Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(61)

Coach turns a little more fully to examine me. “What’d Maria and Dan say?”

“Nothing. Because they know what’s good for them.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Hayes, I need you to be straight with me.”

“I’ll be fine to play our next game,” I promise her.

She sighs. “That’s not all I’m concerned about. I care about you. You know that.”

I feel my disobedient gaze slide toward Oliver again, remembering how perfect he felt—the warm, wet, pleasure of his mouth, his soft sighs and gasps, the glorious feel of his body against mine, hot in my hand.

The fucking irony, that the man who’s been the constant source of my misery, whose life is becoming everything mine soon will no longer be, who’s been such a bitter reminder of the painful truth that I can never get back those years that await him, is the one person who’s given me the closest to respite from my misery in so long.

“Hayes,” Coach presses.

I cross my arms tight over my chest, a shield against my aching heart, telling myself as much as her, “I’m fine.”





19





OLIVER





Playlist: “September Fields,” Frazey Ford





There are some choices I’ll forever regret, choices I’d give anything to take back and do differently… Some of them involve pranks I took too far. Harsh words said in the heat of the moment. But the one that outstrips them all, at least right now, is eating my feelings in the form of a half-pound wedge of triple cream brie.

I just got so frustrated with Gavin. It’s been three weeks since the kitchen make-out and the next morning when he shut me down, demanding we leave it behind us, and the worst part is, I shouldn’t even be mad. He’s kept his promise—been civil, respectful on the field, in the locker room. On our carpool rides home, he’s mostly quiet, but he’ll make a dry quip here and there.

He’s kept his promise, I’ve kept mine. No more pranks or innuendo or big dick jokes, and I’m angry and horny and frustrated, and I can’t even put my finger on exactly why, when we’re doing exactly what we should: ignoring our attraction, treating each other decently, and kicking ass in preseason.

So when I got home after practice today, I ate my feelings and went way too hard on the cheese. And now my stomach’s cramping, rumbling ominously. A fine sheen of sweat beads my temples.

I’m going to be violently ill soon. And it’s the world’s worst timing.

“Uncle Ollie, pay attention.” My niece, Linnea, sits on the couch behind me, her legs slung over my shoulders, while I’m sprawled on the floor, my back slumped against the couch.

Clutching my stomach.

“What’s up, bud?” I ask her tightly, trying to breathe through the pain.

She leans in, her big, ice-blue eyes meeting mine. “Daniel Tiger is gonna meet his baby now. Like I met my Theo baby.”

I smooth her dark wavy hair back from her face. It’s wild, thanks to the wrestling match we just had. The one I had to put an abrupt stop to because my stomach started cramping.

“Okay, Linnie, I’m watching.”

Sighing, she sets her chin on top of my head, her hands idly tapping my shoulders. “Are Mommy and Daddy okay?” she whispers.

My heart clenches along with my stomach, but I do my best to ignore the latter, pushing off the ground, sitting on the sofa, and tugging Linnie onto my lap. “Linnie, what do you mean?”

“Last night, they were both making ouchy noises,” she says. She sniffles. Wipes her nose. Very much like her mother, Linnie’s a crier. A big feeler. An empath.

I frown. “Ouchy noises?”

Linnie shuts her eyes, scrunches her face, and wails, “Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhh! Like that.”

Heat hits my cheeks. Sweet Lord.

Those noises.

It’s really not something I want to think about, but I have some vague recollection from when I used to nerd out on the old med-school texts Dad kept at the house, that it’s around a month after birth that you can safely resume sexual activity.

Theo was born five weeks ago today.

Which explains the “ouchy” noises Freya and Aiden were making, as well as Aiden’s frantic text this evening along the lines of, “Can you please take Linnie for an overnight? We’re desperate for a break.”

I thought this meant like an actually just have one child to contend with break, a nap when the baby naps break, or hell, a just not answer questions every hour the firstborn is awake break, not a sexcapade break.

I thought kids murdered your sex life, yet here I am on babysitting duty during my longest no-sex-streak in years, with a next-door neighbor I’d love nothing more than to bang into next week, who’s decidedly avoiding me—as he should—while the parents of two kids under four are getting it on.

Life is cruel.

“Uncle Ollie?” Linnie whispers, sniffling again.

I’m brought back to the moment with a pinch of guilt. I should be reassuring her, not having a pity party for myself. Kissing her temple, I rub her back.

“I think Mommy and Daddy are fine, Linnea. Sometimes when adults are…in bed…they just kinda…groan and stretch?”

Linnie wrinkles her nose. “Hmm. But they were in the shower. I heard the water and, like, thumps. Daddy says no gymnastics in the shower ’cause I could get hurt. Sounds like they got hurt. They shouldn’t do it either.”