Miranda smiles at him. “Three’s better than one when it comes to showing a baby and their mama how much they’re loved.”
He stares back at her, then steps back to join Fletcher and Holt.
Dad angles into the doorway too. He’s a big guy, tall and broad all around, with sixty-five years’ worth of cheese, wine, and desserts lending itself to his waistline. His dark hair is dotted with silver, and his face is clean-shaven, as always.
Miranda hands him the picture.
He smiles, and then blinks quickly like he, too, might want to cry. “Looks like a rugby player,” he declares.
“Lady rugby players are badasses,” Miranda says. “But sorry, Dad, this one’s gonna be a beach bum.”
“Can we just let the baby be whoever the baby wants to be?” I ask.
“They’re going to be perfect,” Mom wails.
“Move, Porter,” Fletcher says. “Surprise for Coach won’t surprise itself. We have work to do. And they have to do all that mushy family shit.”
I meet Holt’s eyes one more time.
He doesn’t react at all, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.
I can feel it in the way my belly’s fluttering.
The rest of the day crawls by. Mom and Dad want to take Miranda and me out to dinner to celebrate the ultrasound pictures. I plead exhaustion, and they let me off, but only if I promise them brunch tomorrow.
Brunch and looking at more houses.
Am I stalling on finding a house because I don’t want to leave Holt’s place?
Yes.
Is this going to bite me in the ass?
One way or another.
But we’ve made it two weeks without my parents having any clue, and I’ve started mentioning hanging out with Goldie. Mom and Dad both love her, and I’ve made sure to point out that we went to high school together so that it’s not suspicious.
So this plan to warm them up to the idea of me being friends with the guys on the team is almost coming along.
Almost.
I’ll work on it more tomorrow.
After this interminable day ends, which it finally, eventually does.
It’s time to go home.
And honestly?
Iamtired.
Tired from the baby zapping my energy. Tired of hiding that I like Holt. Tired of going over the same particulars about the awards banquet with the same people both in and out of the office whowant to make sure we get every detail perfect.
Holt and Fletcher have both told me that so long as the food is edible, the team will think it’s a success.
The mics could fail and the slide show could get replaced with a pornographic cartoon and the awards could be giant dicks and we’d be happy, Holt keeps saying.You can’t screw this up. We’re an easy bunch.Especially if no one’s facial hair gets burned off.
Having just seen more of the team in the office here and there, I believe him, though I have questions about why there would have to be burning facial hair disclaimers.
