Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Franky
It doesn’t matter what you look like. This is not a date.
Then why couldn’t I stop looking in the mirror?
I appeared worried instead of excited. I might be pregnant within hours—okay, days—so I should be thrilled at the prospect. But the prospect happened to involve Jason Isner.
I had tried with Sean. Charles, too. A few days ago, I called him in London and made my request. He declined, and part of me was oddly relieved.
He was nice about it, even regretful, but he said the world was too messed up to bring more children into it.
I agreed on the first part but not the second.
Children would make it better. How else could we fix the world without imparting values to the next generation?
Meanwhile, my options were shrinking along with the viability of my eggs. Two refusals, my hormones screaming. I had a genuine, hand-to-God offer to help me conceive a child. I would be a fool not to take it.
Jason had signed the contract with its amendments quite quickly, which meant he recognized the urgency.
An old maid, getting older by the second, my chances at conception diminishing with every moment I hesitated.
This could be my last shot, though it wouldn’t be Jason’s. He could impregnate anyone.
So why had he chosen me?
Because I did feel like I was chosen. The geek blessed by the star quarterback with a quick fumble behind the bleachers. Jason had his pick of prospects, while I had my rapidly shrinking candidate list and fading chances of getting pregnant.
I threw open the door.
He looked far too handsome. Hair still damp from a shower. A navy-blue Henley highlighting his chest and arm muscles. Faded, threadbare jeans completing the casual yet irresistible ensemble.
I had made no effort apart from exchanging my bathrobe for a LU sweatshirt over leggings. Because this was not a date.
“Hello. Come in.”
He walked by me, and I got the scent of danger. Okay, sandalwood and musk cologne, but danger all the same.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“How am I feeling?”
“Yeah. You nervous? Weirded out? Regretting your life choices up until now?”
It was nice of him to acknowledge the oddness of the situation. “A little anxious. I want it to work.”
“You’re ovulating at the moment?”
“Not precisely.” I supposed it was too much to expect he’d understand female biology.
“Ovulation typically lasts twenty-four hours, but a woman’s fertile window is five to six days prior to that.
I’ve calculated that I have about three days left before ovulation, so four days total.
And I should inseminate each day for the best chances. ”
He didn’t even blink. “So I should stop in daily for the next few days?”
“If you’re available.”
“Training camp starts next week, but until then I’m wide open.”
We were doing this. I wasn’t sure how we had reached this point so quickly after I had requested Sean’s donation. Barely a month had passed, and I was on the cusp of doing something monumental.
“Okay then! Let’s get this show on the road.”
He smirked. “Yeah. Let’s.”
I led him to my bedroom, something I had longed to do in my teen years (not Jason, but a boy my age) but never got the chance to until I unceremoniously lost my virginity to Duncan Horovitz during my freshman year at the University of Chicago. I pointed at the side table. “I’ve made preparations.”
“No meth lab?”
“Excuse me?”
“Because we’re cooking up a baby.” He took a seat on my bed and reached for the specimen cup. “Not sure it’ll be big enough.”
“The average male ejaculate is between 1.25 and 5 milliliters. That’s less than a teaspoon.”
“Hmm, it always seems like more.”
“It also decreases with age.” He frowned, so I rushed on. “But it can be more if you’ve abstained or have gone a while between ejaculation events.”
There was that smirk again. “Love it when you talk dirty, Doc.”
“That’s not—oh, a joke.” I snatched a breath. “When did you last masturbate to completion?”
“How does knowing that help? You need whatever I can provide today.”
So he didn’t want to share the details, and I didn’t want to know them. No disappointment here.
“I’ve also provided tissues, lotion, and …” I grabbed my laptop from the dresser. “Access to ethical pornography.”
Bafflement lined his brow. “What the hell is ethical pornography?”
“It’s pornography where the performers are paid fairly and certain standards are followed in creating it. Consent, mostly. A lot of pornography doesn’t adhere to high standards for a workplace.”
He snorted. “The low standards are generally the point when it comes to porn. Don’t worry, I won’t need a video, unless … is that something you’ve done?”
“What?”
“The ethical porn. Is it one of those ‘upload yourself beating off deals’?”
Was he for real? “You think I would have done that?”
“You’re raving about how ethical it is. Figured you might have contributed to make the porn workplace safer.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m trying to help you out here.” He would have liked to see me masturbate?
He leaned back against one of my many pillows, waving the sample cup like a goblet held by the king. “I prefer my help to be the hands-on kind.”
I hoped he wasn’t suggesting … I waited for the Jason Isner smugness indicators, but he remained passive. I placed the laptop back on the dresser. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It blurs the lines.”
“Wouldn’t want to do that,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, I can manage with my filthy imagination.” He cast his gaze around as if looking for inspiration.
I shot a furtive glance to my underwear drawer, not to guide him there, but because now all I could think of was Jason Isner in my bedroom masturbating while I was on the other side of the door. Listening.
That would not be ethical at all.
“I’ll play music loudly so you won’t have to be concerned about … restraint.” Was he noisy? Quiet? Gruff? Gentle?
I would never know.
“Is there anything you need from me?” I held up a hand. “Be serious.”
Another grin, followed by the pop of that dimple. “Think I’ve got it from here.”
I left him to it and immediately turned on the sound system. Quickly I scrolled through my playlist. Should I have asked if he had a preference? Did it matter?
Taylor’s Life of a Showgirl seemed appropriate here, particularly “Wood.” I suspected Jason Isner knew nothing about Taylor’s music, but this would be a fun joke that I could enjoy.
I hit “play” and turned up the volume, then I retreated to the kitchen, the farthest place from my bedroom.
I boiled a kettle for tea, another sound that would muffle any noisy output.
What was he doing in there?
Exactly what you hired him for.
Okay, “hired” was all wrong. After all, Jason would be involved as far as he wanted to be.
I was skeptical of his interest in the long-term nature of the enterprise, though.
He would likely get bored after a while, and we would eventually have to come up with a different custodial and financial arrangement.
After all, my own mother had determined motherhood wasn’t for her when she dumped us with Dad.
But it wasn’t because of Cat—no, I was to blame.
Too weird. Too geeky. Too uninterested in the things she cared about like make-up and pretty dresses. And as a result, she gave up on us.
If any child I conceived with Jason wasn’t sporty enough, I couldn’t imagine him maintaining his interest. If he hadn’t lost it long before then.
I looked down at Bunsen, who was viewing me with bored disinterest.
“It’ll just be us, Bunny. Me, you, Beaker, and the baby.”
Bunsen hissed, not liking the sound of that. He would come around.
Jason
Well, this was weird.
I had all the ingredients for a good time: lotion, tissues, and my right hand. But the vibe was the oddest setup I’d ever experienced. This was what I signed on for, though I had to wonder why we couldn’t just do it the old-fashioned way.
I’d seen how the doc looked at me when she answered the door.
That was appreciation in those smoky blues, and that faint blush when I mentioned my love for her dirty talk definitely stirred me in the right direction.
So she was far from my usual type, but I could have managed, knowing I would be making a mini-Jason.
I looked around. So this was where it all didn’t happen.
I’d say this for her, the room had personality.
Moving closer, I scanned the shelves. A couple of things that looked like science models, a diorama of a glass room with a red open-topped coupe, a Funko Pop figure in a box—Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
The diorama was Cameron’s dad’s car, the one they “borrowed” for the eponymous day.
There was a small gift card attached to it.
Best day ever, remember? Love you, sis! – Cat
Tons of books, a mix of fiction—mostly romance—and science lined the lower shelves.
So, the doc was a romantic at heart. When had she given up on finding true love?
So she wasn’t my type, but if anything proved the adage that there was someone for everyone, it was having seen plenty of teammates, family, and friends find love over the years.
Sure, half of them were divorced, but they’d still trotted as far as the altar.
They had still believed. Maybe the doc had been unlucky in that area.
Or she was too busy figuring out how snails do it to reckon with the human side of it.
That was her research focus: mating habits of snails. I had checked out her faculty page on the Lakeshore University website. Her bio photo showed her prim and serious, sexy librarian style with those slutty little glasses. If you liked that sort of thing.
This woman was smart, though, and I had to admit enjoying all those big words. Ejaculate. Masturbation. Ethical pornography. Damned if I understood how detached she could be about it all. I was about to jerk off into a cup, and she was playing Taylor Fucking Swift.