“Then we’re done here,” I said. I got up and started toward the door. Chris followed me, and we only stopped when Mackie said “wait” in a hilariously hoarse voice.
“Wait,” he said again, his head hanging even more now. “Sit the fuck down.”
“Someone is forgetting the magic word,” I said, not taking my hand from the doorknob.
I thought his eyes were about to pop out of his head. His face had gone a purply shade of red, but he finally moved his fleshy lips. “Please. Sit back down.”
Chris and I took our seats again.
“You can present your offer now.” I’d been coached up by Damon when the three of us hatched this plan. I knew what rough range to expect, and I knew what was too low to accept. Frankly, I didn’t particularly care if he gave us the best offer any QB in history had gotten. I wanted the man to squirm before he got his relief.
He slid a napkin across the table with a number on it. “Thirty million per year, four years guaranteed,” he said.
“Why’d you write it on the napkin if you were going to just say it?” Chris asked.
I had to stifle a laugh, but Mackie’s face got even more red. “Do you take it or not?”
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, then lifted my palm up. My eyes never left Mackie’s. It was hard not to burst out laughing, especially when I saw Chris trying not to crack up beside me. He’d told me many times how hot it was watching me squeeze more money out of Damon in his office when they’d tried to convince me to play the role of fake wife. It was why both of them insisted I do this with Chris today, and I had to admit it was fun.
Mackie’s eyes were bulging. “Thirty one.”
I got up again, shortly followed by Chris. “We’re done here,” I said.
“Sit back down!” Mackie called out.
This time we got the door halfway open before he croaked “Please”.
I shared a small smile with Chris, then we both went back down to sit. “Look,” I said, threading my fingers on his desk and leaning forward. “I’m going to level with you. Thirty two million would be enough. But you’re going to need to get on your knees and kiss Chris’ ring. Then you’ll tell him you missed him and you’ll never do him dirty like that again.”
Chris’ face was on the verge of breaking. He put his hand over his mouth, lowered his eyes, and shook a little with quiet laughter.
Mackie just slid his bulging eyes between the two of us. “No. It’s not happening. You can have thirty two, but I’m not—”
After five more minutes of Chris and I getting up, threatening to leave, and drawing more concessions from Coach Mackie, we finally reached a deal.
Chris stood in the center of the room while his coach grudgingly got up from his chair like he was walking to his own execution. He shuffled toward Chris, paused several long seconds, then got on one knee.
“I do,” Chris whispered. “I do, you beautiful little bastard.”
“Chris,” I said. “Don’t distract him.”
Coach Mackie stared at Chris’ extended hand with absolute disgust. He finally puckered his lips and kissed Chris’ ring. “I missed you.”
“Baby,” I mouthed.
He glared at me. “I missed you, baby. And I won’t do you like that again.”
Chris bent down and scooped the small man up, spinning him in a circle before letting him down. “You had me at sit the fuck down, you grumpy little bastard.”
I smiled at the two of them, wondering how long Chris’ coach was going to survive of the four year contract before some sort of Chris induced heart attack took him out.
Six Months Later
Contrary to magazine headlines, celebrity talk shows, and even a viral meme campaign that caught a picture of Chris looking past me to a hotdog someone was carrying like he’d fallen in love—contrary to it all, we were still together.
Still married. Still in love. Still everything.
I’d also broken a promise I made to Damon before our honeymoon. He’d practically begged me not to reproduce with Chris. He said something about owing it to future generations not to let his brother pass his DNA on.
Oops.
Damon and Chelsea had been extremely busy the past few months launching a training academy that Chelsea and Milly were partnering on. Apparently, the idea was to have some sort of partnership with Damon’s agency and blah blah “synergy” and other business buzzwords. All I really got out of it was that Chelsea and Milly were both thrilled to be getting back to their roots with tennis and loving every minute of it.
But it had meant Chris and I were able to mostly hide my pregnancy between taking a post-season vacation that kept us out of their sight and my creative use of baggy clothing. But there was no hiding it anymore.
I was ripe, and I’d passed beyond that “should I ask her if she’s pregnant or suggest some weight loss tips” stage. I was definitely pregnant, and Chris and I were meeting Damon at Rose athletic to officially break the news to him.
Chris had taken to kneeling down and telling “secrets” to my belly on occasion. It was, of course, adorable, especially since I could usually hear him.
He got down on his knees while we rode the elevator up to Damon’s floor and faced my belly. “Listen, little alien baby.”
“I told you to stop calling him that.”
Chris gave me a level look. “He’ll be cute when he’s done cooking. But I’ve seen pictures of what he looks like right now. Anyway,” he said, lowering his voice. “Alien baby, this man we’re about to meet is kind of scary. But he’s your uncle, so you’re obligated to love him anyway. Think of it like being a fan of a horrible football team. That’s what loving family like Damon is like. You show up to the game even though you know it’s going to be a bloodbath. You cheer when there’s any sign of something good. And like every other game, it ends in defeat. But you know you’re going to show up next week anyway, because it’s still your team.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” I said.
“This is an ‘A’ and ‘B’ conversation, Belle. So please ‘C’ your way out of it.”
I rolled my eyes at him.
“So when you meet Damon, resist the urge to run. You’re not ready to come busting out of there yet, anyway. And he’s not as bad as he seems. Once you get used to him. I mean… Okay, he’s probably as bad as he seems in most areas. But he’s got a soft spot for kids. I think.”
We found Damon in his office with even more of a look of consternation on his face than usual. I’d expected an immediate reaction when he saw my stomach, which I wasn’t trying to hide. But he barely looked up as we came in and sat down.
Chris squinted, then tapped his knuckles on the desk, trying to get Damon’s attention. “Are we supposed to ask why you look constipated?”
“Because I’ve got an important client who is making it sound like he’s about to ditch his baseball career to take care of his kid.”
“Good for him?” I said.
“No. Bad for me. He’s coming up on a huge contract, and I’ll have to spend months patching things up with sponsors if he walks away from it.”