Blaise isn’t my babysitter, either. I can’t help but think that I’m dropping the ball terribly. This is my son, not his. If somethingdidhappen, how would that even be explained?
I’m a bad mom.
The worst.
Tears burn my eyes as I fire a text off to Keira promising that I’ll be down as soon as I can — and assuring her that as much as Blaise made a mistake taking him, I do trust him with Donovan — and rush through getting myself together. I take a couple more ibuprofen as well as one of the anti-nausea pills I have left over from chemo, and that gets me feeling good enough to drive down to the stadium, where the man at the gate doesn’t even check ID. He shoos me right in as soon as I say my name.
I’m met at the entrance by another security guard, who gives me a quick nod and a warm smile as he says, “I’ll escort you to the office, Mrs. Sinclair, right this way!”
I appreciate the escort, but it seems like a lot until I register what he addressed me as. They think I’m the star quarterback’s wife. “Oh, Washington, actually. Miss Washington. Or just Tilly.”
“Right, sorry. There was some confusion about that.”
The security guard attempts to push the stroller I’ve brought, but I turn the offer down, needing it in my grip. The stadium is mostly quiet in the parts we travel through until I finally hear commotion ahead. It sounds like a bunch of guyschatting and going about their day, but it’s punctuated by yells that silence them momentarily before chatter ramps back up again. But then a far more familiar sound cuts through, silencing everything.
A baby crying.
Mybaby crying.
There’s a staccato to it, that familiar cadence of Blaise soothing him with rapid but gentle pats. They’re enough to distract him down from wails to sobs, but he’s upset.
I push the stroller ahead of the security guard, following the sound, finally turning a corner and running into a group of players gathered around a charcuterie spread. They must have been the chatters, but they’re all looking nervously over their shoulders now.
I’m trying to hoof past them, trying to get tomybaby, when a bout of the spins has my legs going wobbly. I’m used to it after all the chemo, but I nearly flip the stroller I’m pushing as I drop my weight on it to balance myself. It gets the players’ attention, and one of them catches me around the waist.
“Whoops, there we go,” the giant murmurs as he lifts me right up off the ground and settles me back on my feet, like I’m a Barbie doll and he’s trying to figure out how to balance me on my pink stilettos.
“Oh, thanks,” I whisper, grateful he keeps his arm around me. I think if he lets me go, I’ll tumble right over.
Just like Barbie in those damn shoes that never held her.
“No problem, uhh . . . oh, you’re Joss’s friend? Right? Tilly?”
It takes me a moment to recognize the giant, bronze-toned man with the cascade of glossy black ringlets, but he’s the sort who stands out. Kai Bodley. “Yep. I’m, umm, picking up my baby.”
He gives me a critical once-over, no doubt judging me for my horrendous parenting skills, but then he half-carries me to the office.
A group is gathered there. I doubt the small space would fit more than four people on any day, but two of the people are Gabe Shaunessy and Evan Allore. They’re basically four people on their own. Add to that a stern, official-looking man who’s about over this shit and Keira, who’s trying to vanish into a corner while also waiting expectantly with a diaper bag, and there’s hardly any oxygen in the room.
I know what a lack of oxygen truly feels like, and I hate it. But I push through.
And yep, just as expected, Blaise is vigorously patting Donovan, whose face is peeking over his shoulder enough that I can see the black fluff atop his head, the deeply furrowed brows, and the giant brown eyes, swimming with tears until he scrunches them tight to let out another lusty, bumpy wail.
The stern-looking man curses with, “These fucking stunts are over, or you’re fucking over, Sinclair!” as Gabe attempts to swoop in to pluck Donovan off Blaise’s shoulder.
Blaise isn’t having any of it. He spins away from Gabe in this incredibly poetic way that’s like a blur of the eye but somehow so smooth that if anything, it soothes Donovan. Meanwhile, he growls back in a quiet but angrier tone than anything he’s ever fired at me. “This isn’t a fucking stunt. This is my-my—”
The world stops as he stutters over his words, but there isn’t a word for it. How can he possibly explain what this is? There’s no term for the guy who saved a baby’s life because the baby’s mother was so incompetent she didn’t recognize that she needed to go to the hospital. There’s no term for the guy who didn’t correct anyone who called him ‘dad,’ because it would have eitherembarrassed her or cut off his access. There’s no term for the guy who’s helping out because a doctor told him to.
But from my angle, I see the daggers he’s shooting at his coach as he finally says, “My Donovan,” like that sums up the relationship, and it does. It sums up the way he dips his head to kiss Donovan’s fluff as he switches from a butt pat to a back rub. The way that no matter how much Donovan yells and no matter how many people — now Evan’s making a move, which Blaise also thwarts gracefully — attempt to alleviate the burden, he holds him snugly.
It’s probably the delirium of all the post-partum nonsense coupled with the medication, but I stupidly try to step in and take the baby, so Blaise doesn’t get in any more trouble. But as soon as I lay hands on him, Blaise spins away and barks out, “Stop touching my baby!”
“Sinclair!” Allore hisses as Gabe gives me the most mortified, apologetic look. But really, it was my fault for sneaking in like that.
“Blaise,” I say gently. “I appreciate you watching him this morning so I could get some sleep, but I . . .”
I close my eyes as my head goes funny again, and now Kai and Gabe are both holding me.
