18. Brett

Brett

When I wake up, I have the immediate sense that something wonderful is happening. It's like the moment when a butterfly lands on you, and you know you have to stay perfectly still to keep in its good graces.

Fallon is fast asleep on my chest. I watch her head rise and fall as I breathe, and I realize something: I like her. I really, really like her.

As my PT, I knew she was caring and funny, but I always had the sense that was how she had to be. I'd only ever known her at work, as the person she had to be in her professional life. But now I've seen her around her friends, and I've seen the lengths to which she's willing to go for this baby, and I can see that she's exactly the same person at work as she is at home.

It's a rare thing—I should know.

Hand shaking slightly, I reach out, holding my breath as I run my fingers over her hair. It's warm and soft, and I push it away from her forehead, chest stirring when she lets out a little noise and buries her face in my shirt.

Last night, when we returned to the "studying," we started with our favorite movie, and Fallon realized I'd never seen what she calls "the classics," a group which is, apparently comprised of every action movie made in the 1990s and before. My education began promptly, with her renting Rocky and forcing me to make popcorn, though she didn't have a single bite before passing out. I'd tucked her in and found my own spot on the other side of the couch, finishing the bowl of popcorn myself.

After just a day with the baby, I understood that bone-deep exhaustion she was feeling. She'd slept in the guest room for hours, then passed out the moment she was horizontal again.

Now, she hums low in her throat, nuzzling her face into my chest. It takes every ounce of concentration in me to keep from going hard against her, and I swallow, staring at the ceiling for a moment to compose myself.

I wonder if she crawled over here awake, or asleep.

My answer comes a moment later when Fallon's eyes blink open, her low humming coming to an abrupt halt when she realizes where she is.

"Oh my god," she says, jerking back, her face immediately flushing a deep crimson. "I'm so sorry, I must have been cold—"

"Hey," I say, hands tightening on her biceps. I don't want her to go, and I provide just enough resistance to her retreat that she looks to me. When our eyes meet, it's like we're suspended in time, something unspoken there between us.

Our bodies are pressed together. Her face is close enough that her hair is tickling my forehead. I've never wanted to kiss someone as badly as I want to right now.

The baby lets out a loud wail and time hurtles forward again. We break apart, Fallon springing to her feet to check on the crib.

"Shit," she curses, "I should have woken up earlier. Now her feeding schedule is going to be all over the place."

"You know," I say, clearing my throat, and setting my chin on the back of the couch, "I get the feeling that you're committed to doing this the right way, but the mommy bloggers I—"

"What do you mean ‘mommy bloggers?'" she asks, laughing a bit as she picks the baby up and starts to soothe her.

"They're these people who post tips for child—"

"I mean, I know who they are." She turns and walks into the kitchen. I get up from the couch and follow her, budging in front of her to take the bottle and mix up the formula.

Fallon stops, her hand splayed over the baby's back, watching me. "But why are you looking at their stuff?"

"Fallon," I gasp, putting a hand to my chest as I shake the bottle with one hand. I see her eyes narrow in on my bicep and I can't help it—I flex a bit. "I'm a husband and father now, and I take that very seriously."

"Huh," she says, swallowing thickly when I hand her back the bottle. Something strange has passed over her face, and I think I've gone too far with the joking.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Fal, I didn't—"

But I'm cut off when my phone rings, startling me and making the baby cry, her little lips around the bottle. She starts to cough, and Fallon quickly pulls the bottle back, patting her back.

"Hello?" I say, turning my back to her and ducking down a bit.

"Dude," Sammy says, then, a moment later, "is that a baby? Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, shit!" I realize why he's calling me—we have a pre-game meeting in ten minutes.

"You forgot," Sammy scolds, voice rising, baby-questions forgotten. "Fuck, man, coach is going to kill you!"

"I'm on my way right now," I say, running to the living room and throwing my hoodie on, trying to wrestle through the head hole without dropping my phone. I feel a tug at my back and realize Fallon is helping me arrange the hoodie, her eyes wide, her face questioning.

"Alright," Sammy says, unsure. "Best hope you make it here before Coach realizes you forgot."

When I end the call, Fallon looks at me, still feeding the baby.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just—forgot about this…work thing. I have to go, but Fallon—you should come to my game. Later. Tonight."

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh? You have a game on a Thursday?"

I realize she still thinks I'm some sort of amateur rec league guy. How she hasn't searched me yet is beyond me, but looking at her, disheveled and holding a baby in my living room, I realize it's time to tell her the truth.

"Yeah…I—I'm gonna tell you all about it, okay? I'll send you the address."

"Okay," she says, nodding, her eyes darting to the baby.

I'm a man standing at the door, and she's standing in front of me, braless, barefoot, a baby in her arms. Before I know what I'm doing, I've leaned forward and pressed my lips to her forehead.

She's warm, and I can smell that orange shampoo, and when I pull back, her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open.

I want to kiss her for real.

I should probably apologize for the forehead kiss, but there's no time. Instead, I just nod and turn, walking about the front door.

***

Fallon: Sorry, running late! Baby threw up everywhere.

I'm pacing in front of the stadium. I'm already in deep shit—I should have been suited up twenty minutes ago, but I wanted to catch Fallon when she got here, explain everything to her. That I'm not just a rich kid who plays rec league sports in his free time.

That I'm a star player on one of the most recently successful teams in the league, that her PT work has helped not only me, but the Vipers as a whole.

But there's no way I can stay out here until she arrives. She'll likely get here while the game is in full swing, and I don't want her to feel blindsided by the truth. First, I text Fallon, then I text Ellie.

Brett: Okay, I'll explain everything later. Please don't be mad. Sending a friend to pick you up.

Brett: Hey, Ellie, any chance you could grab a friend for me? She's running late and I can't meet her before the game.

The second I send the text, my phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Ellie?'

"But of course, Brett, shouldn't you be suited up? Grey is going to—"

"Yeah, I know," I say breathing hard as I sprint to the locker room. "Hey, listen—I have a friend coming. She—"

" She? Brett, wait a second—is it true? "

"Is what true?" I ask, coming to a stop outside the locker room door, where I can hear the guys inside, talking shit.

"Those pictures!" Ellie cries. "That recording from the bar? I thought maybe it was fake—Sammy thought you were fucking with him—but then we saw the pictures! Her with the baby—Brett, what the hell?"

My entire body has gone cold.

"Can you meet her outside?" I ask, squeezing my eyes shut. "And I'll explain later? I'll send you her number."

"Sure," Ellie says, trepidation in her voice. "I can do that."

I text Ellie her number, then quickly Google my name and wife. Sure enough, there's a video of me in the bar. It's fuzzy because of the low light, but it's definitely me.

"I got married man," I watch myself say, noting the happiness on my face.

The next part is muffled, but you can clearly make out me saying: "…a married man! And I gotta make my family proud."

The noise increases, and the response from the team is vague, but my voice comes through again, crystal clear: "Listen—you guys gotta get married. It's amazing."

Tapping furiously, I find the article with the pictures of Fallon, showing her at my door, looking frenzied, the baby strapped to her chest.

"Brett?" Sammy asks, throwing open the door to the locker room. His eyes dart from the phone to my face, and he grimaces. "Come on, buddy." He takes my arm and pulls me into the locker room.

I land hard, on a bench, feeling dazed. The other guys have already cleared out.

"It's fucked," I murmur, starting to put my head in my hands, but Sammy shoves my shoulder slightly, forcing me to look up at him.

"Come on," he says, opening my locker and grabbing out my gear. "Yeah, it's fucked, but your girl is here, right?"

I nod, swallowing, thinking about Fallon and how surprised she's going to be when she shows up and realizes who I really am.

"Alright," he says, watching as I pull my shoulder pads on. When they're strapped, he braces his hands on either one and gives me a stern glare. "So, let's give her something to watch, huh?"