Chapter 18
Teagan
Me
Clara
OMG!! You look great Teagan, that little bump is everything.
Kaya
So precious! How are you feeling?
Me
I’m no longer nauseous thanks to the meds. Just exhausted daily. I miss you two!
Kaya
I miss you too. We’re heavy into pre-season training right now, but I’m hoping to visit soon.
Clara
I miss you both! I’m currently in Toronto for a game. We will get together soon. Keep us updated <3
Me
Will do. Good luck, you both will kill it.
ESA is on its two-week summer break, and I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to get back to work.
I miss the joy of teaching them and being surrounded by the sport I love all day. Especially since I can’t train like I was before I found out I was pregnant. It’s far too risky to be twisting, jumping, and flipping my body around when I’m carrying precious cargo.
The last month has been surprisingly good. Finding out I was pregnant was quite the shock, and I was stressed about what happens next.
While I am still slightly stressed–because what expecting mom wouldn’t be–I got into a good routine and the support from my friends, my brother, and Quentin has been helpful.
I spend my days working, followed by a workout at the gym, and then I come home to eat, shower, and relax with reality TV every night while I scroll and research all things baby.
So far, I’ve made a list of nursery items I need, have purchased a few, and bought some pregnancy books to read.
My friends text me when they can, and we even video chat if possible. I’m proud of my girls for chasing their dreams, even if it means we go months without seeing each other.
And my brother has been calling to check in, and sometimes will bring dinner over and hang out with me for a bit.
Every time, he bothers me about who the father is, and every time, I tell him he’ll know when I want to tell him.
It’s frustrating to deal with his incessant pestering, but I know that for right now, it’s best not to tell him until I can figure out the right time to do it.
Which brings me to Quentin.
I haven’t seen him since my last appointment, as he’s been on the road quite a bit and I’ve been busy too. It isn’t in our pact to see one another, so it’s not odd that we haven’t.
We do keep in contact daily, as he always checks in to see how I’m feeling or if I’ve eaten. Sometimes we chat for a bit, just catching each other up on our day-to-day lives. I would say Quentin and I are friends now, which is exactly what we need to be for Blueberry.
I’ve even started watching games when I know he’s pitching, and he’s better than I ever expected.
Of course I saw his accolades on Google, but witnessing it on the screen for myself is another thing entirely. He’s confident, precise, and a team player. Every time they go off to switch from playing the field to batting, he makes sure to pat every player on the back as they head to the dugout.
Whereas when Ian pitches, he beelines from the pitching mound to the dugout.
The two couldn’t be more opposite.
I groan at the thought, knowing that telling Ian is going to be a pain in my ass when he finds out who the father is.
On top of that, I think I caught a stomach bug from one of my students who was sick right before the break started.
I’ve been on my couch all day. I’m nauseous and throwing up, my body feeling achy and cold.
I’m about to text Ian to see if he can come over here, when my phone buzzes on my coffee table.
Stretching my arm out, I pick it up to see a text from Quentin.
Quentin
How are you feeling today?
I debate on lying to him, but I know in order to keep things going as good as they are between us, I need to be honest.
Me
I think I’m sick.
Not a minute later, he’s calling me.
“Hey,” I answer softly, not wanting to disturb my head with loud noises.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern lacing his words.
“I don’t feel amazing.”
“What’s your address? I’m coming over,” he says, the sound of movement in the background.
“Quentin, you don’t need to do that. I’ll order some cinnamon rolls once I can keep food down. They make everything better,” I tell him, not wanting him to worry about me.
“Teagan, you’re sick and I want to be there for you. So please send me your address.”
“Fine,” I groan before promising to text him the moment we hang up.
After I text him the address, I make a call to the security office of the building, letting them know who’s coming by so that he’s able to get in.
About forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.
“Hold on,” I call out weakly as I force my body up and off the couch, my muscles aching as I wrap the blanket around me and make my way to the door to unlock it.
When I swing the door open, a disheveled version of Quentin stands before me. His hair looks as if he’s been tugging on it the entire drive over here. His eyes are clouded with worry.
“Come on in.”
Quentin enters through the doorway, then I close and lock it.
When I turn back around, his eyes are locked onto me, dragging up and down my blanket-covered body.
“You should go lie down. Let me help you,” he advises as he moves toward me.
While I would usually decline his help, I did let him come here for a reason.
“Okay,” I nearly whisper.
Quentin wraps an arm around my blanket-covered waist as he bears most of my weight and helps me to the couch.
Once I’m sitting comfortably, Quentin squats down onto his haunches beside me.
“Have you taken anything?” he asks.
“I can’t because of the baby. If it’s a bug, all I can do is let it run its course.”
He hums as he stares at me, his hazel eyes glazed with concern.
“Have you been drinking electrolytes? Since you’ve been puking?”
“No, I forgot,” I admit, feeling dumb. As an athlete and a mom-to-be, I should’ve remembered the importance of electrolytes when you’re sick.
I attempt to sit up when Quentin gently puts a hand on my shoulder, easing me back down. “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”
“Glasses are in the cupboard beside the fridge, and the electrolytes packages should be in the drawer next to the sink,” I tell him.
I hear him rummaging around from behind me in the kitchen, and a minute later, he returns with a glass full of blue-tinted water from the mixed berries packet he picked.
He squats down beside me again, handing me the glass. My body aches as I adjust myself to sit up, and I don’t miss the way Quentin winces at my slow movements.
I take the glass from him and swallow a few sips before handing it back to him.
He places it on the coffee table. “Mind if I look through your fridge? I want to make you soupe a l’Ail. It’s what Camille used to eat when she wasn’t feeling well while pregnant. It might help you.”
“You don’t need to—” I stop when I see the look on his face that tells me he’s tired of me telling him what he doesn’t need to do. “Go ahead, use whatever you need.”
“Do you have any allergies I should know of?”
“No.”
“All right. Try to rest. I’m going to get cooking. If you need me, I’ll be right here, okay?”
I nod, unable to form words as fatigue hits me hard, and within seconds, I fall asleep.
Blinking slowly, I awaken from my nap, no longer freezing like I once was. I throw off my blanket, my eyes doing a double take when I notice Quentin sitting in the love seat, watching me. The room is darker than before, telling me it must be the evening.
“How long was I out for?” I croak and clear my dry throat as I sit up.
“About three hours,” he tells me. “Are you hungry?”
I take a minute to check in with my body, realizing I don’t feel nauseous anymore.
“I think I can eat,” I tell him, moving to stand when he jumps up.
“Sit. I’ll get it.”
“I’m not dying,” I grumble.
“You’re too important for me to let that happen,” he replies, the warmth in his voice trailing from the kitchen and wrapping around me.
I’ve never had someone wait on me hand and foot like this, nor been so concerned about me having a common sickness.
It’s…nice. Knowing that for once I don’t have to force my body to move and take care of itself.
Quentin returns with a bowl of soup and a plate of bread that smells better than anything I’ve eaten in a long time.
“You made this?” I ask in disbelief as he sets it on the coffee table.
“I spent a lot of time in the kitchen as a teen, because I wanted to gain valuable skills I would need in the future.”
I huff a laugh at that. He was such a responsible kid, meanwhile I was the complete opposite.
“Any free time I had from gymnastics as a teen was spent with Clara and Kaya, either shopping, hanging out at each other’s houses, or going to parties,” I tell him as I lift a spoonful of the soup to my lips and swallow.
Holy shit. This is incredible.
I can cook a few basic things, but this tastes like something you would get at a five-star restaurant.
“What were your grandparents like?”
“My grams was a sweetheart. She took care of us and although I could tell she was upset at my mother for how she left, she never let it show. And my pops…” I huff as my lips form into a smirk.
“He was the funniest man I knew. Always the life of the party. Whenever I was sick as a kid, he’d grab puppets and make up the craziest stories. ”
And it hits me then why I feel sadness today at their memory. It’s because I miss how they would take care of me when I was sick. But the fact that Quentin is taking care of me the same way they did lessens the ache.
“They sound like amazing people.” His voice is soft as he speaks, and I nearly let a tear fall at his words.
“They really were,” I turn away, blinking my eyes rapidly to avoid crying in front of him again. I don’t like crying in front of people.
I hear him get off the couch, my eyes swinging to him as he makes his way to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
He opens my junk drawer, then grabs a pen and a pad of paper. “I remembered seeing this in here earlier when I was looking for the things I needed to cook. Give me a minute.”
I do that, waiting somewhat nervously to see what it is that he’s doing. The sound of scissors gliding through paper fill my ears, making me think what the fuck is happening?
As I’m about to ask him exactly that, he walks back into the living room, holding up what looks like two pieces of paper shaped like people.
“What…what is that?” I ask, perplexed and intrigued as I tilt my head to the side.
“Well, I don’t have puppets, but I figure this will work, right? It’s you and me,” he explains, and it’s then that I notice the leotard on one paper person, and what looks like a baseball uniform on the other.
My heart cracks in my chest at his thoughtfulness to help me relive a cherished memory, filling it with a feeling of awe that I’ve never felt before. I chuck it up to being sick and emotional. It’s nothing I need to be concerned about.
“Oh my God.” I chuckle as I shake my head in disbelief.
“Ahem.” He clears his throat, then his voice goes an octave higher. “I’m Teagan. I’m a badass gymnast and today you’re going to be one too.”
He makes my puppet walk toward his, who moves around in excitement. “My balance isn’t great, but I’ll do my best.”
I laugh at that and the memory of how we met.
“Yes, you will,” he imitates me. “Now let’s see a cartwheel.”
His puppet moves to do the motion, then falls on his back. “Was that good?”
My puppet jumps in horror. “What the fuck was that?”
“My best effort,” his character grumbles.
“Let’s see if you can try the splits instead,” my character demands.
Quentin makes his character spread his legs, one of his paper legs ripping in half. “I technically split something, right?”
It’s so stupid, but it makes me laugh. A full-on belly laugh that has tears pooling out of my eyes. He follows suit, laughing with me at the absurdity of his little story and performance.
“I needed that laugh, thank you. And for cooking, it was delicious,” I say appreciatively, feeling thankful that I let him come over.
“I’m glad it made you laugh, and I’d be happy to cook for you anytime,” he replies, and I know without a doubt he would. I finish eating as Quentin tells me about his day before he came over, and once I’m done, he takes my plate to the sink and cleans the dishes.
“If you keep doing that, I’m not going to let you leave.”
The words leave my mouth before I can think twice of them, and I internally slap myself in the forehead.
Why the hell would I say that?
I can’t get used to him taking care of me. It goes against the pact, which is as sacred as all things sacred in my mind.
“I mean, because it would be like having a butler, you know? A chef and a maid in one,” I try to joke, hoping to make my previous statement not sound exactly how it sounded.
“I can hire a butler for you if you’d like.”
“It was a joke, but I’ll remember that the next time my place looks like a mess and I need some help,” I play it off as I mentally scold myself. “I like my personal space, though. I don’t need someone here.”
While I could easily get used to having him around, doting on me and cooking those insanely delicious meals for me, I know it’s not a good idea.
If we already have rules to ensure we don’t touch each other, living together would definitely put us at risk for breaking the rules.
And that can’t happen.