“I’ll come. You already got me a jersey. And Riley would be more excited if we were all there. Just don’t get hit too many times. We wouldn’t want you to break.”
“Of course.” He felt his joy deflate. The only thing Kennedy cared about was to make sure he was in top condition for the transplant. After the previous night, he had actually thought they had a chance. “Don’t worry,” he said curtly. “I’m sure the doctor will still be able to get to my bone marrow even if I’m broken.”
“Are you serious?” She clucked her tongue. “You need to stop seeing the negative in everything I say. We are moving forward, remember?”
Instantly, he felt chagrinned. “I remember. Sorry. Old habits. I should get going.”
“What about your parents?”
“You don’t have to entertain them. Mom will probably take over in the kitchen. Dad won’t wake up until ten. Game starts at four, but you should probably get there at two. Bring Riley down to the locker room for a second, when you get there. Or you could ask Dad to do it.”
“Is that allowed?”
“He’s my baby boy. I’m nervous and he relaxes me.” Ryan smiled. “Four years into this career and I’m already playing in the Super Bowl. But nothing compares to being Riley’s dad. I just hope I can make him proud by winning.”
“He’s already proud of you.” Kennedy rose off the bed on her knees and moved to the edge of the bed, next to Ryan. “I probably smell like puke, but I would like to hug you.”
Ryan threw back his head and laughed, “I’ll take it.” He pulled Kennedy in his arms and got lost in her warmth. He felt her arms move from his shoulders to his chest, signaling him to pull back. “Feed yourself and my baby. Both of them. Bye, Ken.”
“Bye, Ry.” He was about to pull away when her grip tightened and her face grew serious. “Ryan, about last night? Thanks. I really needed to hear that.”
“I needed to say it.” Ryan leaned in for a kiss and when she didn’t retreat, he claimed her lips, morning sickness be damned. When he pulled away, the smile she gave him had his blood rushing. Finally.
• • •
Kennedy watched in a confused daze as a rack of clothes was pushed in front of her. She didn’t know what exactly went into a Super Bowl after party. But according to Matt, people got dressed up for it. She hadn’t seen Riley since the Rebels lifted the football cup in triumph. He was plastered to his father’s side enjoying his victory. She hadn’t seen much of Ryan Senior, either. But Rebecca and Elizabeth were there with her, suffering the pains of being plucked and fluffed like peacocks or supermodels about to take the runway. Ryan hadn’t told her about this party. She guessed he knew that she would have drawn the line at publicizing of their relationship to his friends. Before last night she would have been against it. Now, she was warming to the idea of being referred to as Mrs. Carville.
She stared at the red jersey thrown on her bed. Even though she was draped in a soft cotton robe, she preferred the Carville jersey. At least wearing that she’d felt like she belonged. Kennedy picked it up; the fabric smelled like hot dogs and the cola Riley had managed to pour on her when his father threw his third touchdown for the night. She smiled at the sweet memory of her son’s excitement. But she did feel a little sorry for him, having to watch all the action from the private box seats instead of out among the crowd. The only people there to share his enthusiasm were businessmen and models who had no interest in the game. She felt so bad that she’d let him go sit in the stands with his grandfather at the beginning of the second half.
Kennedy stared at the name on the back of her jersey. Carville. As a teenager she had dreamt of being Mrs. Carville. Now that she was, she didn’t find it as glamorous as she thought she would. But it meant something more to her. She belonged, to him, to his family, and in his world. By just wearing the jersey and turning up at the game she had showed her support and made a statement: She was Ryan’s wife.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing?” Rebecca stared at her suspiciously, as if expecting the confusion of emotions churning inside her about to spout out like volcanic lava.
Kennedy shook her head, then neatly folded the jersey and placed it in her bag. With all the chaos in the room, she was afraid she would lose it. “Nothing, Mama. You look pretty.” She admired the emerald-green dress Rebecca wore. The fabric shone brightly against the rich chocolate of her skin; she looked beautiful.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I don’t know what to wear.” Kennedy noticed, for the first time, the lethargic woman standing next to the clothes rack. The stylist flinched, apparently not amused with Kennedy’s indecision.