The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2)

“I’ll take the Motrin, but look for the minibar, vodka will do the trick.”


I gaped at him, unsure what to do or say, because unless he woke up in the middle of the night and drank a half bottle of liquor, there was no reason he should have been hung over this morning. He was completely sober last night. The entire time we were together he’d only had three—no, four—drinks. Four drinks over four hours was perfectly acceptable.

“Um, I don’t think you should m-mix alcohol and pain m-meds.”

“Who are you then? My mam?” he spat, squinting at me again. “If you’re bent on nagging you can leave now.”

I gasped. “Bryan-”

“Quit saying my name. I know what my goddamn name is. What’s your name?”

I gasped again, stumbling back a step. “W-what?”

“You heard me, or are you daft too?” he growled, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Shite that hurts.”

“You d-d-don’t know m-m-my n-n-n-n-” I stuttered, then clamped my mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass myself further.

What is happening? How can this be happening?

I stared at him, wondering maybe if he were joking. Was this a joke? Best case scenario this was his idea of a joke. Otherwise. . .

Otherwise it was one of two things: either Bryan Leech, professional athlete, had brain injury that caused short term memory loss. Or Bryan Leech had no idea who I was because he’d been drunk last night. He’d been pissed and I’d had no idea.

He exhaled loudly, sounding frustrated. And when he spoke I was certain he was trying to be gentle; instead the words were patronizing and dismissive. “Listen, sorry for snapping. I just-my head is bleeding killing me. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, and I assume you had a good time last night?”

This can’t be happening.

I covered my mouth with my hand. I wasn’t going to be able to speak without either crying or stuttering, so I kept my mouth shut.

Apparently, he didn’t require an answer. “It’s pretty late and I want to catch a nap before heading out, so maybe just,” he waved toward the bedroom door as he turned away from me, curling on his side, “go get a massage or something at the spa. You can charge it to the room, my treat.”

I couldn’t move.

I was rooted in place, my mind complete chaos. It was like one of those horrible movies or television shows, where the woman wakes up and she’s in an alternate reality.

Maybe I’d been drugged?

But no, I hadn’t been drugged. I remembered each detail perfectly. Every look, every touch, every word, every wonderful moment.

My stomach pitched and suddenly I felt like I was going to be sick. I ran for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I had just enough time to lift the lid of the toilet before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl.

As I flushed the toilet I heard Byan’s voice call from the other room, “Jesus Fecking Christ, please tell me you didn’t toss up all over the floor. Just-just get the feck out of here, whatever your name is.”

***

Three Months Later

I’m a stupid girl.

A stupid, stupid, stupid-

“Eilish? Hey, let me in. Is it time yet? What does it say?”

I covered my mouth to suffocate the errant sob, squeezing my eyes shut, and hoping that when I opened them it would be three months ago, the night of Ronan Fitzpatrick and Annie Catrel’s wedding. The night I’d fucked up so royally that I’d—apparently—been given the superpower of changing the color of HCG strips with my pee.

WITH MY PEE!

Which meant I had a new human inside me.

Which explained all my other superpowers, like being a raging bitch all the time, and crying at nothing, and throwing up twice every day.

I’d totally fucked up, and now I was totally fucked.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered to no one.

Wait, that’s not true. I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two of us in here. Granted, one of us was the size of a peanut—or maybe a lemon by now—and was swimming in amniotic fluid.

INSIDE MY UTERUS!

Why all my thoughts were in capital letters, I had no idea. Plus, every thought was followed by dun, dun, DUN!

“I don’t want to rush you, darling. But you’re making me nervous,” my cousin Sean’s voice called from the other side of the door.

Sweet Sean. Nice Sean. Wonderful Sean.

THANK GOD FOR SEAN!

. . . dun dun DUN!

A burst of hysterical sounding laughter escaped my fingers and I opened my eyes. I looked at the white stick and the two pink lines staring back at me. It hadn’t been a dream. This was real. And this was a complete nightmare.

“I’m p-p-p-pregnant.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, so long I wondered if he’d heard me or if I’d spoken at all.

I was just about to repeat myself when Sean said, “Open the door, my darling girl. Let me in.”

So I did. I let him in. And when he came in, he gathered me in his arms and held me against his big chest. I didn’t cry. My mind was blank.