Nixon (Raleigh Raptors 1)

A wave of nausea rolled my stomach like my bed had suddenly sprouted a sail and soared onto open seas. I cringed against the onslaught, taking deep breaths through my nose and out my mouth. The sickness was one thing I could live without—and there was no morning about it. It hit me whenever the hell it felt like it—day, afternoon, night, or that point between sleeping and waking, it didn’t discriminate when it wanted to make me hurl up my guts.

Nixon: How are you feeling?

God, it was like the man had a sixth sense for whenever I was about to puke. But, to be fair, that was ninety percent of my day lately.

Me: You seem awfully concerned for my well-being for someone who wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.

The three bubbles danced for a few seconds before disappearing. Then they popped up again, only to disappear again.

Me: I was teasing. And shitty. At the moment, I feel like I’m on a boat in a stormy sea and my stomach is barely making it.

Nixon: What can I do?

What could he do? I’d already googled every safe home remedy for morning sickness and tried them all to no avail.

Me: I’m fine. Thanks though.

Nixon: Get some rest.

Me: Already in bed, Quarterback.

Those dots popped up and disappeared again, and I rolled my eyes. What could he possibly be struggling with?

Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that he’s trying to get to know his baby mama without actually committing?

I shoved my phone under my pillow, ignoring that annoying voice in my head, and shut my eyes. I focused on my breathing until the nausea had subsided, pulling the covers up to my chin. Sleep finally claimed me, my body exhausted from vomiting most of the morning.

Two months down.

Seven to go.

God, I hoped I was strong enough to survive this.

* * *

“Liberty!” my roommate Heather shouted across our tiny apartment. “You have a visitor!”

I groaned but set down my copy of Phantoms in the Brain and capped my highlighter. I swung my legs over my bed, knocking off a few more psychology books along the way. This was my final semester, and the workload was heavy. It didn’t help that my energy had been zapped since hitting week ten of the pregnancy either.

Nearly tripping over a stack of laundry I’d meant to do yesterday, I made it through my closed bedroom door and was instantly assaulted by sound—too much of it. The TV blaring from the living room, some MMA fight on the screen. Monica and Julie laughed with their boyfriends from the couch, the sounds bouncing off the walls and twisting my nerves. I smoothed my hand over my stomach, shaking my head at the sensory overload my little peanut had decided it would add to the super-fun list of side effects I experienced on a daily basis.

Heather met me halfway in the hallway, barely holding back a wide-eyed gaze as she skipped toward me.

“Why are you making that face?” I asked, and then halted as I came around the corner.

Nixon freaking Noble stood just inside my entryway, looking exceptionally handsome in a Raleigh Raptors T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, slightly breathless. Sure, we’d texted an insane amount over the last week, but I’d never expected him to show up unannounced at my place. Especially after the last time he’d seen it and had practically made him physically ill with the chaotic way we kept it.

“I wanted to talk to you—”

“Holy shit!” Monica’s boyfriend—Tyler—cut off whatever Nixon had been saying as he leaped from the couch and stopped in front of Nixon. “You’re Nixon Noble!”

And here we go again. Cory, Heather’s boyfriend, had been the one to fanboy over Nixon last time he was here.

The strained smile that had been on Nixon’s face moments before disappeared in the span of a breath, replaced by a charming, confident grin as he outstretched his hand. Tyler shook it, not bothering to try and hide his awestruck gaze. Shane, Julie’s boyfriend, quickly joined Tyler in fanboying all over the place.

“Dude,” Shane said. “That scramble play for the winning touchdown last year against the Titans was sick!”

Nixon nodded, his dark eyes calm, cool, calculated—you’d think there was a camera hidden somewhere in here.

My stomach tightened, and I blew out a breath. God, I guess there could be—I mean, we all had cell phones, right? Any one of my numerous roommates could whip one out and start recording—

“Is it cool if we get a picture?” Tyler interrupted my thoughts, proving exactly what I’d been thinking.

Poor Nixon, who could live like that? No wonder he had so many different faces—the one I’d seen when I’d dropped our baby bomb on him, the one he wore when he’d first heard his baby’s heartbeat, and the one he allowed the media to see.