Fair Game: A Football Romance (110 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Lourdes

It’s been a long month of doctor’s appointments, MRIs, Ultrasounds and a biopsy of a lymph node in my neck. My final diagnosis after all of these tests is just as they originally suspected: stage one Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. At eighteen weeks pregnant, they are confident that chemotherapy is the best treatment and will still be safe for the baby. I’ve done so much research, my head is swimming with risks, facts, percentages and treatment plans. When this is over, the only doctor I ever want to see again is my baby’s pediatrician, and even then, only for routine vaccinations and checkups.

Liam has been my rock. I would have fallen apart if not for him. And my family has been nothing short of miraculous. They even fought over whose house I should live in when I go through chemo. I told them I’m not leaving Liam. Toby is settled and comfortable, and everyone is within a two-mile radius.

Everyone is so supportive. Kit and Devin, and even my new friends, Felicia and Steve, have been here doing anything they can to help.

I’ve never felt more scared or more loved in my life.

This morning is my first day of chemotherapy. We are dropping Toby off at Rachel’s, and Mom is meeting Liam and me at the hospital. My parents love Liam almost as much as I do. They had a hard time for a while with the whole marriage/surrogate/girlfriend thing, but now they see how deeply he cares for me and how much Toby loves him.

“You ready to go?” Liam asks, standing just outside my bedroom door. We haven’t slept apart since my diagnosis. He spends every night down here in my lowly Queen-sized bed when he could be much more comfortable in his California King upstairs. He says he can’t stand to be apart from me and that sleeping up there only reminds him of Amira, and he hates to be reminded of her. She is still in Nigeria. It’s been months, and sometimes I wonder if she will ever come home. She has the divorce papers, but she’s been refusing to sign them while her father is still unconscious, and she asks about the baby obsessively. Liam has text after text every day asking about the pregnancy. He doesn’t answer any of them. She is completely in the dark about anything that’s going on. She has no idea I’m sick or that I’m living in her house.

“Yeah, I just need my bag and Toby’s things.”

“I’ve got all that in the car already.”

“Did you get my book?”

“Book, yes. Check.”

“My laptop?”

“Yes, laptop. Check. I put everything you wanted in there last night. You watched me, remember?”

“Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry, I’m just a little nervous,” I say, fiddling with the fringe on the throw pillow I’m hugging. Liam approaches and sits on the edge of the bed with me.

“You don’t ever have to apologize to me about anything, especially being nervous. Hell, I’m nervous and I’m not the one having chemo,” he says. He removes my hand from the pillow fringe and turns it over, palm up. He begins to draw letters on my palm that spell I love you and ends them with a heart. He’s been doing it for weeks. It started one night when we were talking about alternate forms of communication such as sign language and brail. I have no idea what got us on that subject, but it led to the tracing of letters on my hand and it stuck.

“It’s going to be fine, right? Everything is going to be okay?” I ask, and he looks at me with heavy seriousness and resolve.

“Absolutely yes. Everything is going to be fine, you’re going to be okay, and so is the little butterball in here,” he says, rubbing my now protruding belly.

“Thank you. I just need to hear it said out loud sometimes so it feels real.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing a reassuring kiss on my forehead.

“I love you too.”

“Okay, let’s go before Toby tears up the living room. He’s on a roll today.”

“I feel so bad that he’s spent so much time with Rachel and Mom, and when I’m here, I’m too tired to play with him.” He helps me from bed and holds my elbow unnecessarily all the way thorough the house. I’m able to walk, but I let him feel useful because he says he doesn’t feel like he’s doing enough. I don’t know how. He’s brought someone in to fill most of his time slots at the club, only keeping the Saturday night spot because it’s the most popular night. He spends the majority of his time during the day taking me to and from appointments or watching Toby while Mom takes me. And when there is nothing to do, he does nothing right alongside me. He reads to me, watches sappy chick flicks, takes my temperature, and forces naps on me. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t have to be forced to nap.

“He’s fine, look at him,” he says as we make our way through the living room.

Toby is sitting in the middle of no fewer than five decks of playing cards spread out all around him in a circle. He’s turning them over and chatting with himself about pades and mimonds. Which are
spades
and
diamonds
if you don’t speak two-year-old Toby.

“He’s gonna be a famous Texas hold ‘em player in Vegas someday,” Liam says.

I groan. “Not if I can help it, he’s not. I want him to go to college and meet a nice girl and have babies.”

“That life isn’t for everyone, babe. I’m living proof.”

I stop and wait for him to scoop Toby up, “How is that? You went to college while you were on tour, you met me, and now you’re having a baby.”

He pauses to think. “You’re right, aren’t you? Let’s just work on never letting him be drugged by a crazy Nigerian woman and tricked into marriage.”

“Deal.”

Two hours later, we have dropped Toby off and I’m sitting in a huge recliner in a treatment room, and Liam is in a less comfortable chair at my side. I’ve had forty-five minutes of teaching on my particular kind of chemotherapy, and I’ve been given my pre-meds. Now I sit and wait. I feel pretty good, all things considered. The anxiety medication is working well, so I’m not freaking out, although Liam could use a few milligrams of what they gave to me. Poor guy is going through so much with me. I feel guilty every time I feel grateful.

“You okay?” I ask him.

He cocks his head with one brow lifted high, “Are you really asking me that right now?”

I chew on the inside of my lip before answering, “Yeah, I guess so. Is that wrong?”

He heaves a deep sigh and takes my hand. “I am perfectly fine, Lourdes. It’s you we are supposed to concentrate on today. Relax and don’t worry about me. Just let me be here for you and help you if I can.”

He squeezes my hand tight, and I agree to try and relax.

My nurse is very kind. She’s been patient and understanding when we ask questions, and she’s attentive without being smothering. She hung my medications, checked my vital signs, and made me feel as at home as I could in a sterile hospital room. When I was done, she gave me instructions to drink a lot of water and take my nausea medications as needed.

Our best-case scenario, as they put it, is to do two rounds of chemotherapy, which consist of four total infusions, and if things look good, deliver as close to full term as possible. If things don’t go well, we will be delivering early, and I’ll have another round or two of chemotherapy again after I have the baby. Liam says we will definitely have the best-case scenario, but I’m not as optimistic. It seems like we’ve had the cards stacked against us from the start, so I’ve begun expecting the worst, and I figure I’ll be surprised with the best.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Liam

She made it through her first treatment like a champ. I couldn’t be more proud. I almost lost my breakfast a few times watching them access her port, but I sucked it up. I also checked her pulse every five minutes when she took a nap. She was so knocked out it looked like . . . I can’t even think about what it looked like.

We’re all home now, and everyone is tucked into bed for a much-needed nap, but my brain won’t shut off. I can’t figure out what is going on with Amira. She’s been gone for five months, but she just started driving me crazy with text messages about the baby two weeks ago. I told her it was no longer her business and to sign the damn divorce papers so we could be done, but she hasn’t.

She hasn’t messaged me once today. I’m not complaining, but it’s such a strange change in behavior. What am I saying? All of Amira’s behavior is strange. I can’t understand why her father is still in a coma and no one will tell her what’s going on with his will. She’s still receiving her trust fund money, so I’m sure she sees that as a positive. That only lasts until he dies though.

My question is this: If she wants to be married to me so badly, why doesn’t she just come home and wait to hear about her father from LA? I mean, he’s unconscious. He won’t know unless he wakes up. That’s got to be it. She’s worried he will wake up and find her gone and erase her forever.

I grab my computer and gently climb into bed next to Lourdes so as not to wake her. I’m not tired, and I’m sick of thinking about Amira, so I may as well work. Lately, I work best when I’m with Lourdes.

She’s curled up on her side with her hands pressed together under her pillow, breathing softly. I reach out and lay my hand on her growing belly. I’ve never seen a more adorable pregnant woman in my life. She’s only gained eight pounds, but it’s all baby. I’m amazed she’s gained any weight at all. Her appetite has diminished progressively over the past few weeks, so much that I practically have to bribe her to eat. She’s craving things she never eats like marshmallow peeps, which are not available in October, so I have to order them from Amazon. She wants peanut butter anyway she can get it, in a candy bar or a cookie or just on a spoon, so that’s what she gets. Whatever she wants, she can have, even if she won’t ask for it—which she won’t. Toby has become my little spy. He tells me when she mentions she likes a particular food, and voila! It’s in the kitchen. I’m sure she’s caught on, but if it works for her not to ask directly, then it works for me.

I haven’t felt the little butterball move yet, but the doctor says Lourdes should be able to soon. She moves in her sleep, so I take my hand off her bump in case I’m bothering her. When she’s adjusted herself onto her back with one arm over her head, I kiss that palm and trace the words I love you onto it. She stays sleeping and I’m glad. She’s been through so much that I think sleep is her only escape.

Ninety minutes later, I’ve abandoned my laptop to lie and watch her sleep. She rolls toward me without opening her eyes.

“I need some of that stuff for nausea,” she says.

“Okay, hold on. I’ll be right back.” I slip off the bed and grab her prescription off the dresser and a bottle of water.

“Can you sit up a little, babe, or do you think you’ll puke?” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“No, I think I’m okay. It’s mild. I just want to prevent it from getting any worse.”

I hand her the water and watch her swallow the pill.

“Where’s Toby?”

“Your mom came to get him a little bit ago. She wanted to take him to that new Pixar movie that just came out.”

“Oh. I’m glad he’s not here. Is that bad?”

“No, babe. It’s not bad for you to want to shield him from some of this. You’ll be feeling better in a couple of days, and he will never even know. Can you drink some water, or is the nausea too bad?”

“I’m gonna wait. Will you just lie with me?”

“Turn over.”

She rolls onto her other side, and I pull up the duvet and slide in behind her to spoon. God, she feels so good, and even though she hasn’t been near coffee or anything cinnamon today, the underlying scent of both are present when I nuzzle into her neck. It’s just her. She exudes the sweetness of cinnamon and the stimulation of coffee, neither of which I will ever get enough.

“Do you have any more Dr. Seuss rhymes for me today?” she asks.

“How about a game of love quotes?”

“Okay, how do you play?” She threads her fingers through mine and tucks both under her pillow.

“I’ll say a famous author’s quote about love, and you guess the author. If you get it, you get to choose one for me.”

“Okay, who’s going first?”

“Me.
I love her and that’s the beginning and the end of everything.”

“That’s easy. F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

“Shit, you’re better at this than I thought. Okay your turn.”

“
Love is like the wind. You can’t see it, but you feel it.
”

“Aw, easy peasy. Nicholas Sparks.”

“Okay, okay. You go, then, smarty pants.”

“
Love is a serious mental disease
.” She’s quiet for a moment, and just when I think I’ve stumped her, she blurts out the correct answer.

“Plato. I don’t know why I couldn’t think of that. It was on the tip of my tongue.”

“Mm, I do love the tip of your tongue.” I adjust my body around hers until there’s not a millimeter of space between us.

“I feel you back there,” she says with warning in her tone.

“I’m not asking for anything, babe. You know that.”

“I know, but I’m sorry anyway. I just don’t feel great.”

“I’m rolling my eyes so hard it hurts, just so you know. I wish you would quit apologizing for things that are totally out of your control. This shit sucks, but I’m standing by your side no matter what, so stop focusing your energy on how this is affecting me. Instead, focus it on you and how you’re going to get better. I love you. I got you. We got this.” I kiss the back of her head, and she takes a long, shuddering breath and blows it out.

“Even when my hair falls out?”

“Yeah, babe, even then.”

“Even when I’m barfing?”

“Yeah, even when you’re barfing.” She squeezes my hand and snuggles against my hard cock.

“Barfing and bald isn’t very sexy,” she says.

“I don’t care about your hair, and I’ll never ask for sex if you’re barfing, so don’t worry about it.”

“Shush . . . did you hear that?” she says. Every muscle in her body just tensed, and her head popped up off the pillow an inch.

“No, what is it?”

“I swear I heard the door open upstairs.”

“It’s probably your mom bringing Toby home.”

“No, you said they went to the movies. It’s too early for them to have seen a movie.” She’s sitting up now, with one hand protectively on her belly and the other on my shoulder.

“Then the wind, maybe. Lie down, you need to res—”

The door to Lourdes’s bedroom is shoved open so hard that it hits the wall with a loud bang. All of my uneasy feelings about Amira are confirmed when she bursts in, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“What the fuck is going on around here? I fucking fly halfway around the world to sit on my dad’s deathbed, and you’re here fucking some fake surrogate tramp in my own house? Bitch, you’d better be up and outta here before I count to five, or I’mma beat your scrawny little pregnant ass!” Amira yells and hitches her thumb toward the door with her hand on her hip—her very round hip that molds into a very round, pregnant belly. Holy fucking fuck, Amira’s gone and gotten herself pregnant. Oh, this is rich, her coming in here and accusing me of cheating with Lourdes when it’s as plain as day that she’s been fucking around on me.

“Amira, you need to leave,” I say with a lethal chill in my voice as I rise from the bed and stand between her and Lourdes.

She scrunches up her face in irritation and fury. “Oh, I’m not leaving, Liam. She is,” she says, leaning around me to point her long, sharp, manicured nail at Lourdes.

I turn to Lourdes, “Babe, just sit tight and stay here. I’ll be right back. Don’t stress, okay? Just lie back down and rest.”

She shakes her head back and forth and closes her eyes.

“No, Liam, I should go. I’ll leave so you two can work things out—”

“That’s right, bitch. You’re gonna go, and don’t ever fucking come back!”

“Amira!” I roar, and she is finally paying attention.

“Get the fuck out of this room and go upstairs, or I swear, I don’t care whose fucking baby you’re carrying, I’ll make you.” I point at the door, and a slow, nasty smile spreads across her face.

“I think you’re gonna be very interested in who my baby daddy is, Liam.”