clean, her hands never stopping until the sobs turned to shudders and, finally, ended. Until he was just standing there, drained and spent and powerless.

She reached around him and turned off the water. She got towels and helped him dry off, and he did the same for her. And then she took him into the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and lay down with him, her body entwined with his, her hand on his face, and said nothing.

He put his hand on her belly, because something was moving there, a ripple under the skin like a fish beneath the still waters of a lake. He rested his palm over the spot and said, his voice scratched and rusty, “He’s moving. I feel it.”

She kissed his shoulder, and the touch of her lips was a blessing. “He’s turning somersaults. He’s a busy boy. An athlete. I think he’s going to be learning to ride a bike early. He’s going to want to do everything his dad does, because he’s going to think he’s got the best dad in the world.” She pulled back just a little, so he could see the seriousness in her eyes. “And he’s going to be right. She’d be so proud, Harlan. She’d be so happy to know the man you’ve become. She’s happy knowing it now. You must feel that, here in your heart.” Her hand was over the spot, and there was love in that hand. “Nikki Layne Kristiansen. She’s finally resting in peace, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

She left her hand there, wrapped her leg more tightly around him, so her softness surrounded him, and said, “I think we should name him Nicholas.”

62

Kickoff

Jennifer wasn’t almost six months pregnant anymore. She was seven months pregnant. It was also August. It was Portland, but still. It was August, and she needed to fix dinner.

She’d been doing most of the cooking after the first day of training camp, which had started five days after they’d come back from Bismarck. A day when Harlan had come in the door more than ten hours after he’d left, looking like every muscle hurt.

He’d kissed her, same as always, and held her, too, as she’d asked, “What happened? You’re hurt.”

She felt as much as heard the tired laugh. “Yeah, no, baby. That’s training camp. Just lucky the Devils hold it on campus, or I’d be in a hotel right now, feeling pretty sorry for myself. Instead, I get to come home to you.” He’d stood back, tried a smile, and said, “Let’s order out, though.”

Hence the switch in cooking responsibilities. He’d tried to take them back after the first week, when he’d assured her that his body was tuned up again, and anyway, football was pain and he was used to it, and she’d said, “When were you planning on doing the shopping for that? On your one day off a week? When you’re staggering home? Not