I wasn’t referring to the speed of the car. Tears form in my eyes. I have to turn to the window to hide them from him. Things are moving at warp speed. I can’t handle it.
Though apparently he was actually speeding because we’re hit with the sounds of a police siren about five seconds later and are pulled over.
We’re parked on the side of the road when the police officer walks up to the driver’s side and knocks on the glass. Daylen rolls down the window. “Sorry, man, my girl needs to pee on twenty-nine sticks. I was rushing home.”
The middle-aged male police officer removes his aviator sunglasses and stares at Daylen. “Sir, have you been drinking?”
Like an idiot, Daylen nods. “I have. Do you really think I’d take this woman home sober?”
I swear to god, he has a propensity to choose the worst times to make jokes.
The officer’s eyes toggle between me and Daylen before busting out into a huge grin. “Holy Toledo. It’s you. I’m a huge fan.”
Daylen removes his hat and gives him a big grin. “Always happy to meet a fan.”
The police officer scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t know who you are, but your friend is Kennedy Jeffries, the famous basketball player. My three daughters are huge fans. They never miss a game on television.”
I can’t help but let out a laugh, my bad mood temporarily forgotten. Removing my hat, I offer a million-dollar smile of my own. “That’s nice of you to say. Thank you. I apologize for my slow friend. He was dropped on his head a lot as a baby. I assure you, he hasn’t been drinking. In fact, he’s rushing me to the stadium for our practice. That’s why he was speeding.”
The police officer appears conflicted.
“Listen,” I continue, “how about you let my butler get me tothe stadium on time? As an expression of my gratitude, I’ll leave you and your daughters four tickets right on the floor for our next game. I’ll even stop by myself with signed jerseys for your girls. It will be a night they never forget. You’ll be their hero.”
His face immediately brightens. “Oh wow. That would be incredible. Thank you, Ms. Jeffries.”
“Mrs. Humblecut,” Daylen mumbles grumpily.
I snap my head to him and give him a look of warning. He has seriously lost his marbles. Every single one of them.
The police officer lets us go, and we pull back onto the street, making our way to Daylen’s house in silence because I’m still processing his insane behavior since I told him about the baby. At least I do have the wherewithal to text Booster to have him take care of the police officer’s tickets and jerseys for me.
We’re now waiting for the first two pregnancy tests to marinate properly. I appropriately had enough pee for two tests, rendering the other twenty-seven completely useless. Frankly, they’re all useless. I know the answer.
I’m fiddling with my phone to waste time, but the reception is terrible. I go to the Wi-Fi settings to try to find Daylen’s network, but none of them make sense. Nothing with his name or address. “What’s your Wi-Fi network?” I ask.
“Police Surveillance Van #2,” he answers without hesitation.
Sure enough, that’s on the list of networks in range.
“I know I’ll regret asking this, but why?”
“Because I like fucking with my neighbors. Duh. Can you imagine the looks on their faces when they went to log onto their networks and they saw a police van network on the street?” He laughs as he amuses himself.
The father of my child, ladies and gentlemen.
I look through his belongings on his vanity. I notice a tube of Crest Kids’ strawberry-flavored toothpaste that I must have missed earlier when he was pounding into me and choking me in this very spot. I pick it up and look at it. Holy shit. Now it allmakes sense. “This is why you always taste like strawberries? You use kids’ toothpaste.”
He smiles. “I use real toothpaste too, but then I use this at the end. Doesn’t it taste good? Every man can taste like mint, but very few can taste like strawberries. Don’t deny that you like it. Who doesn’t like the taste of strawberries?”
I’m marveling at his thought process when his alarm pings that it’s time. He’s physically bouncing up and down with excitement. What’s wrong with him?
He hands me one and keeps one for himself. I glance down at mine and see that it’s got two lines, meaning I’m pregnant. He makes a whole show of doing a countdown, so I pretend like I don’t already know the results. “Three, two, one…”
He looks at his and then he does one of his touchdown dances. The Cabbage Patch, as he often does at his games when celebrating a big play.
The guy does have shockingly good rhythm for a big man, but I truly can’t get over how happy he is about this. He then lifts me in the air and twirls me around before bringing his lips to mine for the sweetest kiss as he happily breathes into my mouth, “We’re going to be parents. You and me. Forever.”
Forever? All I’m thinking about right now is the math. Math to make sure I’m okay to play this entire season and will be back in time for next season. Given that it’s easy to calculate the exact date when the baby was conceived, I should be due in March. The real question is how quickly I’ll be showing. It’s July now. If we progress into the playoffs like we hope to, my season won’t be over until mid-October. It will be close. I’ve never wished more that I had a real relationship with my mother. I could ask her when she started showing, though our bodies are nothing alike so it would probably be meaningless anyway.
