Authors: Layne Harper
I feel my balls pull up tightly. I pump harder and squeeze my dick while I remember how it feels when her pussy grabs my cock just before she floods me with her sweetness.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan. I grab the cup sitting next to me.
I see Charlie’s beautiful face when she’s almost there, and then I picture her leaning forward and fucking my mouth with her tongue as she comes. I can almost feel her sucking my tongue and biting my lips. It’s the hottest fucking mouth on the planet and it’s my girls.
My abs tighten with every spurt of cum that I shoot in the plastic cup.
That wasn’t so hard, was it, dick?
I lean back against the sofa after I’m done and mentally try to get myself back together. I’m going to have to remember all of that for the next time I have to be away from her. Fuck, that was powerful.
I quickly twist the top shut on the cup, and use the bathroom inside the room to clean myself up. I have to get a paper towel and wipe my face. I’m covered in a thin layer of sweat.
I mentally give my boys a pep talk.
Swim perfectly for the nice doctor.
And then, I slide my sample into the cut-out in the wall that the nurse directed me to.
We’ve got an hour to kill, and I know exactly what we should do. We should go christen Charlie’s car, because all that jack-off session did was make me hornier.
When we’re alone in the elevator, I attack her. I open her lips with my tongue, and begin making love to her mouth. She responds back just as forcefully. She always does; we were made for each other.
The ding of the elevator tells us that we’ve reached the lobby way too soon. She pulls away first, and begins straightening her shirt and smoothing her hair. I just smile, and look down at my cock that’s at full attention against my zipper.
Charlie smirks. “When isn’t it hard?”
I don’t tell her about my almost problem in the spooge room. Think I’ll keep that story to myself. “You know…we’ve never made love in your car before.”
She shoots me her you’re-such-an-idiot look. “You barely fit in my car. How do you propose that we have sex in it?”
“See? More of a reason to get you something larger.”
She doesn’t bother responding to my car comment as we exit the elevator. “We could grab some lunch in the deli.”
“We could, or we could find a broom closet.” I raise an eyebrow, and give her a hopeful look. I need to be inside of her. The weight on my chest lightens when I’m making love to her. I need her right now. I need to make love to her so I can make sure that we’re okay—to be reassured that she doesn’t blame me if we can’t have a baby. Or that she isn’t going to leave me…
I realize that I’m following her into the building’s cafeteria. My dick is painfully hard, but I guess it’s just going to have to wait until our hour of torture is up. I adjust myself, and she smirks at the bulge in my pants and shakes her head.
She gets me situated at an out of the way table, and then joins the cafeteria line. I smell pizza. I haven’t had pizza in years. I want a slice of pepperoni pizza. I pull out my phone and send Charlie a text.
Me:
Please get me two slices of pepperoni pizza
.
I see her take out her phone and check it. She shoots me an annoyed look across the cafeteria complete with pursed lips and a hand on her hip.
Charlie:
No
.
Dammit! I said please.
Me:
Yes, woman. Get me pizza
.
She’s shaking her head at me.
I grab my crutches just as she grabs her phone. My ringtone, “I Could Not Ask For More”
by Sara Evans starts playing.
“Why can’t I have pizza?”
“You eat such little grain, that it will make you sick. I’m getting you a salad.”
She hangs up on me. I know she’s probably right, but fuck.
My leg is broken, my dick is maybe broken, my season is over, I’ve got an elephant that’s taken up residence on my chest and I’m crazy horny. Can’t a man have a little pizza if he wants it?
I watch her grab a chef salad for me, and a sandwich for her, check out, and head my way. She deposits the tray and goes to fill our water glasses.
My phone starts ringing, and I see that it’s Aiden.
“Finally awake dick-wad?” I ask.
“Fuck off, jiz-wipe,” he replies. If you only knew what I did thirty minutes ago…
“Something interesting just landed on my desk. Are you in a position to talk?”
“Nope. I’m at lunch with Doctor McKinney,” I say just to annoy Charlie, who’s setting down our drinks. “Can I call you back in a couple of hours?”
“Sure thing. But, hey, Colin; it’s important.”
When I hit end on my phone attempting to read the mood she’s in, she gets all sassy with me. “We agreed that I would use McKinney personally, but professionally, I’m Collins. Right?” She peels the wax paper surrounding her sandwich.
“Not a very fair agreement. I believe that I was bamboozled,” I say, giving her my cockiest look.
“Bamboozled?” she repeats, with a smirk.
“Bamboozled. You can’t pull shit like ‘I want a postnuptial agreement, but I’ll drop fighting for it if you let me keep my last name professionally.’ That’s bamboozlement.” I give her a pointed look as I dig into my salad. I almost flipped my shit when she asked for a postnuptial agreement. Fuck. I didn’t even know what it was. I had to Google it when she went to get a glass of wine. I assumed that once we’d said “I do,” that we had avoided that fight. Not even close. She sprung that bullshit on me a couple of weeks after we were married. She was doing it to protect me, but fuck that. I wasn’t drawing up a game plan on how we could exit our marriage. She said that she wouldn’t be changing her name. That made me crazy mad. We finally compromised on her staying Doctor Collins, but I got no “how to end my marriage” contract, and my last name is attached to hers personally. For the record, she’s Doctor Caroline Jane Collins McKinney. I won, but knew she’d played me.
Then, to further drive home the point that the postnuptial agreement conversation was dead and buried, I had her name added to all my checking accounts, investments, and credit cards. We’re not only married in the eyes of the law, we’re also married in the eyes of my accountant.
“Baby, that’s called negotiating, and I’m damn fine at it.” Charlie smiles at me, and bats her eyelashes.
We lapse into an awkward silence. I’ve managed to push the lettuce leaves around my salad bowl and she’s picked at half of her sandwich. She keeps checking her birthday watch. Finally, she announces that it’s time to go back to Doctor Starr’s office. We both know why we’re not eating. Our faces say it all. We’re both scared to get back in the elevator and hit the up button. We do it anyway, because sometimes, the shitty thing about life is that it’s better to know than not to know.
When we’re alone in the elevator she says, very seriously, “Whatever the test results are, it doesn’t matter. Okay? We’re still a girl who desperately loves a boy, but our baby making might just have to be a little more scientific.”
How does she always know exactly what to say to make me feel better? Her words make the weight sitting on my chest lighten.
“We’re a boy who can’t get enough of his girl,” I confirm, with a half smile, repeating my lines back to her.
* * * *
Doctor Starr walks into her office holding Charlie’s folder. I feel like we’re on Maury Povich. “You, Colin McKinney, are going to be a father.” The folder dances in front of my face, teasing me. The weight on my chest that was momentarily lifted in the elevator is now back, with a vengeance. A sour stomach has also joined the party. Something that I ate?
Just give us the results already.
“Colin, tell me more about your alcohol intolerance,” Doctor Starr says, as she sits down behind her desk that all of sudden feels much larger.
Why the fuck does she want to know about it? Just tell me if we can have a baby. I reach up and rub my chest, and then I take my girl’s hand. I give Doctor Starr the
Cliff Notes
version. “The long and short of it is that I never handled alcohol well. After a night of drinking, I puked blood, and they diagnosed it. That’s really about it.” Where in the hell is she going with this?
“Intolerances are tricky, because they’re based on a collection of symptoms. There are no tests to confirm an intolerance. Do you eat grains?” she asks, taking more notes in the file.
“I try not to.”
“Why not?”
“They make me feel off.”
“What do you mean by off?” she asks, tilting her head to one side look.
“Oh God, doc. They make me feel bad. Like, I spend a lot of time in the bathroom after I eat them.”
Please fuckin’ get the picture, lady.
Doctor Starr makes more notes in the chart.
“Well, we have the results.” She pauses, and reads the report again. I’m half tempted to rip it out of her hands, because it feels like she’s purposely drawing this out.
Charlie squeezes my hand, and gives me a reassuring look. It doesn’t lessen the weight on my chest, and my stomach does a flip.
I take it back. Sometimes it’s better to not know. I’m tempted to drag Charlie out of here and fly us somewhere. Can’t we run away from this? Bury our heads in the sand? Can’t we just pick a baby up on our way home from the neighborhood gas station?
“Colin, you have a slightly lower sperm count than normal. You are producing sperm, and they look healthy. True infertility is defined as unable to conceive after one year of unprotected sex. You guys do not meet that definition yet. In my medical opinion, I suggest you keep doing what you’re doing.”
Charlie gives my hand another squeeze, and has a big smile spread across her face. She’s taken this as good news? Did she not hear the “lower sperm count than normal” part? I sit up straighter, attempting to take a breath. My mind is racing. I’m a super athlete. How can I have a lower than normal sperm count? My God, look at my sex drive. Doesn’t that count for something?
Doctor Starr pauses for a moment, and then drops the bombshell. “Colin, I do think that you should get tested for celiac disease. I don’t believe that you have an alcohol intolerance, at all. Frankly, with as many medical tests as you’re subjected to as part of your profession, I’m surprised that nobody has picked up on it before now. Celiac disease can be the cause of a lower sperm count in males.”
She said the word disease. I’m no doctor, but I know that’s not great news, because Charlie’s gripping my hand.
“What exactly is celiac disease?” I ask.
Charlie answers for her. “Baby, Doctor Starr is right. It explains a lot. It damages the small intestine, and prevents your body from absorbing some nutritious parts of food. It’s caused by your body’s reaction to gluten.”
“I don’t eat eats grains now. I mean, I didn’t even have wedding cake when we got married.” I’m all of sudden very thankful that Charlie refused to buy me pizza.
Doctor Starr explains, “Someone with celiac disease has to worry about cross-contamination. For example, if you order a steak at a restaurant, it might have been cooked in the same pan that pasta was. If you’re sensitive enough, then small traces of gluten can affect you. Look Colin, this is what I believe. You’ve already been naturally choosing not to eat grains. This is not going to be a lifestyle shocker for you. And, if you make your diet a little stricter as well as making a few other changes, there’s a good chance that your sperm count will return to normal.”
I sit there, stunned. I hear what she’s saying, but it’s not registering. All I can think about is that now I’ve got a broken leg, a broken dick, no baby, no championship, and celiac disease. Fuck me. Put a bullet in my head and send me out to pasture. I’m fucking worthless.
I rub my chest again, attempting to loosen the knot that’s choking me. I feel lost. Miserable.
The only good thing left in my life has worry etched on her face. I slump my shoulders, and look at the floor. I can’t see her this way. I’m supposed to take care of her. I should never make her look like this.
Doctor Starr continues, “I’m referring you to a specialist. Here’s the good news. You have sperm. You can get pregnant, and have a baby. See the specialist and keep trying naturally. We can do in vitro fertilization, but I’d rather see you get the celiac disease confirmation, make some lifestyle changes before we try IVF.”
Charlie reaches across the desk and takes the name of the specialist. I think I’m still too stunned to move.
“Look, guys, I know that that this isn’t the news that you were hoping for, but it is good news. There’s no reason that you can’t conceive. Trust me when I say that if I gave your same results to all my patients’ this afternoon, today would be a great day.”
Doctor Starr excuses herself, leaving just the two of us alone. As soon as the door shuts, Charlie climbs into my lap. Her weight anchors me, and returns me to my senses. She wraps her arms around me, and whispers as she nuzzles my neck. “This is good news, baby. Don’t look like that. We’re going to be parents one day. We’re just on a different timeline.”
I pull her to me. It’s my job to make things right. I want to protect her and keep
her
safe, yet we’ve been married for six months, and all she’s done is take care of me. She has to leave work because I got strep throat. Then I break my leg in The Break Seen Around The World. I’ve got a low sperm count, celiac disease, and another year of no Super Bowl ring. Not to mention she’s lost her practice with her dad, defended me on TV against prescription drug abuse allegations, and then the whole Espy Awards debacle. I’m exactly what Mark accused me of being: a tornado, that destroys everything around me.
“Let’s go, baby. All I need right now is to see how many different ways I can be inside of you.”
* * * *
Oh the way home, I call the trainers and tell them that I’m going to the weight room today. I’ve been working out with them every day since my accident to make sure I keep my upper body strength and mobility. I’ve also been working my left leg, so I don’t lose any more of my muscle mass than I have to. On top of all that, I have to keep my cardio level where it was.