Page 37 of The Decoy

Normally, I love deep diving into my work. But today, my focus and energy level are shot.

No matter how hard I try to force my mind back into the reports, my thoughts float to things I need to do to prepare for the baby. And Brody.

It’s been two days since his game, but the crushing loss hasn’t faded in the slightest. The Titans suffered a brutal defeat in the last forty seconds of the fourth quarter. A forty-two-yard missed field goal in a snowstorm that instantly eliminated them from the postseason, ending their championship run with a single kick.

I watched every second of that game, my fingers clutched so tightly around a linen pillow that my knuckles turned white. My heart ached every time the camera cut to Brody on the sideline. He stood in the freezing snow, his helmet held tightly in his gloved hand, his jaw set in a hard line as he watched the game clock run down to zero. The look in his eyes was cold and heavy with the crushing weight of the loss.

Today is another reminder of that loss. He’s at the team facility having exit meetings and cleaning out his locker. Some of his teammates will be retiring today, and some will get traded before the next season.

I look at my phone to see if he’s texted me yet. He’s supposed to come get me and make dinner at his place tonight, and I figure as soon as he calls, it’ll give me an excuse to head out of the office. I sigh when I still don’t see anything, resting one hand over my belly.

The reality of my pregnancy is no longer something I can hide under clothing. My body is changing, and soon my family will notice, so I’d better have the baby talk with them in the next few days. Plus, I’m getting excited about telling people. It’s no longer a scary thing now that I know he’s healthy.

He. My little guy.

I rub a hand over the bump, and that’s when it happens.

It’s definitely not the indigestion I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks.

It feels like a…flutter. Like butterflies inside my lower abdomen, then a small, barely noticeable pop that makes the air freeze in my throat.

I go completely still. The pen in my other hand slips from my fingers, clattering against the glass top of my desk. I hold my breath, pressing both palms more firmly against the left side of my waist, right below my belly button.

Pop.

Another flutter. This time, there’s no doubt in my mind what this is.

An overwhelming wave of emotion crashes over me so fast and hard that tears instantly well in my eyes. The baby is moving. For the first time, the tiny life growing inside me is making himself known.

My fingers begin to tremble against my shirt, and a blend of awe, happiness, and terrifying vulnerability takes hold of me.

Without thought, I pick up my phone. I don’t think about calling anyone but him.

My thumbs fly over the glass after I unlock my screen.

Ellis: He’s moving. For the first time. I can feel him.

The minute I press send, a slight pang of guilt hits me. Brody is cleaning out his locker, surrounded by disappointed teammates. The last thing he needs is me interrupting his time with them with my news.

I stare at my phone for a second, then start to send a follow-up text telling him not to worry about replying right now. But before I can hit send, my phone vibrates in my palm.

Brody: Are you still at the office?

Ellis: I am. I’m sorry to bother you while you’re trying to take care of what you need to do today. We can talk when you get home.

Brody: I’m already walking to the car. I’ll be there soon. Don’t leave.

I stare at the screen, unable to keep the smile from spreading across my face.

About thirty minutes later, which means Brody practically flew across the bridge, I hear the ding of the elevator echo in the empty office space.

A second later, my door swings open, and Brody steps through.

He looks almost out of place in the sterile backdrop of my office. He’s wearing a dark grey zip-up hoodie over a black fitted T-shirt, athletic pants, and sneakers. His dark hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it, and he has some stubble along his jawline. He looks exhausted, if I’m being honest, but the minute his eyes lock onto mine, every ounce of tension vanishes.

“Did you fly here?” I tease, stepping out from behind my desk. “Brody, seriously, how in the hell did you make it here in thirty minutes?”

“I drove on the shoulder when I had to,” he says, shrugging. He doesn’t waste time with small talk. He crosses the office in three long strides, covering the distance between us before I can take my next breath.