Evan Allore is a phenomenal player. I’m thankful he ended up on the same team as me when he was drafted, and I feel sorry for every person who touches the ball on the other teams in the division. Allore’s a fucking killer on the field.
But man, he’s even more out of control than people say I am. He just gets away with it because most of his crazy is on the field. His girl, Keira, buffers the rest of it.
“I’m fine,” I tell him when there’s a break in his rambling. “Like, whatever you were calling Keira for, I got this.”
“Yeah, you do.” He looks down into the sling and smiles at Donovan. “Man, that is a good-looking baby right there. Looks a bit like you, too.”
Could be a complexion thing, now that Donovan’s melanin is starting to come in, but Allore’s also one of those guys who’s so crazy that his unhinged guesses are sometimes spot on.
Chapter 16
Tilly
It feels late when I wake up. Like I’ve slept all through the day, but in the best way possible. Like I needed that sleep like I need oxygen.
I guess I did.
There’s no one home. Blaise is out; Donovan must be with him.
It’s not unusual. The first few times it happened, it freaked me out, especially because Blaise didn’t take his phone with him. I’d call him, and it would be sitting there vibrating on the coffee table. But that told me he’d be back eventually, at least. Not that I thought he was going to vanish for all of eternity with my baby, but . . .
Well, I don’t know what. I’ve gotten used to his forever presence and the way he saves every single kind word hecould give to me for Donovan instead, but at least he’s nice to babies. I don’t get it. I just accept it. Even if it hurts.
Even if I sometimes want him to be here forme,too, in a way that’s different from this co-parenting role he’s put himself into.
I give myself a few extra minutes in bed, just staring up at the ceiling and appreciating the opportunity to shut my thoughts down. But then I start to sit up, and my brain feels like mush again. This low-grade fever is killing me, I swear, every bit as much as the cancer did.
I had major surgery. As flippant as people get about C-sections, as quick as they are to treat it as an easy out from giving birth the natural way, it’s a giant hole in the abdomen. Particularly giant in my case, so I figure I probably feel even worse than most women post-partum. That’s probably why my eyes go damp when I think about how it’s for the best that Blaise took Donovan with him on whatever outing he’s on.
I shake my head to clear the negative thoughts, but my brain’s all sloshy. I force myself up onto my feet and stumble into the bathroom, having to grip the counter to keep myself upright as I take a look at myself.
I’m red and clammy. My fever might have spiked again. Crap.
I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and wash down a couple with a cup of water from the bathroom tap. That usually nukes the fever well enough. In the meantime, though, I strip down, turn on the shower but sit down for it, thankful that everything’s still looking clean since that crew came in.
I scrub my head, the sparse black curls no more than a couple inches long and spotty, but in these private moments, I live the fantasy that I still have a full head. I’ve considered shaving it and rocking that look, but every time, I tell myselfit’s going to grow in properly one day, and I won’t know if I’m not tracking it.
The water’s running cold by the time I get out of the shower, but my brain is feeling slightly better. I brush my teeth and feel proud of myself for remembering that. I haven’t done a great job of it lately. Since Blaise and Donovan aren’t back yet, I go ahead and do some skin care stuff to feel a little more human. I don a fluffy pink robe and wrap my towel around my head like there’s anything for it to hold onto. And then, for full pampering, I pad out into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. I hold it close to my face and inhale the steam, and it’s nice.
It’s as I’m sipping it that I realize the buzzing I heard when I first woke up and figured was my brain doing bad-brain things is actually my cell phone. I lug myself back to my bed and plop down in my nest before grabbing it from my nightstand.
“Shit,” I whisper at the wall of messages, both texts and phone calls. I must have slept through them, and there were so many they eventually started getting sent to voicemail.
It hits me then that Idon’tknow where Blaise is, and actually, I think he told me he was doing something today that would mean he wouldn’t have the baby with him. I just don’t know what it was to be sure he said that.
What if something happened?
What if there was an accident?
I feel nauseous all over again as I call voicemail, throwing the phone into speaker mode while I grab some clothes, getting myself ready to run out the door.
The first message is, “Hey Tilly, this is Keira! Keira Allore? I’m at the stadium, and I’ve got Donovan here.”
I pause my frantic change at that and sit down to catch my breath. Keira has Donovan, and she’s at the stadium, whereBlaise undoubtedly is. This doesn’t seem to be enough to blow up my phone with a bunch of texts and voice messages.
Wait.
Keira shouldn’t have Donovan. I’ve met her three times total, and if she’s at the stadium, she’s working. She’s not my babysitter.
