And because my cologne is one of the bestselling male fragrances in the world, the smell is everywhere—especially here in Dallas.
We’re hoping that this ends soon because right now, the only foods she can seem to keep in her stomach come from fast-food restaurants.
I roll over on my side, facing away from the pool, feeling the bite of the night air. My sweaty skin is now goose-pimpled. I should probably stand up, walk inside, and curl up with my wife. Her pregnant body radiates heat. But, if I’m honest with myself, I know that I’ve become terrified to sleep. I can’t have another nightmare tonight.
Think pleasant thoughts, Colin, I command myself. Charlie’s tits… Dear God, thank you for Charlie’s tits. She pretty much had ant bites when we were in college. When we got back together, they’d grown to a small handful. Now, the Pregnancy Fairy has blessed us with heaping mounds of boobs. They’re so big that she looks like she’s had enhancement surgery. Her stomach is still flat, but her tits go on for days. Playboy models would be envious.
Every morning she stands naked in the mirror, and gripes about how another shirt doesn’t cover them. Every morning I measure them with my hands, thanking our baby for the best rack I’ve ever seen.
Even though I’ve been in the middle of training camp and all that entails, I’ve been able to be around for Charlie. She’s needed my help this first trimester. Besides the food runs, I’ve loved this time between the two of us, although watching her be sick every evening makes me crazy. I didn’t think it was possible to love her more than I did before.
I do.
She’s doing this for us, and I’m in awe of her pregnant body. Our baby is growing inside of her—so fucking cool. Her attitude is amazing. Even when she’s sick, she’ll reassure me that it just means that we have a healthy baby.
Finally, I can take a deep breath again, and do a quick assessment of my body. The conclusion? I’m calm enough that I can snuggle my girl without my racing heart waking her.
Tomorrow, I have to leave Charlie for the first away game of the season. I shiver at the thought of not being by her side. I can’t deal with her flying commercial, so I have her booked on a private plane. Her issues during our trip to LA make it easy for me to justify the excess expense. She didn’t put up much of a fight when I reminded her of spending the three-and-a-half hour flight sick in a cramped airplane restroom.
Brad is going too. I’ve shared with him my deepest fears for her safety. He cringed as only Brad can, and reassured me that he’d look after her. They’re booked in a suite at the hotel that the team’s staying at. Even though Brad is gay, I can’t stomach the thought of them sharing a hotel room. However, my issues regarding Brad taking care of her when it’s my job have been overridden by my need to know she’s safe. What if she needs someone, and I can’t get to her? I can’t dwell on those thoughts too long because they make me crazy. I’ve resolved myself to the fact that this is going to be an expensive season.
****
“Yes, I’ll take a Whopper with cheese, mayo and ketchup. Extra onions. Extra tomatoes. Hold the lettuce and pickles, please.” I add the please hoping that she will not floor spice my wife’s food.
I haven’t even been home yet. Charlie and Brad’s private plane landed about two hours ago. The team plane just hit the tarmac, and I raced for Bertha, anticipating Charlie’s dietary needs.
The disembodied voice asks, “Would you like fries or a drink with that?”
I chuckle to myself. “Nope. I’ll get those at the other fast-food restaurants.”
I pull up and hand the lady who looks like she’s on my wife’s diet, my credit card. She hands me back the card, and the bag of nutrients for my son. I don’t really know if I’m having a boy, but the only explanation for Charlie’s diet is that we’re expecting a three-hundred-and-fifty pound lineman. Secretly, I’ve been referring to him as Brutus, because really, is there a more perfect name for a gigantic lineman than Brutus? Brutus McKinney. It has a damn fine ring to it.
My next stop is Wendy’s. I order Charlie’s fries, and wait patiently while the dipshit in the blue Toyota Corolla in front of me digs in his ashtray for spare change.
My phone rings mercifully distracting me from walking up to the car in front of me and handing the asshole a dollar. “McKinney,” I respond without checking caller ID.
“Where are you?” the crazed pregnant woman on the other end of the line asks.
“Trying to buy your daily allotment of empty calories and carb-loaded, over-processed, extra-greased shit,” I reply, not sounding like the doting husband that I should be.