Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(69)

Chapter 18


NOVA

Ronan’s drawn face bends toward me as he carries me into the house. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want to hurl,” I say, willing the boiling lava in my stomach to settle.

He pushes through the door and rushes into the den.

Sabine stands up from the couch. “What’s wrong?”

My stomach rumbles again, and I wrestle out of Ronan’s grip. He doesn’t want to let me go but finally does. I cling to the staircase, my head spinning. “I don’t know; I never do this . . .” I stop, frowning. Unless . . .

Sabine reads my mind. “Did you eat shellfish?”

“You have a shellfish allergy?” Ronan bellows. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where’s the goddamn EpiPen!”

Sabine cocks her head at him. “Remain calm. She doesn’t need an EpiPen. It’s not that serious. Shellfish allergies can occur at any time, mostly when you’re an adult. It started when she was twenty-five and had lobster while we were on vacation in Maine. After that, Mama declared Maine was the worst place in the United States. Her reactions have happened two times since then, all by accident. Once she had clam in soup; the other was sushi. Mama said she never should have gone to that sushi place.”

“I ordered the veggie rolls,” I say weakly.

She ignores me. “Regardless, something went wrong. Nova doesn’t eat most seafood or chicken. I’m not sure why she hates chicken, but she does. When she eats shellfish, she feels faint, vomits, gets a rash on her stomach, and sometimes has diarrhea—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, my shoulders slumping as I trudge up the stairs. “There might have been crab or lobster in the quiche. I didn’t ask, and I should have. I only had a few. Bring the Benadryl, Sabine.”

After clicking down the air on the thermostat, I make it to the bathroom next to my bedroom and throw up again. Leaning over the sink, I wash my face and pat it dry. The door opens, and Ronan walks in with the medicine.

Wearing a frown, he sits on the edge of my tub and pulls out his phone, scrolling.

I take the Benadryl, then grimace at my white face in the mirror.

His voice is abrupt. “Are you having difficulty breathing, swelling of your throat, or a rapid pulse?”

I chug the Sprite he brought. “Don’t look it up on your phone. It will only scare you. I’ll be fine in a few hours. You should go back to the party. For real. This is just a mild reaction.”

He stands, a scowl on his forehead. “If you think I’m leaving you, you’re crazy.”

I exhale. “Fine. Help me out of this dress.” I put my hands on the sink, clinging to the edge.

He unzips the back, easing it off my shoulders. His fingers trace a line down my back. “I’ve never seen you sick.”

“It happens.”

“You’re always so peppy and . . .” He takes a step away from me, picking up my dress and laying it over the hamper.

“This will pass,” I assure him. “And I’ll go back to being pissed at you.”

Wearing my thong and lace bra, I take small steps and hang on to the wall as I edge past him and turn on the shower. I glance at him over my shoulder. “Privacy?”

“Nova . . . there’s something I want to say. I fucked up the pantry moment for us.” He tugs at his hair, his face grimacing. “There’s a wall of fear inside me. I froze up and didn’t know how to handle us.” He lowers his head, then looks at me. “I hate us being at odds.”

Part of me relishes this open side of Ronan, but the other part, self-preservation, doesn’t want to be hurt. I push up a smile. “Okay, I’m glad you said that. May I shower now?”

He bites his lower lip as his eyes skate over my face. “What if your throat starts swelling? We need to make sure your reactions don’t worsen with each exposure. I want to hang around in the bathroom.”

“Ronan . . .” My words stall.

“I just want to make sure . . .” He scrubs his face. “Whitney died on my watch, Nova.”

“That wasn’t your fault. It was a storm. And I’m not even close to being that sick. I’ve been worse off with the flu.”

I notice the tremble in his hands. “Inside, I know that—I do—but . . . I feel like I’m at a crossroads, you know, a big one, and I’m going to screw it up because I can’t be relied on. I can’t. I worked all my life to be the best; I came from nothing, and I attained what some people never do. The Heisman. An incredible career. A team who admired me. A girl I loved. It’s like my world was so perfect for those years that I never imagined anything bad would happen, and I let down my guard! I failed!” He heaves out a breath. “This week has been shit, and tonight, seeing you sick just brings back those feelings of inadequacy. Even with this town, I worry about disappointing them, about leaving my players. They think I’m this great coach and person, but what if I let them down too? They can’t imagine it, but what if I can’t get them that trophy? They want it so much, and they’ve put all this responsibility on me, and sometimes it feels tougher than playing for the Pythons. At least then, I depended on other people in the game, and I have other coaches, but it’s me, all me. These people love me; they’ve put me on a pedestal, and that terrifies me. Their expectations, the belief that I’m going to save them. I talk big and bolster them up—hell, I’m great at getting people to believe in themselves, but I don’t believe in myself! I’m not brave anymore! I lost it somewhere along the way, and I don’t know how to get it back. How fucked is that?” He jerks to a stop. “Jesus, you’re sick, and here I am, bugging you . . .”