“Yep, with my bare hands.” Those hands are currently squeezing the peachy globes of my ass. “Merry Christmas, babe.” He drops to his knees and whispers to my belly, “Merry Christmas, Bug.” Kal and I chose to call the baby Bug while we wait to find out if we’re having a boy or girl. The thought of referring to him or her as ‘It’ just didn’t sit right, and since we thought I had a bug, Bug seemed like the perfect name.
He stands back up and wraps his arms around me again. “Merry Christmas, Kal,” I whisper, lifting to my toes to press my lips to his for a kiss. A bang on the front door pulls us apart. “Who would be here at eight on Christmas morning?”
He shrugs at me. “Guess we better answer it and find out.” His response is cryptic and I wonder if he knows something I don’t, but he looks just as clueless as me right now. Pulling out of his embrace, I pad down the hallway toward the front door when they impatiently bang on the door again. “Coming,” I mumble. When I swing the door open, I come face-to-face with a huge pile of Christmas presents that has legs and two hands.
“Hello?” I question by way of greeting.
“Pumpkin,” my dad says from behind the pile. “Grandpa needs you to let him in. Please?” Yes, in the few days since Dad found out, he’s been referring to himself as Grandpa … and in third person. It was funny to begin with but now, it’s just annoying.
“Nah,” I tease, “I’m just gonna stand here in the doorway all day and stare at this massive pile of presents with hands and legs that talks.”
“Pumpkin,” he warns, and as he growls, a present from the top topples to his feet. “Shit,” he hisses, “I hope that wasn’t one of the breakable ones.”
“What the puck?” Kal says, joining us.
“Dad went overboard with presents.”
“Grandpa did not.”
“I see we’re still on the third person thing,” Kal states with an eye roll, all of us sick of the third personing.
“Mmmhmpf.” I nod.
“Kallen Jones,” Dad growls, “if you don’t let me in, I’ll bench you for the rest of the season.”
“Like you’d let your star goalie warm the bench,” I scoff, “but in the spirit of Christmas, come on in, Dad.”
“Grandpa thanks you, Pumpkin,” he says, somehow shuffling through the doorway and not dropping any more presents.
Bending down, I pick up the dropped one and look into the hallway for Mom. “Where’s Mom?”
“At home sleeping, she looked so peaceful and I didn’t want to wake her.”
“You left Mom at home to wake alone on Christmas morning?”
“Well, yeah, I had to drop off the presents for Cletus the Fetus.”
“You did not just refer to my baby as Cletus the Fetus, did you, Dad?”
“Grandpa did because saying It felt too impersonal.”
“And Cletus the Fetus is personal?”
“Well, what should Grandpa call him then?”
“SHE,” I emphasize that word, “is being referred to as Bug.”
“Bug, Grandpa likes that,” Dad says as my phone begins to ring. Walking over to the kitchen island, I smile when I see Mom’s face. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”
“Merry Christmas, honey, is that husband of mine there?”
“Yes, Grandpa is here and he has the whole of Toys R Us with him. Why did you let him go crazy?”
“Try stopping that man, ever since your ultrasound, he’s been telling everyone.” I had my first ultrasound two days ago, turns out, I’m twelve weeks along. Remember that mini freak-out back in October, yeah, well, I was pregnant then. The test I took after the Crushers lost to LA was a false negative because it was only early days. It seems that I conceived on our honeymoon. Since Kal is a celebrity, when we were seen coming out of the doctor’s clinic, within minutes, the whole world knew too. That night we were all over the entertainment channels. The joys of being married to a pro player. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll head over.”
“Take your time, Mom, we’ll be here when you get here.”
“Love you, Chels.”