Page 61 of Strike Zone

“How do you know? Shouldn’t I be showing more by now? Most women have a sizable baby bump at this point.”

“I have a good feeling. And no, you’re an athlete with a thick layer of abdominal muscles. Also, your hyperemesis means you’ve probably lost weight rather than gaining it over the past few weeks. It’s completely fine that you’ve only got a small bump. You look pregnant.”

“I do?”

He pulls away, planting both hands firmly on the steering wheel. “Not that people would notice when you keep wearing baggy clothes. But when we’re at your place, and you wear tops that hug your curves, yes, you have a defined baby bump now.”

“Is it unattractive?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “As the guy who spent months being your booty call and memorizing your curves, I can say, hand on heart, that the sight of you with a baby bump is the furthest thing from unattractive. You look stunning.”

It dawns on me that he must have done some research. Why else would he know about an athlete’s body reacting differently? “You’ve been reading up?”

“In true southpaw style, breeze past the compliment and focus in on the mundane comment. Yes, I’ve been reading up. Haven’t you?”

“I’ve been too scared.”

“About what?”

“Telling you. Doing this on my own. The fact that my family is going to freak out. What are Brooke and Anders going to say?”

“We can tell them together if you want. Then maybe, you’ll feel more excited after everyone knows.”

“Thanks, but I think I need to tell Brooke myself.”

“Sounds like a plan. Do you want me to tell Anders?”

“He’s going to kill you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you and he fall out. Plus, this wasn’t exactly planned, and I know we haven’t figured everything out yet. I don’t expect you to put your life on hold for me.”

“Maybe I’ve just realized what life’s all about.”

“In all that research, you’ve learned that life is about a puke monster who craves rocky road over celery and yet can’t keep the damn ice cream down for more than an hour?” I have to change the subject because, if I don’t, the kernel of hope I’ve been ignoring may blossom into a rose bush. Beautiful while it lasts but with thorns that’ll tear you to shreds in the end.

“To be fair, I know I’m supposed to want the celery, but eating healthy isn’t always fun. You know how much I deprive myself of to look this good.” He gives me a sly wink, and all seems right in the world.

“What I really don’t understand is how you support your ego. Your neck muscles must be like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.”

“You could’ve gone with The Rock or Arnold Schwarzenegger, but no, you give me a Disney character. Really?”

“Don’t you remember the song?”

“I’m not eight… or a girl.”

“Keep your panties on. How dare you diss my favorite movie of all time.”

“Shut up. No way. You’re not that girl.”

“I have a feminine side.”

“Don’t I fucking know it. I think it’s you who underestimates your feminine wiles.” When he says things like that, it’s as if I’m laid bare, naked, and vulnerable, like he can see parts of my soul that no one else ever takes the time to notice.

“Back to the song. He breaks a leather belt with his giant manly neck muscles. It’s all very charged with testosterone. You’d love it.”

“I guess we know our next movie-night pick.”

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