Helplessly, I stand pinned to the ground while my wife and child fade away.
“Fuck!” I sit up and swing my legs to the edge of the bed. My heart is pounding so hard, I can’t catch my breath. Sweat has drenched where I was sleeping. My hand has to touch Charlie’s stomach to reassure my mind that she’s still here and the baby is safe.
I drop my head in my hands, trying to calm myself down. This was just another bad dream. One of many, but just a dream.
Not wanting to wake Charlie, I finally stand up and cross our bedroom to the door that leads to the backyard. As quiet as can be, I turn the lock and open the door, slipping into the cool night air.
My body is worn out. I feel every bit as fatigued as I normally do after a game. It was just a dream. She’s safe inside the bedroom.
I slide down the brick façade of our house, allowing my head to fall in between my knees. At some point, I realize that I’m naked and couldn’t care less.
These goddamn dreams have got to stop. I’ve mentioned them to the sports psychologist that Doctor Benson recommended I see. He explained in his typical doctor bullshit that it’s normal for men to feel out of control when their wives are expecting. I’d inwardly rolled my eyes. It’s not normal to be so obsessed with your wife’s safety that fucking dreams make you have panic attacks.
They’re always the same. In some sort of twisted, dreamlike way, she and our unborn baby are being taken away from me. Sometimes it’s a car accident, or she dies in childbirth. Other times, it’s a nameless face that kidnaps or murders her. The hardest yet, though, is the dream where she tells me that her and the baby can do much better than me. I spend too much time playing football, and she and our baby leave me.
Unfolding from the curled-up position I was in, I rise to my feet and begin pacing between the pool and the door.
“The threats are real,” I speak out loud to no one. Because somehow trying to justify the nightmares helps to soothe my jagged nerves.
I know that I’ve become insane about her safety. Okay: more insane about her safety. She doesn’t know it, but she has her security at the hospital, plus I have her tailed wherever she goes. My guy reports back on her every movement. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s that I don’t trust all the crazy people in the world with my wife and unborn child.
“Fuck!” I yell, but not too loud. All I need right now is my wife worrying about me, or Jamie rushing out of the pool house to find me naked. I reach up and use my fist to try to work the knot out of my chest.
Finally, I give in to my aching legs and sprawl on one of the sun-loungers by the pool. The night is cloudy, so there isn’t a star to be found, but the neighborhood lights reflect off the clouds, creating a glowing night sky. It’s actually rather pretty. If Charlie didn’t need her sleep so desperately, I’d wake her up so she could admire it with me.
But Charlie needs her rest, because the first trimester of Charlie’s pregnancy can be summed up like this: nausea and mind-blowing sex. I mean, Charlie and I never had issues pleasuring each other before, but damn, Charlie getting pregnant equals crazy sex. Wild sex. Sex that makes me feel like I’m being used. Best. Feeling. Ever.
I chuckle at the thought that there have been days that I’ve had to use her toys on her—which I hate, sort of—because my dick can only come so many times before there’s nothing left in my balls but dust. She wakes me up in the middle of the night to ride me. Awesome!
I was lectured on the day we found out she was expecting that it’s my job to support her. So I’ve done what any man would do in my situation: have the best sex of my life, since that’s what my girl needs. In fact tonight, she was ready and waiting for me when I arrived home with her dinner.
The downside to her first trimester of pregnancy is that when we aren’t having sex like bunnies, she’s sick. She was so sick on the plane to the ESPY Awards in LA that we took a private jet home.
I have to say, though, my girl handled the red carpet at the ESPY Awards like a pro. She looked damn gorgeous, and kept her smile firmly planted on her lips while the press questioned our relationship status, asked me the same tired questions about the upcoming season, quizzed me about my ankle, and even asked what kind of stunt we were going to pull this year. That question caused her to dig her fingernails into my hand. I agreed. Stupid reporters.
Charlie held her own, though, and didn’t, fortunately, feel bad during the awards. What we’ve discovered is that smells seem to be her trigger. In particular, it’s my cologne. I’ve moved all the bottles to my office building, because she swears that she can smell the oil drop on the tip of the sprayer. I’m not saying that I don’t believe her, but it seems like this is a tad mental.