He nods and kisses the tip of my nose. “That’s amazing. Pregnancy wreaks havoc on a woman’s body, and I’m sure the rehab is even more intense with a C-section. I’m glad the league understands that and is addressing it.”
I meet his eyes. “For the record, football is very important to me, but it’s not the most important thing. My family is.” I kiss his jaw. “And that includes you and Reece.”
Phoenix pulls me tighter against him, wedging a thigh between my legs. “Sometimes it amazes me how mature you are.”
“You have to be to play pro sports. It’s very intense, and there’s no room for whiners or wimps.” A yawn overtakes me, and Phoenix reaches back to flick off the lamp.
“Sleep, baby. You’ve got a big week coming up, and I’m ready to see my woman win a Super Bowl.”
My eyes close as a sense of contentedness eases into my bones.
I’m at the top of my career, I have the kindest man in the world at my back, and there’s a little girl in the other room who has my heart.
Life is good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The press
Jordie
I wake up around dawn on Sunday morning with a smile on my face. Creeping quietly from the bed, I borrow a sweatshirt from Phoenix’s closet and put on my jeans from last night. No panties because my savage man ripped them from my body.
Memories of the evening flood me, and I stand beside his bed, staring down at the man I love. Sleeping Phoenix is rumpled and sexy with the sheet pooled around his waist and his dark hair falling over his forehead. I fight the urge to climb back between the sheets with him, stepping back and tiptoeing from the room.
I have to get to the stadium. We have a shit-ton of press events this morning and practice this afternoon.
Ninety minutes later, I’ve showered at my apartment and I’m back in my truck, mentally preparing myself for this week. It’s filled with all kinds of media events that the team has been training us for. I go over answers in my head to various expected questions when my thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of my phone.
I frown when I see it’s my mother calling. I haven’t heard from her in months other than a couple texts letting me know her excuse of the week as to why she missed my game. Despite me buying expensiveseason tickets for her and fucking Willie, they haven’t made a single game.
The phone rings again, and I reluctantly press the button on my steering wheel to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, baby. It’s Mom. Did I wake you up?”
“No, I’m on the way to the stadium.”
“On a Sunday?” she asks, shock in her voice. “Oh wait, you have a game today, right?”
Is she for real right now?A game?
“I have the Super Bowl next week,” I reply, unable to keep the sharpness from my tone.
“Riiiiight,” she ruminates. “That will be the last game, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, seeing the stadium exit up ahead as my patience wanes. “Did you call for something?”
“Oh, yes. I just wanted to see if you could have lunch with me this week.”
I grit my teeth and answer. “Mom, I can’t. Pretty much every second of every day is planned out for me this week.”
“Oh.” Disappointment rings over the line, and I push down the guilt that always tries to crop up when I feel like I’m letting her down. “I wanted to talk to you about something I need help with, but I guess if you don’t have time for me.”
Sighing, I exit off the freeway and ask, “Can you just tell me what it is over the phone?”
She hedges. “I’d rather talk to you in person.”
“It’ll have to be after the Super Bowl,” I say firmly. “Are you coming or should I sell your tickets and try to get some of my money back?”
