Infinity. (Infinity Series) (9 page)

I drop my head in my hands, trying to calm myself down.
This was just another bad dream
. One of many, but just a dream.

Not wanting to wake Charlie, I finally stand up and cross our bedroom to the door that leads to the backyard. As quiet as can be, I turn the lock and open the door, slipping into the cool night air.

My body is worn out. I feel every bit as fatigued as I normally do after a game.
It was just a dream. She’s safe inside the bedroom
.

I slide down the brick façade of our house, allowing my head to fall in between my knees. At some point, I realize that I’m naked and couldn’t care less.

These goddamn dreams have got to stop.
I’ve mentioned them to the sports psychologist that Doctor Benson recommended I see. He explained in his typical doctor bullshit that it’s normal for men to feel out of control when their wives are expecting. I’d inwardly rolled my eyes. It’s not normal to be so obsessed with your wife’s safety that fucking dreams make you have panic attacks.

They’re always the same. In some sort of twisted, dreamlike way, she and our unborn baby are being taken away from me. Sometimes it’s a car accident, or she dies in childbirth. Other times, it’s a nameless face that kidnaps or murders her. The hardest yet, though, is the dream where she tells me that her and the baby can do much better than me. I spend too much time playing football, and she and our baby leave me.

Unfolding from the curled-up position I was in, I rise to my feet and begin pacing between the pool and the door.

“The threats are real,” I speak out loud to no one. Because somehow trying to justify the nightmares helps to soothe my jagged nerves.

I know that I’ve become insane about her safety. Okay:
more
insane about her safety. She doesn’t know it, but she has her security at the hospital, plus I have her tailed wherever she goes. My guy reports back on her every movement. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s that I don’t trust all the crazy people in the world with my wife and unborn child.

“Fuck!” I yell, but not too loud. All I need right now is my wife worrying about me, or Jamie rushing out of the pool house to find me naked. I reach up and use my fist to try to work the knot out of my chest.

Finally, I give in to my aching legs and sprawl on one of the sun-loungers by the pool. The night is cloudy, so there isn’t a star to be found, but the neighborhood lights reflect off the clouds, creating a glowing night sky. It’s actually rather pretty. If Charlie didn’t need her sleep so desperately, I’d wake her up so she could admire it with me.

But Charlie needs her rest, because the first trimester of Charlie’s pregnancy can be summed up like this: nausea and mind-blowing sex. I mean, Charlie and I never had issues pleasuring each other before, but damn, Charlie getting pregnant equals crazy sex. Wild sex. Sex that makes me feel like I’m being used. Best. Feeling. Ever.

I chuckle at the thought that there have been days that I’ve had to use her toys on her—which I hate, sort of—because my dick can only come so many times before there’s nothing left in my balls but dust. She wakes me up in the middle of the night to ride me.
Awesome!

I was lectured on the day we found out she was expecting that it’s my job to support her. So I’ve done what any man would do in my situation: have the best sex of my life, since that’s what my girl needs. In fact tonight, she was ready and waiting for me when I arrived home with her dinner.

The downside to her first trimester of pregnancy is that when we aren’t having sex like bunnies, she’s sick. She was so sick on the plane to the ESPY Awards in LA that we took a private jet home.

I have to say, though, my girl handled the red carpet at the ESPY Awards like a pro. She looked damn gorgeous, and kept her smile firmly planted on her lips while the press questioned our relationship status, asked me the same tired questions about the upcoming season, quizzed me about my ankle, and even asked what kind of stunt we were going to pull this year. That question caused her to dig her fingernails into my hand. I agreed. Stupid reporters.

Charlie held her own, though, and didn’t, fortunately, feel bad during the awards. What we’ve discovered is that smells seem to be her trigger. In particular, it’s my cologne. I’ve moved all the bottles to my office building, because she swears that she can smell the oil drop on the tip of the sprayer. I’m not saying that I don’t believe her, but it seems like this is a tad mental.

And because my cologne is one of the bestselling male fragrances in the world, the smell is everywhere—especially here in Dallas.

We’re hoping that this ends soon because right now, the only foods she can seem to keep in her stomach come from fast-food restaurants.

I roll over on my side, facing away from the pool, feeling the bite of the night air. My sweaty skin is now goose-pimpled. I should probably stand up, walk inside, and curl up with my wife. Her pregnant body radiates heat. But, if I’m honest with myself, I know that I’ve become terrified to sleep.
I can’t have another nightmare tonight.

Think pleasant thoughts, Colin,
I command myself.  Charlie’s tits…
Dear God, thank you for Charlie’s tits
. She pretty much had ant bites when we were in college. When we got back together, they’d grown to a small handful. Now, the Pregnancy Fairy has blessed us with heaping mounds of boobs. They’re so big that she looks like she’s had enhancement surgery. Her stomach is still flat, but her tits go on for days.
Playboy
models would be envious.

Every morning she stands naked in the mirror, and gripes about how another shirt doesn’t cover them. Every morning I measure them with my hands, thanking our baby for the best rack I’ve ever seen.

Even though I’ve been in the middle of training camp and all that entails, I’ve been able to be around for Charlie. She’s needed my help this first trimester. Besides the food runs, I’ve loved this time between the two of us, although watching her be sick every evening makes me crazy. I didn’t think it was possible to love her more than I did before.

I do.

She’s doing this for us, and I’m in awe of her pregnant body. Our baby is growing inside of her—so fucking cool. Her attitude is amazing. Even when she’s sick, she’ll reassure me that it just means that we have a healthy baby.

Finally, I can take a deep breath again, and do a quick assessment of my body. The conclusion? I’m calm enough that I can snuggle my girl without my racing heart waking her.

Tomorrow, I have to leave Charlie for the first away game of the season. I shiver at the thought of not being by her side. I can’t deal with her flying commercial, so I have her booked on a private plane. Her issues during our trip to LA make it easy for me to justify the excess expense. She didn’t put up much of a fight when I reminded her of spending the three-and-a-half hour flight sick in a cramped airplane restroom.

Brad is going too. I’ve shared with him my deepest fears for her safety. He cringed as only Brad can, and reassured me that he’d look after her. They’re booked in a suite at the hotel that the team’s staying at. Even though Brad is gay, I can’t stomach the thought of them sharing a hotel room. However, my issues regarding Brad taking care of her when it’s my job have been overridden by my need to know she’s safe. What if she needs someone, and I can’t get to her? I can’t dwell on those thoughts too long because they make me crazy.  I’ve resolved myself to the fact that this is going to be an expensive season.

****

“Yes, I’ll take a Whopper with cheese, mayo and ketchup. Extra onions. Extra tomatoes. Hold the lettuce and pickles, please.” I add the
please
hoping that she will not floor spice my wife’s food.

I haven’t even been home yet. Charlie and Brad’s private plane landed about two hours ago. The team plane just hit the tarmac, and I raced for Bertha, anticipating Charlie’s dietary needs.

The disembodied voice asks, “Would you like fries or a drink with that?”

I chuckle to myself. “Nope. I’ll get those at the other fast-food restaurants.”

I pull up and hand the lady who looks like she’s on my wife’s diet, my credit card. She hands me back the card, and the bag of nutrients for my son. I don’t really know if I’m having a boy, but the only explanation for Charlie’s diet is that we’re expecting a three-hundred-and-fifty pound lineman. Secretly, I’ve been referring to him as Brutus, because really, is there a more perfect name for a gigantic lineman than Brutus? Brutus McKinney. It has a damn fine ring to it.

My next stop is Wendy’s. I order Charlie’s fries, and wait patiently while the dipshit in the blue Toyota Corolla in front of me digs in his ashtray for spare change.

My phone rings mercifully distracting me from walking up to the car in front of me and handing the asshole a dollar. “McKinney,” I respond without checking caller ID.

“Where are you?” the crazed pregnant woman on the other end of the line asks.

“Trying to buy your daily allotment of empty calories and carb-loaded, over-processed, extra-greased shit,” I reply, not sounding like the doting husband that I should be.

“Colin, I’m nauseous. I’ve already thrown up the healthy veggies I had for lunch. Can you hurry?”

I reach up and run my fingers through my hair.
Bald by forty.
“I’m trying to get home, baby.” It makes me insane that she’s been sick today. I was hoping with the first trimester ending that this shit would be getting better.

“Colin,” she whines. “Hurry… I need my Whopper, fries, milkshake…” There’s a pause, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “…your dick. I’ve missed you.”

We don’t get to have our “alone time” we’re usually able to find during out-of-town games. Brad is a cock-blocking motherfucker. We’ll have a private chat about that later.

In the background, I hear the damn vibrator switch on. “Honey, I’m fucking my BOB because you’re taking too long.” Then, there’s a pregnant pause—pun intended. “Oh God, baby, I’m imaging that your long, thick, hard dick’s slamming inside of me.” She moans.

My cock presses uncomfortably against the zipper of my jeans, fully aware of what she’s saying. I reach down adjusting it.
It’s okay, boy. We’ll see her shortly.

Finally, the asshole in front of me finds his fifty-nine cents and goes on with his shit meal. “Charlie, hang in there for me. I’m getting your French fries right now.”

I hand the poor pimple-faced kid a ten and snatch my bag of dollar fries before he can hand me the change. I mumble to myself, “Call it a tip.”

“What, baby?” She moans into the phone. “Tell me how hard you are for me.”

Fuck
. I think.
There’s a reason that pregnancy is only nine months; because men can’t take ten months of this insanity
.

“I’m pulling into McDonalds right now for your shake. Hang on, baby. I’ll be home in ten. Then I’ll make love to you until you fall asleep in my arms,” I try to reason with her.

“But Colin, I need you. I need to fuck you now.”

I look down at my poor, confused cock, shaking my head. It had no idea what we were getting ourselves in to when we knocked Charlie up.

“I’m already at the window, handing the nice lady my two dollars. Your milkshake is in my drink holder, freshly frozen, and not melting, just like you like it.” I reassure her as I merge into traffic. “Pull that plastic dick out of your sweet pussy. I’ll let you ride my hard cock while I feed you your dinner.” I roll my eyes at the words that are exiting my mouth. The truth is that I’ll do it. I’ll set up her smorgasbord of shit on my chest and let her ride my cock while I feed her Wendy’s French fries, because I love Caroline Jane Collins-McKinney more than I love my own dignity.

“Oh Colin,” she moans. “I’m coming. Oh God, I’m coming. My pussy is gripping the vibrator like it’s your cock. I’m pretending it’s you, and you feel so fucking good.”

I’m half tempted to throw my phone across the car. I just had to listen to my wife masturbate while I’m doing her bidding at fast-food row. Fuck me. This baby can’t get here soon enough. I’ll trade my sex-obsessed, insatiable, puking wife any day for the rational, self-assured, confident, sassy woman that I married. But, I remind myself over and over, she’s growing our child. This is not her. This is her out of whack hormones. I’ll have my wife back with the bonus prize of our baby soon.

“Honey, I’m in the driveway. I’m coming to you. I’ll be at the kitchen table in three minutes. Let Pancho outside. He can greet me.” I try to reason with her.

“Too late,” she moans. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Fuck my life,”
I yell as I toss my phone across the car.

****

A few weeks later, it’s like a light-switch flipped. She’s back to being my sane, rational, Charlie who happens to like at least three to five orgasms a day. She can keep down healthy foods like steamed veggies. I’ve quit visiting my biggest fans on fast-food row. I tiptoe around the house, afraid to upset the balance, but now I’m getting more comfortable around my new Charlie.

It’s a year ago almost to the day that the “break seen around the world” happened. The occasion has been circled on the calendar in my head since the day that it occurred. I know that the media is going to have a field day with questions after the game. So, I’ve already decided to go to the stadium earlier than usual, in hopes that I can avoid any more press than I’m required to talk to.

Charlie and I are avoiding discussing the anniversary. It’s just another game. Another Sunday. My girl in the stands, cheering me on. Just another sixty minutes of football, and hopefully another game in the win column.

I’ve been awake for at least an hour, watching her sleep.  When she snuggles against my chest and whispers in a scratchy voice, “Morning, love” I pull her tightly to me, and sit up enough that I can kiss her shiny, caramel hair. She smells like us, and it’s enough that my dick takes notice.

“How did you sleep?” I kiss her full cherry lips and begin to rub my hand over her baby bump. She’s had a tough time getting comfortable lately. Her protruding stomach is noticeable in clothes, so she’s in maternity jeans that she swears are so comfortable that they may hang around after the baby is born.