Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Hamish
The baby's heartbeat sounds like it's trying to win a penalty shootout.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, rapid and relentless, filling the OB's exam room, a DJ setting the beat for a rave. The doctor smiles at the monitor, Amy smiles at the doctor, and I sit in the corner pretending I'm not tracking the rate like match stats.
One forty. One forty-two. One thirty-eight.
Average, trend, variance.
I am doing analytics on a fetus. My fetus.
"Still no nausea?" the OB asks, eyes on the screen.
"Nope," Amy says, smug sunshine. "Just peeing every seventeen seconds and boobs like a before picture for breast reduction surgery."
I gasp involuntarily. Dear God, no.
"That was a joke," Amy says with an eyeroll as Dr. Biswas suppresses a grin.
"Any fatigue? Dizziness? Swelling?"
"Nope." Amy shrugs. "I keep waiting for the horror show everyone warns you about, but so far, I'm fine."
"Don't sound so disappointed." The doctor chuckles.
"Oh, I'm thrilled, trust me. But the women in my family all seem vaguely annoyed at my lack of misery."
"They sound lovely." Kind brown eyes meet mine and I chuckle but keep my mouth shut, because I have learned better.
"Mom's disappointed," Amy continues, blathering on out of nervousness. She doesn't normally chatter with the doctor like this. "My sisters feel like I'm not truly experiencing pregnancy if I can drink coffee. They have a group text where they're tracking my ankles."
I have seen the thread. They absolutely are. Something about manatees.
Dr. Biswas shifts the wand on Amy's belly, nodding at the monitor.
"Well, you can tell them the baby looks great. Heartbeat's strong. You're in the second trimester now. If you're feeling good, there's no medical reason you can't do whatever you want. Coffee, spicy vindaloo, BASE jumping, you name it."
"So... running? Lifting?" Amy lights up. "I used to do longer distances, and I lift heavy, but I dialed everything down until now."
"As long as you don't go from zero to marathon or decide you need to prove something to Instagram, yes," Biswas says. "No sprint intervals. No hot yoga in a sauna. If it hurts, you stop."
"Deal." Amy nods like a student being offered extra credit, then glances at me. "What about him?"
"The giant redwood in the corner?" Dr. Biswas looks over her shoulder.
"Ye noticed?"
"He wants to go harder at the gym," Amy says. "Knee rehab, conditioning, all of that. His ortho says yes."
The doctor's mouth quirks.
"I don't do hip replacements, and your ortho doesn't perform C-sections, thank God. Listen to your specialist. Same rules, though. No heroics, no 'I'll prove I'm fine if it kills me,' and no trying to impress anyone's mother."
"Ma mum wouldna be caught dead in a gym," I mutter. "And good luck impressin' her."
"We all want you back on the field."
"Pitch," I correct her automatically. She smiles.
"My wife will be happy," the doctor adds, printing the ultrasound picture. "She made me watch your last season, and she told me if I let you do anything stupid she's divorcing me."
"Well, tell her thank you," I manage.
"Go exercise," Dr. Biswas says to Amy. "Reasonably. And if anything feels wrong, you call."
Amy sends a text to the Bad Symptom Watch family chat: Still zero nausea, nyah nyah
By the time we're back in the hallway, the replies explode. She shows me the screen.
Marie's first with: YOU'RE IN THE HONEYMOON PHASE JUST WAIT
Shannon's next: Stop flaunting your joy, you monster
Carol slides in with: I'm knitting compression socks with manatees on them
Amy tucks her phone away, eyes bright, cheeks pink.
"Vince next?" I ask.
"Vince next," she says. "I want to lift."
"Remember, ye just got told no' to run like ye're being chased by a bear."
"Good thing I married one," she answers, slipping her hand into mine.
"I'm no' a bear. Doctor said I'm a redwood."
"I think you're more of a golden retriever."
"Does that mean I can sniff yer crotch anytime I like and people just think that's how I am?"
"It's definitely just how you are, golden retriever or not."
We step out into the Boston slush and my phone buzzes. My teammate, Luis: OI DAD
And then: u cleared to do stroller drills yet or what
I text back: Only if ye're on nappy duty
Luis replies: Would rather mark Mbappé
Another buzz. Coach Jensen: Heard you got cleared to move more. About time.
"Jaysus," I whisper. "Brandi must have told the entire football world. I was just in Dr. Jelshi's office two hours ago!"
Coach's next text: Enough hard work and you can get back on the pitch where you belong. The sacrifice is worth it.
Amy's hand is still on my hip, her body leaning into me.
It's mid-February now, a time when the Boston cold makes your bollocks turn into steel eggs that want to crawl up into your throat.
The wind is blowing hard as we make our way toward Vince's, and her warm little body next to mine is so nice. So comfortable.
So familiar.
Blowing out my knee means I'm grounded, stuck here in Boston. And yet, I like this. Being with Amy. Having a routine. Grabbing pastries in the North End. Waking up every morning with her in our bed, making love when we want. Having dinner together most nights. Just... living.
Living life together.
As much as I want to be back on the pitch—my bones straining against my tendons to be out there, eyes begging for the intense focus of the game, ears eager for the roar of the crowd—the quiet days where all my senses are nothing but her are even more fulfilling.
Coach texts me again: Don't do anything stupid. That's an order.
I reply: Too late.
Coach says: No kidding. You're the reason I have all this gray hair.
I read that one out loud. Amy laughs so hard, she nearly slips on a hidden patch of ice, and I have to grab her elbow.
"My favorite pregnant wife needs a handler," I say.
"At least I didn't fall in a toilet," she answers, grinning.
"Ye'll ne'er let me live that down."
"Nope. Let's go see Vince before Mom texts to ask if I've thrown up since the—"
She stops mid-sentence. I look down at her. Something has changed in her expression. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from cold.
"What?" I ask.
She chews her lip for a second, then grabs the front of my coat and pulls me toward her. The kiss is not a polite, public, married-people kiss. It's the kind that would get us flagged by a passing cop.
"I don't want to go to Vince's," she says against my mouth.
"Ye just said—"
"I changed my mind." Her eyes are dark, pupils wide. "I want to go home. Right now."
"Why - but — "
"It's just... there. Here. Suddenly." She runs a hand through her hair, tucking a long strand over her ear, and I see the tips of the cartilage are red. Amy's blushing and yet she's bold as can be.
"What's here, Pet?"
She gestures up and down her body. "This."
"Yer lush form?"
Her moan could roll a condom on. Not that we need one.
"I.Need.To.Go.Home.Now.With.You," she says through gritted teeth, her hand going to my cock and giving it a proper stroke.
"Yer serious?"
"Hamish, I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I need to be naked in about twelve minutes or someone is going to get hurt."
I have never ordered an Uber faster.
In the back seat, she's pressed against me, hand on my thigh, fingers tracing patterns that are making it very difficult to sit still. My phone buzzes.
Vince: You're late. I don't tolerate late. Did you die?
I type one-handed: Something came up. Rescheduling.
Vince: Something came up or something came UP?
Amy glances at the screen and snorts. I lock it.
We hit a red light. Her hand moves higher.
"If ye dinna stop that," I warn her, "we'll be giving this driver a story fer his grandchildren."
"I can't help it," she whispers. "Something about the second trimester. Everything is... more."
"More?"
"More sensitive. More responsive. More..." She squeezes my thigh. "More."
"Lass, ye're killin' me."
My phone buzzes again.
Marie: Amy, honey, Fiona and I were just talking and we think a spring equinox blessing for the baby would be SO beautiful. Sage, crystals, a small drum circle...
Then: Fiona says she knows a pagan priestess in Glasgow who does FaceTime ceremonies!
"Yer mum is making shite up, pet. Mum would sooner tell Da he's right about something than do anythin' wi' a pagan priestess." I think for a second. "Or Mum's windin' her up."
Amy reads over my shoulder and makes a noise between a laugh and a scream.
"Do not respond to that," she orders.
"Wasna goin' ta."
The cab pulls up. I throw a twenty at the driver, who thanks me profusely.
We scramble out, Amy already digging for her keys while I limp behind her, which is not the most attractive look for a man trying to race his wife to the bedroom, but she doesn't seem to care.
Given how she's acting, I suspect I could wear a lemur costume and she'd be riding me in seconds.
The door opens. The door closes. Coats hit the floor.
My phone: Vince again. If you're having sex instead of doing your PT, at least work on some planking. Hold for three minutes. Edging is underrated.
Amy's sweater comes off. She's wearing a bra that does extraordinary things to her pregnancy breasts, and I forget about Vince, my knee, my phone, and my own name.
"Get over here," she says.
I get over there.
My shirt goes. Her bra goes. She pushes me toward the bedroom and I stumble backward, knee protesting at the pivot, but her mouth is on my chest and her hands are working my belt and my brain has officially left the building.
Another ping from my phone, which is on the bed, about to slide up. I grab it and read.. Marie: Also, have you thought about a doula? I met one at hot yoga who channels the energy of ancient birth goddesses. She smells like patchouli but in a GOOD way.
I toss the phone into a pile of laundry.
We collapse onto the bed. Amy pulls me on top of her, legs wrapping around me, and for a perfect thirty seconds, it's exactly right.
Then my knee buckles.
"Ow. Shite."
"Are you okay?"
"Fine. Fine." I shift weight to the other side. "Just give me a—"
The knee locks. I can't straighten it. I'm now pinning my pregnant wife to the mattress at an angle that would make a chiropractor weep.
"Okay," Amy says, reading the situation with the crisis management skills of a woman who handles corporate emergencies for a living. "Roll."
She pushes my shoulder and I roll onto my back. She climbs on top, settling over me, and the view is so spectacular that my knee could detach entirely and I would not care.
"Better?" she asks, hands flat on my chest.
"I have died and this is heaven."
She moves and I grip her hips, watching her body above me.
Her breasts are full and flushed, her skin glowing, hair falling around her face.
She's gorgeous always, but pregnant Amy has this quality, some raw, elemental thing that makes me feel like I'm witnessing something ancient and sacred.
She hot and slick, hair spilling down her shoulders, above me and mine.
"Ye're so beautiful," I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.
"You say that when I'm on top because you get the boob view."
"I say it because it's true. The boob view is a bonus."
She finds a rhythm and so do I, and it's working, it's really working, until she shifts her weight and my kneecap sends a jolt of fire up my thigh that makes me gasp.
"What? What happened?"
"Knee. Yer knee hit ma knee."
"We have too many knees in this bed," she says, and I bark out a laugh despite the pain.
"Switch," I say. "Lie down."
She lies on her side and I curl behind her, pulling her back against my chest. This angle is gentler on my knee and gives me access to everything, my hand sliding over her hip, down between her thighs. She makes a sound that nearly finishes me before we've started.
I push inside her from behind, slow, my mouth on the back of her neck. My hand stays where it is, fingers moving in the rhythm she likes.
"Oh, God," she breathes. "That's... yes."
"Aye?"
"Don't talk. Just do that. Keep doing that."
I keep doing that. My phone pings from somewhere in the hallway.
"Ignore it," she says.
"Already done."
The spooning is good, truly good, until I need more leverage. My knee can't get the angle. I pull out and she groans in frustration.
"I swear to God, Hamish, if your knee cockblocks us one more time—"
"Turn over," I say. "Hands and knees."
"Oh, we're getting creative now?"
"We're gettin' desperate. Ma knee needs me upright."
She turns, rises onto her hands and knees, looks over her shoulder at me with an expression that is both utterly filthy and completely amused.
And makes me nearly explode all over the bed.
I kneel behind her and finally—finally—my knee cooperates. The angle is right. Everything is right. I slide into her and we both groan with relief.
"Oh, thank God," she says.
"Thank ma ortho," I reply, and she laughs, which does incredible things from this angle, her whole body tightening around me.
I grab her hips and start to move, and now there's no pain, no awkward angles, just heat and rhythm and the sound of her breathing getting shorter as my cock slides in and out, the sweet rhythm helping my orgasm build.
My hand reaches around and finds her clit again, and she drops to her elbows, face in the pillow.
"Harder," she says, muffled.
"What was that? I canna hear ye through the pillow."
She lifts her head and turns a bit, upping the filth ante. "HARDER."
I grin and give her what she wants.
Her body clenches first, a shudder that starts in her thighs and rolls through her.
She cries out into the pillow and I feel it everywhere, the pulse of her around me pulling me over the edge.
I come with my hand flat on her belly, the curve of it pressed against my palm, and a sound that's part groan, part prayer.
All relief.
We collapse sideways, a tangle of limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. I curl around her, face buried in her hair, one arm under her head and the other still resting on her stomach. My knee throbs, but it's a good ache, the kind that means you pushed and survived.
From the hallway, a muffled series of pings. Then another. Then another.
"I am not moving," Amy declares.
"Nor I."
A pause. Then she starts giggling.
"What?"
"How many positions was that?"
"Four," I say. "Four positions. Ma knee is a traitor. We're a sexual Kama Sutra speed run wi' injuries and stubbornness."
"And a baby," she adds, pressing my hand tighter against her belly.
"Aye." I kiss the back of her neck. "And a baby."
"You know what I've decided?"
"What?"
"I love the second trimester."
I pull her closer, grinning against her skin, the February wind rattling the windows while we lie here, naked and warm and ridiculous, the pings still going off like tiny alarms in a life we'll get back to eventually.
"Aye," I say. "The second trimester loves ye back."