Infinity. (Infinity Series) (11 page)

Rachael laughs. “Remember? No desire to get married, and especially not to have children. I’m looking forward to being an Auntie. I’ll swoop in, smother Baby McKinney with love, gifts, and sugar, and retreat back to my quiet townhome.”

“Bitch.”

“Oh, honey, that’s what us aunties do,” she says in her best Southern accent.

I reluctantly tell her bye, knowing that I will not see her again until she’s meeting her godchild. I miss her so much. She’s my anchor when life gets out of control. It makes me sad to hear about the new guy. I guess I still held out hope that Aiden and Rachael would find their way back to each other. I know that Aiden isn’t seeing anyone—at least, for more than one night—since they broke up. But Rachael’s right, if she and Aiden aren’t moving towards the same goal then it’s cruel to continue torturing each other.

I pull into the garage, thinking about what I need to pack for tomorrow. My plane leaves at ten in the morning, and I haven’t begun to organize my clothes. I’m mentally going through my closet looking for any grey or blue ensembles when I spot it.

Colin’s maroon Escalade is gone, and its spot is now occupied with a Mercedes Benz G-class SUV. My first thought is, “It belongs in a jungle, or traversing the Sahara Desert.” Then, I notice the six-loop red bow covering the roof that further makes it look like a rectangular box on wheels. The beast is silver, but if it were painted camouflage instead it could be used in a military battle. I can’t even imagine what this tank cost. In fact, I don’t want to know.
Much more than my Viking stove, and Carrera marble kitchen countertops combined.

Then, the realization hits me. This is the car he bought for me to drive when the baby arrives. “That bastard,” I say out loud as I slam my cute little convertible’s door. “He did this on purpose.” Colin left for the airport earlier today. He chose to bring this beast home because I’ll probably not see him for a couple of days. He’s hoping that my pregnant brain will forget our previous talks about buying a baby-friendly car.

We’d discussed purchasing a family-suitable vehicle. I thought we were trading in the Escalade and getting something small that I didn’t mind driving, like one of those cute little SUVs. I never agreed to this huge hunk of metal.

I stomp toward the beast of burden, and note that the gigantic red bow on top of it is truly accentuating its box-like structure. I shudder at how horrible this hunk of metal must be for the environment. Then, my eyes are drawn to a yellow sheet of paper taped to the driver’s door window.

I stalk over—more like waddle—and rip it off the glass.

“Dear Doctor Collins, I believe that this is the definition of bamboozlement.” I pause. I’m so fuming mad that he better be glad he’s thirty-thousand feet in the air, and I can’t get my hands around his thick neck. “You see, I let you ramble about the small family car that you were WILLING to let me purchase for you. When this has been on order since you showed me the tiny pair of Nikes. Think of this as asking for a post-nuptial agreement, but agreeing to drop the fight if I accept Collins as your professional name. I love you, darling, and I love the life growing in your body. This car is so I can sleep at night. Infinity. Colin.”

I stand there, staring holes through the sheet of paper. How’s it possible to want to smother him with kisses and at the same time long to twist his balls while he writhes in pain?

I reason there’s nothing I can do about it right now. Although, there’s a brief moment I contemplate going to the nearest car dealership and purchasing the reasonable SUV I agreed to. I quickly dismiss the idea, because I’d be lowering myself to his levels of childishness. When McKinney returns home, and he will have to walk through our doors sooner or later, I’m going to just have to persuade him to return the tank for a practical family car like a
small
SUV.

Crumbling the note into a ball, I toss it toward the recycling bin, noting that at least I’m doing something to save our planet for future generations.

I let Pancho out, and then make my way into our bathroom to change. It takes me just a second to spot the dry-erase marker on my mirror.
Ha! He must be feeling guilty for being an asshole.

Then, I read what he wrote. “P.S. The Mercedes dealership was given firm instructions that the car cannot be returned, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Bastard,” I mumble under my breath as my lips quirk up into a smile.

“P.P.S. Christen it before the baby arrives. Notice not a question.” Then he drew a damn smiley face.

I throw my hands up in the air. I’ve been beaten at my own game. Except if he thinks that I’m getting rid of my cute little red Mercedes, he’s got another thing coming. I’ve decided to refer to the new tank as the baby’s car. Whomever is lucky enough to chauffer our child can drive it.
Ha!
That should be a good fight when football season is over.

Colin

Chaos bombards my mind. All I can see is a swirl of whites, greys, and greens. The roar of the crowd is so deafening that I can no longer distinguish a single word; all I can hear is high-pitched yelling. I sink down to the aluminum bench and shut my eyes, dropping my head, fighting desperately to get a hold of myself. There’s a camera trained on me right now, capturing every movement that I make. There always is. Even that realization doesn’t shake this off.
I just need a fucking minute.

Someone puts a baseball hat on my head. I don’t bother to look up and see who it is. There seems to be a constant sting of slaps on my back and shoulders—I barely feel them. They just magnify the chaotic, out-of-control feelings threatening to overwhelm me.
I don’t deserve this. Just getting Charlie back and having her pregnant with our baby was enough. I can’t have all of this goodness.
When I do open my eyes, I focus on my right leg. What a fucking crazy fourteen months. I would like to say that I never doubted getting to this moment after the “break seen around the world,” but that would be a lie. Oh! I’ll probably say exactly that when there’s a microphone shoved in my face.

This is so surreal. I’ve dreamt of this moment since I knew that I was better-than-average at throwing a football. I envisioned this moment a million times in my head. But, never, ever did I have even a fraction of a clue of how amazing it could be.
I just threw the Super Bowl winning touchdown.
Little boys across the country pretend that they’re doing just that daily. I actually did it.

“McKinney, come on. They’re about to present the trophy. They need you,” one of the assistants yells to me. He’s the one who I asked to keep my ring for me. If we actually did win the Super Bowl, I didn’t want to hold the trophy without wearing my wedding ring.

I pick my head up and nod, stretching my left hand towards him. He unzips the pocket on his athletic pants and fishes out my wedding ring. I slide it on with a pang of sadness that Charlie can’t be on the field with me right now.

Standing up, I slip a T-shirt that someone hands me over my sweat-soaked jersey. A camera follows me through the crowd of players, staff, cheerleaders, reporters, fans, maybe—I’m not sure.
Who the fuck are all of these people? 
I feel like a fighter being escorted through a rabid crowd to the boxing ring.
Shouldn’t “Eye of the Tiger” be playing?

I make my way up the steps of the platform that’s been assembled rather quickly where the commissioner of football is waiting, our team owner, president, GM, Coach, offensive and defensive coordinators, Ty – my best friend on the team, a couple of my receivers, my center, and a couple of the guys on defense.

Apparently, they’ve been waiting for me to begin the presentation of the trophy. The reporter asks me a question first. “Tell me, Colin, what does this win mean to you?”

I smile at this question. “What a season.”

Cheers and screams bombard my ears. This has been as close to a rags-to-riches season as possible. We struggled early on. My leg wasn’t one-hundred percent starting the season. I didn’t have total confidence in my line to protect me. My receivers didn’t have faith that I was going to get them the ball. But every game we got better. Every Sunday, we seemed to gel more as a team. When offense was struggling, defense stepped up. When defense was getting their asses handed to them, offense became resolved to just have to score more points. Perfect season this was not. Hell, we were a wild card team going into the playoffs. No, the season wasn’t pretty.

But we found a way to win. The boys standing next to me up here, and the ones whose faces I can see in the crowd played their fucking hearts out. Around week seven it was decided; this is our year, and not finding a way to this spot wasn’t an option.

Fortunately, all the following questions go to Coach and the suits. I look around me as they speak, trying to absorb every last detail. The enormity of the moment slams into my chest. Less than fifty times this trophy has been presented. We’re bringing it home to Dallas. For the city. For the fans that have stood by me for so many years, and those that haven’t. This is for those who’ve booed when I’ve jogged onto the field. This moment is for every one of my football coaches growing up who donated their time to us boys. This is for the middle school and high school coaches who believed in me, and spent extra time that they weren’t paid for because they saw something special. Fuck. This is for my parents, who’ve come to my games, worn my jersey, who’ve believed in me when I didn’t have faith in myself. This moment is for Charlie, and our baby, growing in her stomach. Our baby’s daddy is a Super Bowl champion. That thought makes the smile already on my face that much larger.

I’m knocked out of my own head when Coach is hitting me on the back and beaming at me like, well, a guy that just won the Super Bowl. “Get your trophy, son, you deserve it.”

I look around and see the MVP trophy. What?
They’re giving it to me?
I played a great game. My numbers were good, but what about the amazing run that Ty had? He deserves this more than me. I mean, he did, like, gymnastics and shit to get into the end zone.

I take a couple of shuffle-steps back to the microphone, and stand there with a cocky smile on the outside with a world of doubt on the inside. When they hand me the trophy, I hold it up above my head for everyone to see it. Giving it a couple of pumps into the air. The cheers are deafening,
so everyone must agree that I deserve it
.
Right?

The reporter starts asking me questions about different plays of the game. I handle those like the professional that I am. Then he blindsides me with, “After last year’s season-ending injury, and devastating end to your perfect season, just how much does this mean to you?”

It takes everything that I have to not let my eyes leak on worldwide TV.
What does this mean to me? What does this mean to me?
What the fuck kind of question is that?
  “It means everything to me.
Everything.
Tonight is what we play our whole careers for. It’s why we sweat our asses off in training camp, and spend late nights watching film. It’s why we leave our families. It’s why we do that one extra rep in the weight room. This is only possible because of the incredible guys that surround me on the field and the support that I have at home.” The whole time that I’ve been standing up here, I’ve been thumbing my ring. I hope Charlie’s watching this, and she sees my gesture of love and appreciation to her.

“So Colin, Chevy is giving you a Corvette. Does that mean that Big Bertha will get garaged?”

I smirk. “I think Bertha is a permanent member of the Cowboys’ family.” The crowd erupts in more cheers. Bertha is now a legend. The station that carried the Super Bowl hauled her to Miami for promotional appearances. Ford, who Bertha and I endorse, nearly lost their minds at how much free publicity the old girl was bringing them. Charlie just shook her head, but I reminded her that we’d saved enough money from my sponsorship deals for her marble countertops in the kitchen, and the Viking stove.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the ceremony is over. We walk into the locker room, where the celebration is just beginning. There’s more interviews, a press conference, coach’s team meeting, and champagne is flowing freely. I finally get a shower about three hours later, or maybe four. Hell! It could be next week, for all I know. While the guys are partying it up, I slip out of the locker room to go find my girl.

Turning on my phone is an assault to my senses. I ignore the pings of hundreds of congratulations texts and voicemails.

Me:
Are you at the owners’ party?

I stare at the phone, hoping that she’ll respond and not already be asleep. I mean, I wouldn’t blame her. She is thirty-seven weeks’ pregnant, but I need to see her more than I need to breathe at the moment.

After a few minutes…

Charlie:
Congratulations my love. I’m so proud of you. No. Everyone is back at the hotel, waiting to hear from you
.

Me:
I have to go this party. Do you feel like joining me?

I feel like the biggest dick-bag for even asking her. She’s been having practice contractions. I know she’s exhausted. These last weeks have been brutal on us. After winning the NFC title, I don’t think that I’ve actually spent more than a total of five hours with her in two weeks.

Charlie:
I’ll meet you there
.

Thank God she said yes. The relief is so strong that I sag against the nearest wall, finally letting my emotions overtake me.
Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback.

I climb on the bus with the other guys and head to the club, counting down the minutes until I get to see her, and our baby growing inside of her. The need to touch her soft skin and kiss her lips is overwhelming. I fiddle with my ring, to try to rid myself of my nervous energy. It doesn’t help.

I need to physically know that she’s okay. My little guy needs to kick my hand.
I’ve got to stop thinking of the baby as a boy.
Jamie and Brad have been taking care of Charlie, but fuck, I’m glad that this is over. It’s my turn. I need a timeout with my wife before I meet this kid.