2. Noah

2

Nurse Dakota shows us into the office. Dr. Hilda Rock stands and greets us and asks Ben how's he doing. They chat for a bit while Peyton, Elle, and I sit down. The desk in front of us is large and ornate, and I find myself looking at the carvings, knowing in the back of my mind, they aren't what I think they are, but can't help but wonder if I'm staring at wooden vaginas.

"Are those what I think they are?" I whisper into Peyton's ear. She nods. "What the fuck?"

"I know. Elle said she's a good doctor though and . . ." She stops talking when she sits down.

"Elle and Ben, we've already discussed the process, so I'm going to focus on Peyton and Noah," she says. She explains in detail the process my wife is about to go through. Each time I hear the word shot, I want to pick her up and carry her out of the room. Something as natural as carrying a child shouldn't be this painful or heartbreaking. Ever since we started this journey, it's been so hard seeing the boxes of pregnancy tests only for them to be negative, hearing her cry at night when she thinks I'm asleep—my wife shouldn't have to go through this. No woman should.

I'm thankful doctors like Dr. Rock exists, even though the costs are abhorrent and not covered by health insurance, which is another bone of contention with me. Medical assistance that supports a woman's right to have a child should be covered. Right down to the last penny.

She opens a chart but doesn't look at anything in there. "Peyton, I've gone over the records sent from the specialist you saw in Portland. I don't see anything about Clomid. Did you want to try this route first?"

Peyton shakes her head. "I tried, but the side effects made me ill," she tells her. "To the point where we couldn't have sex when needed."

Fun times for Noah.

I lost count of how many nights we spent sleeping in the bathroom, so she was near the toilet. I've come to learn if there's a horrible side effect, Peyton will have it.

Dr. Rock sighs. "All right, well first, let me say I'm sorry you're having difficulties conceiving. I take my job very seriously and have a high success rate. Two, I've looked over your chart and, barring any unforeseen circumstances, the scan of your uterus shows healthy. Three, Noah's initial sample results showed very strong and eager swimmers, ready to impregnate. I'm expecting the same results today and expect fertilization almost instantly once we get your eggs out. She closes the file and lays her hands over it.

What in the actual fuck did we just sign up for? I glance at Elle, who stares forward because she knows I'm about to wring her neck. There is no way in hell this woman is the leading specialist in infertility. She's a quack, and that's putting it mildly.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," I blurt out. "Where did you go to school?"

"Harvard," she says proudly.

I make a mental note, and plan to call the school to verify.

"I suspect you don't appreciate my humor when it comes to making a list, Mr. Westbury. I like to lighten the mood sometimes." She pauses and looks at Peyton. "When would you like to get started?"

"The sooner the better," Peyton says before I can whisk her out of the room. "Noah's currently off work, and I've taken some vacation time."

She opens the chart again and huffs. "I see here it says you're a professional athlete?"

"Let me guess, you don't watch football?"

She shakes her head. "You any good?"

Peyton squeezes my hand hard, holding me in place.

"So, scheduling," Elle says, interjecting before I can say something sarcastic. "Ideally, soon. We're both excited and eager to start our journey into motherhood."

When did Elle become the voice of reason?

"Like I said, we're on vacation and I'd really like to start the process as soon as possible," Peyton says.

"I understand. Will you continue having treatment here?"

Peyton nodded. "We have a home here."

"Perfect," she says as she picks her iPad up. "We need to start by getting your blood drawn and tests run. I know you did a few in Portland, but levels change. This will tell us how many eggs are available in your body. We'll also schedule you for an ultrasound, which will help us predict how your ovaries will respond to fertility medicines. As I understand it, you both want to come in on the same day?"

Peyton and Elle say yes.

"Okay, we'll draw blood today and schedule the ultrasound for the end of the week," she tells us. "Ben, we don't need to do anything with your semen at this moment, and Noah, yours is being analyzed now."

Nothing like making someone feel small. While I know my semen is good, I still feel like I'm being set up to fail a major test.

"Ben and Noah, we'll have your blood drawn as well."

"For what?" Ben asks.

"We need to run a battery of tests, mostly for diseases. We want to give the egg and sperm the best possible chance of survival."

"I see." Nothing like the implication you're being deceitful. Peyton squeezes my hand again. I'm so thankful for her and her trust in me.

"Peyton and Elle, I'm going to schedule you for a practice embryo transfer," she says. "We do this to figure out the depth of your uterus. This will also help determine which technique we'll use for implantation. We'll also test the lining of your uterine wall."

"How do you do that?" Elle asks.

"We use a test called sonohysterography. It's where fluid is sent through the cervix into the uterus using a thin plastic tube. The fluid helps make a more detailed ultrasound image of the uterine lining. Sometimes we can skip this step if the uterine test gives us everything we need to know."

All of this is so my wife and I can have a child. Clinical, and not the way things are meant to be for anyone.

"Now, when it comes to sex," the doctor sets the tablet aside. "Now that we have your sample, you don't need to abstain from ejaculation. Moving forward, once your wives start the ovarian stimulations, we ask that you wear condoms. Your wife also might experience swollen ovaries, so listen to her if she says things are painful."

I lean toward my wife and whisper, "Guess we better stop at the store." It's been five days and the longest we've gone without some form of sex since we've been together. Peyton smirks and says nothing. You better believe when I'm about to blow my load tonight, I'm going to yell, I'm ejaculating.

Damn, I hate this shit.

On the way home, we do, indeed stop at the local pharmacy and I buy not one, but two jumbo boxes of condoms. Peyton eyes me warily but says nothing. I can't tell if she thinks I'm going overboard or if I'm not purchasing enough. Regardless, I carry the boxes to the self-checkout machine only to find it out of order. Dread creeps in as I walk to the counter. The lady behind the register reminds me of my Grandma Preston and I can't help but feel judged. Much like the time when I was sixteen or seventeen and stopped for a three-count box of rubbers at the store before heading to the water tower. Without fail, the cashier then got on the intercom and asked for a price check. Talk about humiliation. I think they do that especially when teens are buying, to try to teach us a lesson. The only lesson it taught me was to either force Quinn to go buy them for me or drive over to Allenville, where hopefully no one recognized me as QB1 from Beaumont High or Liam Page's son.

The woman behind the counter slowly scans the boxes. She has her technique down and never takes her eyes off me. I'm half tempted to tell Peyton to show her the rock on her finger, but I don't. Let her think whatever. The fact is, I'm going home to fuck my wife and I'm going to enjoy it, even though I haven't worn a rubber in . . . I don't even remember. It wasn't long after Peyton and I started dating that we did away with them. I wasn't going anywhere, and neither was she. Getting pregnant then didn't matter to us.

It matters to us now.

I pay in cash. No need for her to be a football fan and realize I was in her store. Honestly, unless you see your favorite player without a helmet on or they are all over television doing commercials, people have no idea what we look like when we're off the field. Granted, the cameras are on me, especially if I'm on the sidelines after a major fuck up. Unfortunately for me, I had a few of those this past season. I'd like to chalk it up to luck. It wasn't. It was all stress. Peyton may have to go through the hard part, the testing, injections, and eventually carrying our child. Sure, all I had to do was put my shit into a cup and I'm good to go. I get to sit back, right?

Nope.

No one considers the emotional toll men go through when their wives find out they're not pregnant. Again and again. We feel it too. We're not just there to pump, dump, and run. No one thinks about the demand we have to perform to make sure we're getting the job done.

Peyton has done the ovulation charts, and at first, I was game. Hell yeah, call me out of a workout to have sex with my wife in her office. It was sneaky, daring, and the thrill of it was exhilarating. Until it wasn't. I never thought I'd groan when a text would come in that she was ovulating. Talk about performance anxiety. I never told her, and I never will. She doesn't need my bullshit on top of the pile she already deals with.

I take her hand and lead her out of the store and to the Escalade. Before I let her get in, I pull her into my arms and hold her. Sometimes, I need this.

"I love you."

"I love you more," she says into my neck.

When we part, I cup her face with my hands and kiss her lightly. "When we get home, I'm going to make love to you."

Peyton laughs lightly. "And this differs from other days?"

"Lately, it's been sex. Which I love. But we've been so focused on getting you pregnant that I feel like some of the passion was pushed to the side. I want that back." I close the gap between us. Not that there was much.

"I want to kiss you." I follow my words with actions and leave a trail of kisses from her ear to her lips. When there, they part, allowing my tongue to enter her mouth. Pulling away and resting my forehead against hers, I inhale deeply. I'm already hard, ready, and wishing we were at home.

"Then what?" My minx asks.

I chuckle. "Then I'm going to touch you, tease you, make you come with my fingers, my mouth and then finally on my cock."

"Noah?" she says my name headily.

"Yeah, baby?"

"We're in the parking lot, out in public," she says, stating the obvious. "Unless you calm down, the car next to you that just pulled in, is going to see your erection and the two boxes of condoms we just bought."

"Fuck me," I say as I look down at my pants. Slacks do nothing to hide what you're packing.

"Oh, I plan to, if you ever get us home." Peyton winks.

I shake my head slightly. "Get in the car, Peyton." She does, and I shut the door. With courage and muster, I walk around the back, hoping the people in the other car go toward the front. Only, they stop when they see me and my tented pants coming toward them.

"Hey, you're Noah Westbury," the young kid says as loudly as possible. "Can I get your autograph?"

Fuck my life.

As much as I want to say no, I don't. I clear my throat, set the boxes of condoms on the roof of my Escalade that I should've given to Peyton, and think about the last time I got hit in a game where I thought I'd lose my manhood. It's not quite the deflation I need, but it helps. I sign a piece of paper, a T-shirt, and pose for an ungodly number of photos before heading to my car.

"Don't forget your prophylactics," the father says as they walk toward the store.

"Dad, what's a propowatic?"

I stand there, shaking my head. Could this day get any worse?

Actually, it could.

I grab the boxes and slip in behind the steering wheel and start the car. Peyton's laughing and has clearly been living it up while I've been in misery for the last handful of minutes. She reaches across the console and palms my flaccid dick, which jumps to attention. I swear it's saying, "Hey, yeah, I know this hand."

"Rude," I mutter as I shift into reverse, pull out and then into drive. "You left me hanging."

"There was no way I was getting out of the car. Besides, they want to see you, not me."

While she's not wrong, I enjoy having her with me for these random fan encounters. Everyone who meets her loves her.

"I don't care," I tell her. "I want you next to me, always."

Her fingers brush through my hair on the drive home. It's strange how her touch can calm me most days. A mile out, I turn on the radio. It's a sports talk channel, which I usually avoid when she's in the car. I'm man enough to admit my wife knows more about sports than I do, and during the off season I take full advantage of her knowledge during trivia night.

"The free agency market is bananas right now," the commentator says. Peyton reaches to turn the radio off, but I tell her to leave it.

"I want to hear what they have to say."

"Teams are going to spend some money tying down those who haven't signed."

"You know who's out there that hasn't signed?"

"Noah Westbury."

My hands grip the steering wheel, a bit too tightly causing pain to radiate up my arm. My foot slips from the gas with a noticeable thud. I don't want to be a topic of conversation. No athlete ever does.

"What's up with that?"

"Don't know, but Portland is stupid for not having him under contract, and these other teams?" The commentator whistles. "If the rumors are true, they're throwing money at him. He needs to come to L.A."

"Dude already lives here. Might as well stay."

"Maybe it's better for us if Portland sleeps on it. Then we'll get a decent QB. I'd love to have Westbury on any one of our teams here."

I pull into the driveway and shut the car off, but don't move. It's nice to be wanted. Mega shitty when the team you've dedicated the beginning of your career to doesn't act like they want you. My head spins with this knowledge, wondering what the fuck I'm doing.

"They'll make an offer," Peyton says, breaking the silence.

"Do you know something I don't?" My voice catches. I hate asking her this. Mixing our marriage and work was something we swore we'd never do.

She shakes her head.

"Will you quit your job if I go somewhere else?"

Peyton's quiet for a moment and I know I've put her on the spot. Any decision I make, we make together. "We have time, Noah. Let everyone get settled and out of vacation mode." Her fingers trail down the side of my face. "Let's go inside. I'm hungry."

"For lunch?"

She shakes her head and palms my crotch again. "You promised."

Damn straight, I did.