This story was originally published for the "A New Chapter" contest, where it placed second in both the public vote and the judges' pick for Virgin/Newbie writer. While that was pretty much the most awesome result I could've hoped for, I have since found several bits of the original submission that I wanted to clean. This re-post is largely the same as its predecessor, so if you read that, you'll recognize the vast majority of this.

That said, I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge my beta, makesmyheadspin, as well as Ms. PMR for providing some very helpful feedback post-contest.

The first time I saw him, I was standing on a beach in Italy, queued up to refill my water bottle. As I waited there in the line, I happened to glance in his direction just as he dove for the disc, stretching out over the field boundary to catch it a foot and a half from the sand. I blinked and his arm was stretched out behind him, the disc zipping into the endzone, where it was caught and spiked by a thin blonde whose dedication to color-coordination made my eyes hurt. A moment later, the entire team was rushing the field and I lost him in the crowd.

If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't have believed it. I'd never seen a Greatest properly executed, much less converted to a point. As it was, I was standing there, holding everyone up with a dazed grin on my face, when he broke out of the celebratory huddle to stand on the line, absentmindedly brushing some of the sand off his jersey while my legs turned to mush. Not only had he pulled off one of the most spectacular plays I'd ever seen, but he was also firmly within my Top Ten for most attractive man on the planet.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with lean muscle rippling under what skin I could see (though based on the way the wind was blowing his jersey against his torso, I was willing to bet that assessment extended everywhere) and longish, blonde hair poking out under a backwards trucker hat. I was able to peel my eyes away from ogling him long enough to fill my bottle and get out of the way, only to start up again with a vengeance as I walked back to where the rest of the Oxford contingent had camped out in between games.

At the party that night I spotted him again, parked in a corner and smirking as a troupe of toga-clad women shuffled past in brightly-colored gogo wigs. Confidence bolstered by an excess of booze and lingering resentment at my now ex-boyfriend over photos I'd found on Facebook of him playing tonsil hockey with his ex, I wandered over and poked the blonde god in the chest, making a definite effort not to slur as I quoted a shirt I'd seen a team wearing at Wildwood the summer before.

"Sweet bid. Wanna hook up?"

He blinked down at me, his brow slightly furrowed. "What?"

"The Greatest you made today. I saw it. It was amazing."

"Ah. Yes. Though perhaps if you'd been handling, it would not have been necessary."

I was entranced by his accent, which was light but unidentifiable to my drunken brain, and as I sluggishly processed what he'd said, I broke into a broad grin. "You saw me playing?"

"Yes. Your throws are incredibly precise, and your puts—gorgeous. Not unlike yourself." His hand was at my cheek, stroking it gently with his knuckles.

It wasn't long before my liquid courage had my arms snaked around his neck and my tongue halfway down his throat, though to be fair he was hardly an unwilling participant. During one of our many breaks for air, I pulled back far enough to stick my hand out and introduce myself.

"I'm Sookie, by the way."

He chuckled, his deep blue eyes dancing with mirth as he folded himself a little awkwardly to grasp my fingers in the six inches separating us. "Erik. Charmed, I'm sure."

There were few other words exchanged that evening, and when I woke up the next day alone in my sleeping bag with a massive hangover, all I could recall was his name, that he was Danish, and the phenomenal feeling of our bodies pressed together.

~~~^v^~~~

Two years later, I was back in Europe, playing at the World Ultimate Club Championship in Prague with my club team, Brüte Squad. Given our great season the year before and the off-season acquisition of several players from our (now defunct) rival Lady Godiva, we were excited and feeling good about the first tournament we'd been to where 'international' meant more than the US and Canada.

After a full day of top-notch play, I was sprawled on a couch in the Five tent, contemplating a nap while staring in an unfocused sort of way at the wall when a pair of very long, very fit legs walked by me, then turned around so that the owner could stare at me.

"Sookie?"

I willed my eyes to focus and rolled my head along the arm of the couch so my face was pointed at his, trying to pin down the memory his accent was evoking. I sat up abruptly as I placed him as the man from Paganello.

"Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea! I did not expect to see you here, Erik."

He laughed at my outburst, a rich belly laugh that got me right in the lady bits and brought the burn of a blush to my face. "Well, I did not expect to see you here, either, but it is certainly a pleasant surprise."

"Of course! What team have you come with?"

He quirked an eyebrow and pointed at his jersey as he deadpanned, "Ragnarok. And I see you've come with the Brüte Squad."

"Ah…yes. Yes, I did. Look…last time, in Italy, I was incredibly drunk."

"I noticed."

"I'm sure you did. The thing is, I don't remember much of any of it…"

"I had thought that likely. That's why I brought you back to your team and made sure you got to sleep safely. When we 'hook up' as you said, I want you to remember it." The leer which accompanied this statement would have been creepy on anyone else, but when he did it, it was dead sexy. Nonetheless, I was annoyed at his presumption that our getting together was a forgone conclusion. Masking it like the lady my Gran raised me to be, I smiled sweetly and ignored the last comment.

"I appreciate that. How are you making out so far?"

"Ah, we're playing about as well as can be expected. We're by far the best team in Denmark, but compared to the world, that is not saying much. I hear you American teams have been dominating, though."

We chatted and flirted until my teammates came to collect me for dinner, dragging me away from "Denmark's best deep"-his words, not mine. What they'd neglected to mention was that dinner was code for "shove some food down your gullet before we go out and drink copious amounts of cheap beer." It was no surprise, then, that I was already three sheets to the wind by the time we ran into the Ragnarok boys several pubs into the evening. I'd learned at Paga that I was a fearless drunk, but that night I also learned that I was incredibly practical: there were no open seats near Erik, so instead of waffling about trying to find one to drag over, I just sat myself on his lap.

He didn't mind. Not even when I started falling asleep on him in the middle of our conversation.

"So I think the Buzz Bullets...Sookie? Are you awake?"

I mumbled, "Barely."

He chuckled, and I smiled against his chest, inhaling deeply of his clean and slightly spicy scent. "Then it seems it is again time for me to put you to bed."

"Mm," I sighed, making absolutely no move to get off his lap. I could feel him study me for several seconds before he twitched his legs. I sat up and blinked at him. "Alright. Let's go." I slid down to the floor and grabbed his hand, pulling him gently out of the pub.

For most of the walk back, I was glued to his side, my arms wrapped around one of his. Ostensibly, this was for stability, but since I was mostly sober it was really just an excuse to be close to him. It was slow going, with me clinging to him like that, but neither of us was in a hurry, so it was slightly disappointing when we finally got back to the dorm complex. I stepped back, still holding his arm loosely, and smiled up at him. He looked especially nice in the moonlight, almost glowing, his eyes dancing as he smiled back at me.

"Thanks for walking me back."

"Glad to."

"Do," I looked at my feet, suddenly nervous. "Do you want to come up?"

"Sookie...you're drunk."

I laughed. "I meant to sleep, just sleep. I have a roommate, and anyway I'm really loud. I wouldn't want anyone angry with me." I grinned cheekily, pleased when he visibly swallowed.

"Ah. I shouldn't. We have an early game tomorrow, and I'm not sure I'd be able to sleep with you so close."

I couldn't help it-I frowned, mildly offended at being rejected, and dropped his arm. "Oh. Good night, then."

"Good night." I started walking into the building, then paused when I heard him shuffling his feet. "Do we see each other tomorrow?"

I turned to look at him over my shoulder. "I don't know. I don't even remember which fields I'm on."

"Hm." He shrugged, and walked away.

At breakfast the next morning (mercifully hangover-free), I had to deflect several well-meaning teammates who'd seen us leaving together and wanted the details. The more questions I waved off, the more I wondered what I was doing. Sure, the ultimate community is small, but we lived on separate continents; we didn't know each other well enough to have any hope of carrying on a relationship at that distance, and I wasn't looking for a fling. Clearly, last night had been the beer talking, and it was best that he knew that.

Fortunately, we managed to avoid that conversation by virtue of not being together long enough to have it. I finished out the week having only seen him in passing, without enough time in our busy playing schedules to exchange more than basic pleasantries, much less contact information. I returned to the States much as I'd left, with Erik filed as a non-issue, since we were unlikely to cross paths again.

~~~^v^~~~

I was understandably stunned, therefore, to find him walking onto the pitch at the southern corner of Clapham Common less than a year and a half later. I froze with my foot halfway into the cleat to stare at him as he made his way across the frosty turf, occasionally blinking pointedly to make sure I was actually seeing him. His face pulled itself into that familiar leer when he noticed me staring, and mere moments later he was plopping himself down next to me to switch out his shoes.

"To what astronomical odds do I owe this unlikely meeting?"

"I could not say, Sookie, as mathematics was never my strength. I am glad that the universe has brought us together again, though. Perhaps this time circumstances will not prevent…?"

"Perhaps. Are you trying out? I thought you played for Ragnarok?"

"I did, but now I live in London and the commute to practice is inconvenient. I thought you played for Brüte Squad."

"I did, but then I decided to take advantage of my UK citizenship and get my masters, which makes for a hellish commute back to Boston."

"What in?"

"Virology."

"So you're a scientist."

"Yes. What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer."

"Really now? I've always wondered, are you people actually bloodsuckers, or is that just a clever metaphor for your fees?" Perhaps not the smoothest thing to ask, but it was early on a Saturday and I was unsettled by his presence, so I could be excused a little tactlessness. He took it in good spirits, though, and I got another taste of that laugh.

"I cannot speak for all of us, but...I suppose I can tell you that I do enjoy a glass every now and again." We laughed again, then lapsed into silence to finish booting up, hurrying because we'd spent so much time chatting.

At lunch, my friend Amelia, who'd been at Paga with me and had convinced me to try out for Thundering Herd, dragged me off to a corner to verify Erik's identity while we ate sandwiches.

"He's the Paga guy, right? Who you saw again in Prague?"

"Yes."

"Have you slept with him yet?"

"No."

"What the hell are you waiting for? He's hot, he's into you, and apparently a higher power is conspiring to bring you two together."

"Maybe."

"Well, you seem to play well together, so far." I smiled slightly into my sandwich. It was true—during a huck drill, his reads of my puts had been perfect, and my intuition had been spot-on when it came to gauging his range.

"We do appear to have complimentary skill sets."

Amelia snorted. "That's like saying chips and vinegar are complimentary. Don't kid yourself, Sook—you two are made for each other."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Ames. I'll keep that in mind when the bitter breakup of our fated relationship rips the team in two."

That earned me a glare. "Right. Bill."

"Bill is not relevant to this conversation."

"It's his fault you're gun-shy."

"I am not!"

"Oh, really? Have you dated since you two broke up? I think not." I opened my mouth to protest, but Amelia forestalled my comment, "Quinn doesn't count. Broody and hot and Irish as he was, you were only ever fuck buddies and you know it."

I started to tell her about the utterly disastrous date I'd had with Alcide back in Boston, but changed my mind before the words started. To cover it up, I tried to take a bite of my sandwich, but since I'd already finished it, I just looked like a fish. Thankfully she didn't seem to notice.

"Fine. I'm going to go walk a bit and make sure this sandwich doesn't come back up when we get to playing."

The rest of practice proceeded without a hitch, and soon we were all sitting around a table in a nearby pub, getting to know each other. Since there were several people trying out who had the same or similar-sounding names to people already on the squad, it didn't take long for the conversation to turn to nicknames. Erik had two—one he'd picked up playing for Ragnarok, and one his English colleagues had given him because they couldn't pronounce Njordsen, his surname; predictably, we went with the easier-to-shout Northman. After a time, when I was getting toward the end of my pint, the entire table's attention seemed to swivel to me. I sighed heavily and gave them what they wanted.

"Stacks, 'cause I've got big tits and my last name's Stackhouse. Most folks just call me Sookie, though." There were quite a few sudden coughing fits around the table as half the team started laughing through their beers. I frowned at them, glaring a little at each one, until I came to Erik, who was giving me a half-cocked smile of commiseration. I smiled back as he raised his glass, and together we shared a quiet little toast across a table of people determined to give us unoriginal nicknames.

It wasn't long after that when Amelia glanced at her watch, exclaimed about the hour, and demanded I stop poking at my phone and move my arse or she wouldn't give me a ride. Since I'd been ready to go for a while and was only messing with ringtones to amuse myself until she decided to leave, I hopped off my stool, waved goodbye, and followed her out. I may have put a little extra sway in my step for the man I'd never expected to see again, just in case he was watching.

.

The one thing I'd been displeased with at that first practice had been my puts—they were perfectly serviceable, but the few months since I'd thrown regularly showed, and I knew I'd need to work on them for a while before I'd feel I was really putting everything into my tryouts. Hoping I wasn't overstepping my bounds, I posted on the team's message board saying I'd be at the pitch about an hour early to work on my hucks and asking for some company. I honestly wasn't expecting anyone, since 0900 was early for a non-tournament day, so I brought a pile of discs in case I had to do my own retrieval.

What surprised me, as I approached from the Tube station, was a solitary figure clad in a baggy sweatshirt and fidgeting with a disc. Given how often he'd been showing up where I didn't expect him, though, it really shouldn't have.

"You again." My tone was surly, but I couldn't help but smile—he was probably the perfect person to show up for this, given our mutual performance last week.

"Me again." His answering smile was radiant, and I found I couldn't be annoyed with him. "I'm not sure what we're working on—your puts are as beautiful and accurate as they were in Italy."

"That's just it—I haven't been playing enough lately, and if they're on par with where I was at Paga almost four years ago, that's no good. I know they can be better, because they were, and I want to get that back as soon as possible."

"Alright. What do you need me to do?"

Watching him chase down my puts was like watching a puppy running around, though he was far more coordinated about it. It was clear from his enthusiasm why he primarily played deep, and after several fantastic grabs I was tempted to call him over and inspect his hands for gecko fingers. When the rest of the people started to trickle in about quarter to ten, we called it quits and parked in the middle of the pitch to discuss what was good and what needed work. Erik, being equally concerned with getting in my pants, sprung an invitation to dinner on me in the middle; I considered it carefully.

"Thursday would be good for me, I suppose. I've got to be in lab all afternoon, but you could pick me up around seven."

"Thursday. Good. I'll email you to get your address. Now, about your pulls…"

.

As soon as I got back from the lab, I started prepping myself to go out with Erik. I wasn't entirely sure what sort of venue we would end up at, so I figured I'd dress somewhere midway between fancy restaurant-goer and club slut—something seductive, but still classy. Pawing through the back of my closet, I found perfection in a cute little number I hadn't had much call to wear. It had been strapless when I'd bought it, but after a couple hours spent tugging it back up every few minutes, I'd sewn on some thin straps; I probably shouldn't have bought it in the first place, but I'd been blinded by the pockets. By and large, it was white, but there was a pattern of cascading red poppies crossing from right to left that disappeared briefly under a wide sash. I laid it out with a set of lacy red underthings and a pair of oxblood pumps while I popped into the shower.

By the time I got out, I had a mere half an hour before Erik was supposed to show, so I dashed on a bit of eyeliner and a deep red lipstain before pulling myself into the dress. I'd just finished putting in my earrings, a set of red enamel pieces that were sort of like warped circles, when the door buzzed. Pausing only to fluff my hair, I scooped up my shoes and ran down the stairs to the door. I dropped the shoes to the floor and jammed my feet into them unceremoniously, taking a deep breath before pulling the door open.

At the click of the latch, he looked up from whatever he'd been considering down by his feet and treated me to what was without doubt the sexiest lopsided grin I'd ever seen, complete with quirked eyebrow. The grin took on a distinct smolder, though, as he looked me up and down, and it seemed like he was barely holding back from licking his lips.

"You look…delicious."

I snorted. "Not beautiful."

"You always look beautiful, lover. This," he gestured vaguely at my ensemble, "is something quite different. I find myself inclined to force my way into your home and ravish you with complete disregard to our booking."

I chuckled, letting the 'lover' thing slide for the time being. "You look pretty good yourself." He did—he'd paired a light grey suit with a black silk shirt that he hadn't buttoned all the way, and if I hadn't been so determined to force him to ogle me in public, I would have pulled him inside and got down to some ravishing myself. As it was, I patted my pockets to assure myself that I had my keys and phone, then stepped onto the stoop and pulled the door shut behind me. I took his proffered elbow and started down the steps, stopping dead in my tracks when I noticed what was parked on my curb.

"Are you bloody kidding me? You drive a Corvette? You moved to England and decided to buy the most quintessentially American car in existence? Why?"

He opened the passenger door and helped me in, which I appreciated given the shortness of my dress and the lowness of his car. "In Denmark I stand out because I am fit and have good dress sense. In England, I stand out because I am Danish. Since that is a poor reason to be notable, I thought I'd buy a car that makes more of a statement than my nationality." As he settled into his seat and pulled us away from the curb, he glanced at me quizzically, "What do you drive? A Fiesta?"

"Just because my dad worked for Ford…" He let out a sharp bark of laughter at the put-upon glare I turned on him. I knew he'd shut up, though, when I actually told him. "No, I don't drive a Fiesta, even if they are nice and zippy. Care to take another guess?"

"A Civic? A Golf?" I shook my head at both.

"See, you're going in the wrong direction. Those are all lovely, practical cars. You should be thinking more James Bond."

"I recall a Ford in Casino Royale..."

I leered pointedly at him, "Do you yield?"

"To you, always. I am also out of guesses."

I sat back in my seat, well satisfied, and stared straight ahead while I delivered my answer as blandly as I could. "A DB9."

"Ah, lover, you are full of the most delightful surprises."

"Hm…and the night is still young. Where are we headed, by the way?"

"First, to have a meal. Then, to have a grope in a dark room surrounded by other people doing much the same thing. From there, it is only a question of location."

"So, dinner and a film, followed by hot monkey sex at one of our places."

"That is what I said, though I'm willing to negotiate on the second activity." Since we were stopped behind a bus, we turned to look at each other, he with his eyebrow cocked in that way that made it very difficult not to lunge across the car at him, and me with my best 'come hither' expression pasted on. It lasted only a moment before the bus moved on and we had to look away, laughing quietly together.

It occurred to me that he might not be laughing if I'd made clear my intention to veto the third activity, but I wasn't inclined to spoil the fun this early in the evening. Anyway, even if there was a rule about nice girls not putting out on the first date, I was not above inviting him in for a drink.

The restaurant, as it turned out, was fairly classy, but since both Erik and I had dressed to seduce the other, we were a matched pair in being slightly under-dressed. The service was pleasant and the food divine—judging from the slightly dazed look on his face when I finished my first bite, I realized I may have been a little too vocal in my appreciation. I felt a blush creeping to my cheeks as my hand shot up from the table to cover my mouth.

"I just made a noise, didn't I? Shit. My Gran would box my ears-it's the one habit she never quite broke me of, and I'm afraid it's gotten worse without her around to remind me."

"I assure you, I don't mind. I'd rather I be the one to draw that forth, instead of your meal, but you should never be ashamed to show your appreciation for something pleasurable." His voice dropped several pitches on the last word, the syllables drifting across the table to caress my senses, and I felt the blush spread. He smirked briefly and then abruptly changed the subject.

"I've always thought of you as American, but you mentioned that you have UK citizenship; how is that?"

"In simple terms, I have dual citizenship, though at this point I've spent far more of my life in the US than here. More thoroughly, it's all my parents' fault." I smiled, and he gestured that I should continue. "My dad was the VP of Ford Europe, or something like that, back in the 80s, and he was based here in London. He met my mum in some pub, and they fell madly in love. They got married, bought that house I live in, and settled down to have me and my brother, Jason. Then, when I was seven, they were driving home from Norfolk during a storm and a bridge washed out. Jason and I, who were home with the nanny, were shipped off to live with my grandmother in Louisiana. Jason's still in the States—he moved up to Detroit after getting his MBA a couple years ago and is following in Dad's footsteps as an auto exec. Gran died just before I went abroad for my junior year of college, and since all my other relatives had died before then, that left just me and Jason. We get together once or twice a year at major holidays, but mostly we live our own lives and don't bother each other." I stopped there, and Erik and I spent several minutes eating quietly at each other before I demanded he reciprocate and tell me of his family.

"There's not nearly so much death as in yours. Both my parents are still alive and well, living in Copenhagen. I have an older brother, Kasper, who owns a little book store in Esbjerg with his wife, Aude. They have a pair of sons who seem to think I am a tree, since they do nothing but climb me whenever I visit." He smiled slightly at this, and I could tell that he didn't mind being his nephews' jungle gym.

"Well, you are quite tree-like, especially to someone who is perhaps a third of your height."

"Hmm. I wonder what they would think of you." I stiffened for a moment, suddenly frightened that he was proposing I meet his family—it was far too early in whatever this was for that kind of talk—but then I realized it was idle musing, since his eyes were locked quite firmly on my chest. I took a deep breath, just to tease him with the heaving motion, then responded with a joke.

"I imagine they'd fall asleep on me, since I am so pillow-y." We laughed at that, but by the way he kept glancing at them, I knew he was considering what it would be like to use my breasts as a pillow.

We chatted for hours after that, about everything and nothing all at once, as we had in Prague. After a while, we realized that we'd missed any chance of making a film, so he drove me home. He walked me up the steps to my door, looking about us distractedly the whole way.

"Where is it?" I was fumbling with the lock, so it took a moment before I answered.

"Where is what?"

"Your DB9. It's not on the street."

"Of course not. I don't drive it enough to keep it on the street. It's locked up in a garage a few blocks over." I finally got the key to turn and pushed the door open slightly before turning to Erik. "I've had a great time, and I'd love to invite you in, but—" He cut me off with a finger to my lips, which he quickly replaced with his own. His kissing was just as good as I remembered, if not better, and he left me buzzing when he pulled back and started down the stairs.

"I understand. The time will come when you will yield to me. I will be patient until then. I'll see you Sunday, yes?"

"Yeah…" I was not particularly conscious of stepping into the house, but the sound of his engine revving down the street brought me back to reality, leaning against the door and breathing heavily. Slowly, I stood properly and gazed up the stairs.

"Shower. A cold one, I think."

.

I'm not sure what it was that got them on the subject, but halfway through Sunday's practice, several of the guys were talking about how they'd have to take cold showers later, and Erik sort of sullenly muttered that that was all he had been taking for days now, since the water heater for his building was busted and waiting on an obscure back-ordered part. They shared a laugh about the incompetence of plumbers and building managers and I wandered off, a plan starting to form.

Later, at the pub, I cornered him outside the toilets, out of sight of the two tables the team had taken over.

"Sookie, how lovely to find you here. It's quite roomy in there." He gestured behind him, toward the loo, with an eyebrow raised suggestively.

"I'm sure. Look, I hear your shower's broken. If you meet me outside in fifteen, I'll let you use mine, since I've two."

He grinned seductively. "What a kind offer. I shall see you then."

True to his word, he walked out of the pub fifteen minutes later, and I called to him from a bit down the street, where I'd moved so it wouldn't be as obvious I was waiting for someone. His goofy, knowing grin intact the whole way, we walked to his car and drove across the Thames to my place. I showed him to the upstairs shower, handed him a towel, and left him to it while I got my own shower a floor down. I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing, inviting him to be naked in my house, nor was I particularly convinced this was a good idea, but it wasn't as though I could kick him out now. If I went to evict him while he was still showering, he'd make some assumptions about my intentions that I'd rather he didn't, and it would be just as awkward if I shooed him out immediately after he finished.

I'd been standing under the spray of water for ages thinking about the repercussions when Erik spoke from directly behind me.

"You've been in here for half an hour already. Do you need help?"

I jumped slightly and spun so quickly that I would have fallen, had he not grabbed my arms and steadied me. "What are you doing in here?" I was too stunned to try to cover myself, and our proximity in my small bathtub indicated that he didn't mind at all.

"I got bored waiting for you, and you didn't answer when I knocked, so I thought I would come in and make sure you're alright. Are you?"

"I'm fine. Would you mind?" I made a half-hearted gesture to get him out of my shower, but he seemed to pointedly misinterpret.

"Not at all." I soon found myself turned back around while he reached for the soap and started lathering up. He started with my shoulders and neck, which was a smart move, as his nimble fingers had me relaxed and forgetting about my misgivings before he moved further down my back. He was very thorough, making sure to get anything that might have gotten sweaty, including the skin around my breasts (which themselves were carefully ignored).

While his ministrations were entrancing, my mind couldn't help but spin off into space. Was I really going to do this? I'd never hopped in bed with someone so quickly—Bill hadn't gotten anywhere in more than a year, and probably would have been made to wait longer if my Gran hadn't died and I hadn't been emotionally vulnerable. Quinn, too, had been made to wait far longer than one would expect of a fuck buddy; I'd tried for a whole month to make it seem like a normal, dating relationship before giving in to reality. But here I was, speeding toward what I would guess was the shagging of my life (based on the glimpses I'd gotten and the way Erik's fingers seemed to be made of magic) with no real interest in stopping.

I decided then that if I was going to follow through—which I was—then I'd be an active participant. Erik, being the giant that he was, had managed to wash my front without actually turning me around, and was currently engaged with my calves. I shuffled in a circle and threaded my fingers into his hair, tugging gently to pull him up to where I could kiss him. It started slow and reasonably chaste, though we couldn't help but be goaded on by the lightning-like intensity that burned through our skin as we touched; we'd felt it a little bit before, but there was something about this moment that made everything more.

Our mouths and hands wandered restlessly, hunting down those little spots that short circuit motor control. He was tracing the contours of my neck when my lips found his nipple—on a whim, I closed my mouth around it and sucked. Now, I get a lot of pleasure out of my nipples and breasts, but neither Bill nor Quinn had ever shown any such inclination; Erik, by contrast, was very into it. He moaned into my shoulder, one of his wandering hands coming to rest at the back of my head, holding it to his chest. His lips brushed my ear.

"Bite, just a little bit." I obliged, trapping it lightly between my teeth, and he drew a shuddering breath. He returned the favor not a moment later, his mouth attaching to one breast as he slipped those long fingers of his between my legs. I shifted my hips, delighted with what he was doing, and muttered against his hair.

"Erik?"

"Hm?"

"I'm clean. Are you?"

"For the time being."

"Good." I pulled away slightly, just enough to turn the water off. "I think we should continue this somewhere where I don't need to worry about cracking my head open if I lose control of my legs."

He pulled me back against him. "Is that a challenge?"

"Yes…"

Without having to say anything, we raced to see who could towel off the fastest, though I'll admit I rushed it. I made him chase me to my bedroom, which he certainly enjoyed. He caught me just through the doorway and tackled me onto the bed, picking up right where we'd left off, with his mouth all over me and his hand between my legs. Before long, though, he'd trailed his way down my body and his tongue, just as talented as his fingers, was joining in the fun. From there, it seemed like only moments until I was crying out-loud and inarticulate-praising Erik in the only way I could for the magnificence of my orgasm. As I lay there panting, Erik perched his chin on my pelvis and grinned up at me, licking his lips with pleasure.

"How are your legs, lover?"

I chuckled breathily and wiggled them slightly. "Shaky, but still under control." He frowned, his forehead crinkling ever so slightly, and lunged up the bed at me, capturing my mouth for a toe-curling kiss.

"Then I shall have to try harder."

"Mmm, yes." I reveled in the feel of his lips for a moment, since Erik was a very good kisser. "Get a condom—top drawer of the bedstand."

He made a small, unhappy noise, but didn't fight me. When he pulled the box out of the drawer, though, he groaned and muttered something in Danish.

I pushed myself onto my elbows to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"These are latex, and I am allergic."

"Like, really allergic?"

"No, just a bit. I get a rash."

"Shit. That's a mood-killer."

"Perhaps not. I am free of disease, and I would guess that you do not trust condoms alone."

I leaned into him, smiling slightly. "That's true. I'm clean and on the pill."

He captured my lips again. "Excellent." I fell backward onto the mattress, pulling him down with me. He shifted above me, and I reached between us, centering him just so. He pushed in, slowly at first, but my legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him in, encouraging him to move faster. When he was sheathed as deeply as was possible, he paused and I sighed shakily, my eyes rolling back into my head.

"Not hurting?"

"Never."

He kissed me briefly. "Perfect. Watch me, lover." I did, and he began to move above me, fast and rhythmic, the sounds of our gasping breaths mingling with the slap of flesh on flesh to drown out the noise of the city living just outside the window. I watched him, gazing into his sea-blue eyes until I couldn't anymore, until the tensing of all my muscles at once drove me out of my body. When I came back, my throat was raw and my nails were digging into his slick back as he shuddered and collapsed, panting, on top of me.

He was heavy, but I didn't mind the weight; there was something comforting about having him draped across me, breathing against my neck. After a while, though, I shivered in the cool January air, and he pulled out of me to start fiddling with the half of the duvet we weren't lying on. I mewed at the absence, wasting no time in curling up against him once he'd settled with it draped rather ineffectively across us.

"Legs?"

I laughed. "Unresponsive. Well done."

"My pleasure." His hand was running lightly up and down my side as he smiled contentedly down at me, nestled against his chest. "Why didn't we do this sooner?"

"Because I don't know what's good for me." We lapsed again into comfortable silence, and it was several minutes before I spoke again. "The team can't find out. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"For one, I won't give Amelia the satisfaction. Two, if this gets messy, I don't want it to affect the team dynamic."

"It won't get messy."

"You'd be surprised. If there's one thing I learned playing women's ultimate in Boston, it's that it's best to keep romantic entanglements off the field."

His forehead had become creased in confusion. "I don't follow."

"Have you ever heard of a Boston marriage?"

"No."

"Never mind. Just trust me. We'll let them know, just not now. Anyway, I'd rather have this to myself for a while, see where it goes." I kissed him, slow and lingering, and felt him smile against my lips.

"Greedy."

"You bet your damn fine ass I am."

The second round was slower, less frantic, as we took the time to really learn each other and eke out every bit of passion we could. Afterward, we crawled under the duvet and slept, lulled by each others' heartbeats. I woke in a rush in the pre-dawn gloom, staring into Erik's eyes as he crouched next to the bed. He'd pulled his sweaty practice clothes back on and smiled sadly at me as he cupped my cheek with one hand.

"I want to stay with you, but I have to go. I'll see you soon?"

"Mm. Call me." He stood then, and I listened to the sounds of him moving through the house and out the door. When I could no longer hear his Corvette, I peeled myself off the pillow, padding downstairs to check the lock on the door before crawling back to bed for a few hours.

.

I was sitting in lab just after noon, working through a protocol, when my phone started belting out "The Immigrant Song." Smiling, I answered it, silencing Robert Plant's screams.

"Erik! This is a surprise."

"Yes...it would seem that even separated by time and distance, your perfect breasts provide the perfect distraction. Also, it occurs to me that I owe you for the use of your shower, so I would like to make you dinner. Will you come to my flat?"

"I would, if I knew where it was and the public transportation route from campus."

"Then I shall pick you up. Which campus?"

"St. Mary's hospital, in Paddington."

"I'll meet you there at five-thirty." He hung up abruptly, leaving me staring at the phone in surprise. The man had a talent for ambushing me into dates, I'd give him that.

Erik's flat was an interesting split-level. The entrance was on the upper floor, leading into a reception room with steps up to the roof terrace. He made chicken marsala while I explored the small, angular space. We ate on the terrace, since it was oddly warm for late January, then made excellent use of the blanket Erik had brought out so we could "watch the stars," knowing full well they were nearly impossible to see in the middle of London.

We slept in his bed, spooning closely, with one of his arms clutched tightly to my chest. We woke to the sound of his six-thirty alarm in a more horizontal position, as though we'd tipped over in our sleep. In the kitchen, we leaned up against the counters and munched cereal at each other, giving each other suggestive looks in between bites. I slipped out while Erik was in the shower, after yelling over the roar of the (mercifully hot) water that I'd see him later. It was a nice walk home, with the streets already bustling and full of people just getting on with their days, made more pleasant by the big, stupid, recently-sexed-up grin pasted on my face.

.

Keeping our relationship secret from the team became like a game for us, auxiliary to the sport we both loved. It was easy at practice, since we just had to keep flirting like we always had, and only slightly trickier when we got together after practice, when it was merely a matter of being careful about transportation. Tournaments were the hardest, since we were in close proximity for a whole weekend but couldn't really get away together without arousing suspicion. Somehow, though, we managed to keep it together for five months, well into the competitive season.

After one practice in early July, Amelia mentioned that she had a spare ticket to a show Wednesday evening and asked if I'd like to come. Gleefully recognizing the perfect opportunity to ruin the betting pool I knew she had going with the rest of the team, I put together an expression of disappointment.

"Aw, Ames, I can't. Erik and I are driving down to Surrey."

The glint in her eye when I mentioned my travelling companion was impossible to miss. "On a Wednesday? That's a shit weekend getaway."

"It's not. I managed to win the lottery to see Top Gear being filmed, and since he and I both like cars, I invited him along."

"And you won't be back that evening?"

"Sometime, probably, but I'm not real sure what the exact schedule is, so I might not be back in time to catch the show."

"Hm."

"Sorry..." I started to put my gear back in my bag. "Oh! Who wins?"

"Pardon?"

"The pool you've got going for when we'd hook up."

Her face fell. "Oh. That." She pulled up her phone's calendar function, "Looks like…Simon."

I made a face, holding out a hand. "Could I see that?" Limply, she handed the phone over and I started backtracking. I considered it for a minute, then called Erik over. "Erik, honey, when did we first have sex? Was it the 29th or the 30th of January?"

He leaned over the phone I was holding at arm's length for him to see and peered at the tiny screen. "Well, it was after after-practice pub, so the 29th, since we don't have practice on Mondays."

I watched Amelia spluttering out of the corner of my eye. "Right. That makes perfect sense. Speaking of which, are we going to pub tonight? I'm rather in the mood for a shower now…" He smirked and planted a light kiss on my forehead as I checked who'd picked that day. "I think Fergus wins the pot, actually, Ames. Not sure how I feel about that; seems wrong, somehow, for the coach to place a bet. Maybe Simon can get a prize too, for guessing when we'd actually let you folks know?"

Amelia nodded numbly as I gave the phone back and walked with Erik back to his 'Vette, catching his hand after only a few steps. We were only barely able to shut the doors before doubling over in laughter. Funny as Amelia's reaction had been, I was far more interested in how the rest of the Herd would take it, so I forced myself to peer over the dash as she came out of her stupor and made the announcement.

The general consensus, based on body language, was something along the lines of 'about damn time,' though there was a fair degree of shock being expressed when Amelia told them how long we'd kept it from them. By and large, they seemed amused, which was good.

.

It turned out filming didn't start until around two on Wednesday afternoon, and since it was only about an hour of driving down to the studio, we figured we'd lay abed for a while, grab lunch, and then head out. It was a good thing we'd left with plenty of time to spare, since the closer we got to the airstrip, the more congested traffic got, and the parking lot was simply a bear. Eventually, though, we'd claimed our patches of floor and were waiting patiently as the presenters and crew arranged themselves to start.

It was funny, and Clarkson really was as obnoxious as he seemed on telly. The highlight of the day, though, came during the news segment, when Hammond was getting terribly excited about the new Corvette that would be coming out sometime in the next year or two; Clarkson interrupted him and started rambling about how, bonkers as the car was, no one in England actually drove them. To prove his point, he turned to the audience and asked if anyone there owned a Corvette. Smiling in that characteristically lopsided way, Erik raised his hand a bit and answered, projecting to be heard.

"I do."

Shocked, Jeremy swiveled to stare at him. "You do? Have you driven it here, or did it fall apart halfway down?"

"No, we came in my girlfriend's DB9."

I had to hold a hand to my mouth to stifle the giggles as all three of the presenters gave a start, their eyebrows disappearing into their hair.

"Your girlfriend's DB9?" Erik nodded sharply as suddenly the scrutiny of the entire studio was on me. "And you're the girlfriend, then?"

"I am. My tickets, my car."

"And you're American! Well, all you single blokes might as well give up, now that the beautiful American girls are driving the cool cars, because you'll never impress them again." The flow of the conversation quickly turned to other things, and I buried my face in Erik's side for several moments as we both fought hard to keep our laughter silent.

In all, it was an enjoyable day, and after stopping to eat, we were home a bit before ten. Tired as we were from standing for five hours, we did little more than fall into bed; just as I was about to fall asleep, Erik kissed me lightly on the tip of the nose and mumbled a thank you. Two days later, he surprised me with tickets to see Olympic diving in a few weeks.

.

As the weather turned cool and the season was coming to an end, talk at practice turned away from who we were going to stomp at what tournament and toward the final party. As it turned out, Jason was in town that same weekend, so Erik and I would be skipping out on the team dinner and joining them for the proper party later that evening. I was a bundle of nerves. Logically, I had no reason to believe that Jason and Erik wouldn't get along, but that didn't make me any less glad that he was staying in a hotel, just in case they didn't.

Six rolled around and I heard a light knock as Erik came in downstairs, punctual as always. I was just putting together the final touches of my outfit, so I called for him to come up.

"So, I talked to Claire, and—" I twisted around, confused. Erik had stopped just over the threshold, completely gobsmacked. I grinned and went back to my bureau, glad that the dress I'd picked out especially for him had had the desired effect; it was a rich sapphire with a deep neckline, but I'd picked it for the back (or lack thereof), which pooled in a cowl just above my bottom.

"I love that I can still do that to you." It took only a few steps for him to be behind me, his lips fluttering over that spot just behind my ear.

"You'll never stop. I love this dress, and I love you in it, but mostly I love you." I finished putting in the second earring before turning around, very slowly.

"You've never said that before."

"Said what?"

"That you love me."

"Really? I'm sure that I have."

"Nope. Never."

"That is strange. I've thought it for months."

"Mm." I stepped away to get my shoes, looking up at him from the bed as I pulled them on. "I love you, too, you know."

"I do." We smiled awkwardly at each other for half a second, then I stood and we went to meet Jason.

Predictably, my fears were completely unfounded. Jason and Erik hit it off immediately, and when they weren't talking about sports they talked about international business law. I suspect that there were a few serious words exchanged while I was away at the toilets, since Erik seemed relieved when I came back, but I knew better than to ask. Even so, I let out a breath of relief once we'd left the restaurant and were on our way to the party.

Thundering Herd had booked a private room in a Clapham-area pub, and the booze was flowing freely. Eventually, once everyone was good and smashed, they started in on the awards. Amelia was declared "She Who Parties Hardest," which was the head from a rabbit costume and had been passed around for years, and Erik and I were named the King and Queen of hookups: titles accompanied by a pair of plastic children's crowns and demands for speeches. Soon after, the party spilled out into the streets for a rousing game of (sloshed) ultimate, and we took advantage of the confusion to slip away to the "afterparty".

.

Normally I'd spend Christmas with Jason in Detroit, but since I was far away and we'd just seen each other anyway, I went with Erik to Copenhagen to celebrate and meet his family. Erik's parents, who insisted I call them Nikolaj and Silje, were very happy and welcoming; I suspected this was related to me being the first girl he'd ever brought home. Kasper was even more of a giant than his brother, and Aude barely topped five feet, which was just classic. There were a few awkward hours, right after we arrived, where everyone would speak English to me and Danish to Aude, who was French and didn't really speak English. That passed quickly, though, when I heard her curse at a table she'd bumped. It turned out she'd grown up in Alsace, and I was able to put my German minor to work and bypass the family of translators.

From there, everything ran pretty smoothly. Silje didn't argue when Aude and I took over her kitchen for Christmas dinner—Erik had told me about what Danes normally ate, and when Aude confirmed for me how gross it was, we made a pact to put together something more edible, Njordsens be damned. Erik didn't seem to mind, either, since it gave him an excellent opportunity to escape his nephews, who apparently had grown even more rowdy since the last time he'd seen them.

"Why do they climb you when Kasper's taller?"

"Because I'm the doting uncle they don't see often."

I grunted. "They probably can't really tell the difference in height from that close to the floor, anyway." Erik's response was forestalled by Nikolaj bellowing from the next room. "What?"

"He wants me to 'get out of the women's way or else we'll never eat.' He's joking, mostly."

I bellowed back, "Nikolaj, maybe you can't multitask, but women can. Plus, dinner will be ready faster if you let me put your son to work." That earned me a round of laughs.

"Ha! You'll do!"

Silje jumped in. "Of course she'll do—if your son hasn't driven her off in nearly a year, I doubt we'd be able to get rid of her!" I had to smile at that—she was spunky, like my Gran had been, and it made me feel more at home with Erik's family than anything else.

.

Months later, we were lying in my bed with limbs tangled and hands absentmindedly caressing whichever bits of skin were most convenient. We'd taken to staying more often at my place because, while Erik had yet to receive any actual complaints about the noise, we'd both gotten sick of the furtive glares from his neighbors. As I was just getting to the point where I was hazy enough to fall asleep, I felt Erik's voice rumbling through where my cheek was resting on his chest.

"Do you remember when I told you why I bought my Corvette?"

It took me a moment for my blurry mind to process what he'd said, and even longer to put together the appropriate reply. "Yes, sweetie. You said you bought it so that people would pay attention to your ridiculous taste in cars rather than your nationality."

He chuckled at my word choice. "I lied." He continued before I could put together a coherent response. "I didn't buy it to be notable, or because it's very fast. I bought it," here he paused again, and I could hear him swallow, "to remind me of the beautiful American woman who'd gotten away from me twice."

By this point, I'd come fully awake again, prodded, I suppose, by the weight behind Erik's words. Taking a deep breath, I rolled so I could see his face and looked him dead in the eyes. Those eyes, normally the same deep blue as the Mediterranean, had turned dark and stormy with sincerity. I was transfixed, and before I knew it I was speaking.

"Marry me." He looked about as stunned as I was, though when I thought about it, I realized I meant it. The bewildered look was quickly replaced, however, by the broadest grin I'd ever seen, without even the slightest hint of a smirk.

"Of course. I was going to ask you myself tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" To say I was incredulous was like me describing sex with Erik as mind-blowing—it was a hopelessly inadequate adjective.

He nodded. "Five years ago tomorrow, you walked up to me at a party on the beach in Italy and asked if I wanted to 'hook up' before attempting to remove my tonsils with your mouth. That was right before you got away the first time, and I don't intend to give you a third opportunity."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "I hadn't planned on leaving." Or at least, that's what I tried to say; the sight of my tongue seemed to remind Erik that there were better ways to celebrate our sudden engagement than talking, and I quickly found myself pinned to the bed as he worked his way down my body, muttering "Mine" to himself in between open-mouthed kisses and frequent nibbles.

I woke up the next morning alone, but since I could smell breakfast I managed to stay calm. After stretching myself across the entire span of the bed, I pulled on a robe and padded downstairs to see what Erik was cooking. Of course, as soon as I stuck my nose in the narrow kitchen he shooed me into the dining room, claiming that the food would be ready shortly, and since I'd beaten him to his proposal the least I could let him do was make breakfast. I waited ten seconds before going back to demand a cup of coffee, but he meet me at the door with one, so I sat down.

His glorious butt had barely touched his chair when I looked up from stabbing my eggs and asked, "When is your tenancy up?"

Without a hint of surprise, he answered, "The terms of the agreement are revised every six months, so in a bit over a month." He speared a sausage and took a bite, chewing completely before asking in a tone that meant he already knew the answer, "Why?"

"I think you should move in. It would save us both time and money if we were to cohabitate, and since you practically live here already…"

"Your traditional American values won't bother you?" He was smiling, clearly teasing, but I couldn't help but consider it seriously.

"I don't think Gran would mind if I live with my fiancé. For an old Southern lady, she sure didn't have much in the way of sexual mores. I can't imagine what it would've been like if I'd slept with Bill beforeshe died!"

"Oh?" His inquiry was polite, but I could tell he wasn't happy; he and Bill had never met, nor would they if I'd any say, but sometimes I thought the only reason Erik didn't hunt him down was that if not for Bill's indiscretions, we might never have met.

I took another bite of egg, trying to keep the tone light. "Yeah, she was always after me to 'just knock boots already.' I think she'd have boxed my ears if she'd been around to hear about you and Prague, and not just because you're sex incarnate. She would've loved you for being gentleman enough to put me to bed in Italy."

"I assure you, my intentions were far from gentlemanly."

"I know that, and you know that, but that one incident would've changed her entire opinion about European men."

"What did she think of us?"

"That you're polyamorous horndogs who take advantage of American girls for sport."

"She was partially right."

With feigned shock, I replied, "Mr. Njordsen, do you mean to say you've been running around on me?"

"Of course, Miss Stackhouse. My wives are dying to meet you."

We laughed, then settled into silence while we ate, occasionally giving each other lustful looks across the table. After a while, he held up a finger and stood up to rummage in the pockets of his sleep pants, sitting down again once he'd pulled out a small wooden box and set it on the table between us. "There is a ring in that box. Right now it is sized for your finger, but I could have it resized for mine, since it was you who actually proposed."

"Who wears the ring in Denmark?"

"Both."

"Then I'll buy you a different one. What do you like?"

"A plain band is fine. Perhaps you would like to consider this one," he tapped the box lightly, "and find me something that pairs well?"

I shrugged, attempting to hide my eagerness to see the ring he'd bought me—it somehow wasn't my engagement ring just yet—and gestured imperiously that he should slide it across the table. Smirking, he obliged.

.

We were married only four months later, in early August so that we could have a nice, long honeymoon before I really got going with the second year of my PhD. It was a small affair, since I have next to no family and few close friends; Erik's contribution to the wedding party was somewhat larger than mine, but I claimed most of our mutual friends so the seating wouldn't be lopsided. We argued so much about whose name we'd take (he wanted mine because it was the less common of the two in Denmark, and I wanted his because that's how I was raised) that we considered playing for it at the reception, but finally decided to let our hypothetical children decide for themselves. That's not to say we didn't play at the reception—enough of our pre-Herd teammates were there that we played US versus Denmark. Erik's childhood friend Pam, who'd been the ridiculously coordinated one at Paga, scored one for Denmark to open, but after the next point, where I swung to Tara (my best friend from college) in the corner of the endzone, we stopped keeping count.

Our honeymoon started with a few days in Paris, but since we both found driving to be way more of a turn-on than doing touristy things, the vast majority of our two-week holiday was spent traipsing about Europe, chasing each other up and down the best roads. We spent some time in the Alps, making sure to hit the Stelvio Pass in northern Italy before making a beeline for Romania and the Transfăgărăşan; admittedly, when we'd first been planning our wedding, the likelihood of those two roads being open had been a consideration in choosing a date. For the sake of completeness, we took the German Autobahn on the way back, after stopping in Prague to fuck like we should have back at WUCC. It was great—every time we stopped, we pulled out a disc and tossed for a little while, unless we'd pulled over to christen the various surfaces of our cars with newlywed sex. The first time we hit Germany, on the way to Romania, I decided that the DB9 was getting a thorough cleaning when we got back to England, and also the 'Vette if I could get it away from Erik.

We'd been back for a week and a half when I noticed that, despite the fact that I'd taken the placebos and should have experienced withdrawal bleeding, I hadn't had a period since a week or two before the wedding. Once my mind was on the subject, I realized that my boobs had been awfully tender lately. Since I was in the middle of a timed assay, I couldn't run off to the nearest Tesco just then, but I resolved to pick up a kit on the way home—I'd feel better doing it there than in the lab's toilet, anyway. I was a little jumpy the rest of the day, and after a while my advisor came by and told me to go home, since everyone has bad days and they're not worth muddying the data.

Being home early was both a boon and a curse—Erik wouldn't be home for hours, so he wouldn't need to get worked up if it turned out I wasn't pregnant, but I desperately wanted him there to hold my hand while I waited. In the end, and after a lot of waffling, I went and hid in the third floor toilet to pee on the damn stick. What to do while I waited was another matter—I decided that I wasn't going to spend three minutes staring at the little indicator window, so I went out onto the roof terrace, set the test on the table, and retreated to the farthest chair to play games on my phone in a pathetic attempt to distract myself. It almost worked. I made myself wait far longer than it would take the test to develop, and when I did look I nearly threw the thing off the roof in my uncoordinated scramble to read the screen.

"Fuck." I'd gotten one of those easy-to-read digital kits, and this one clearly said 'Pregnant.' "Fuck. Me. Sideways." I collapsed into the nearest chair with a death grip on the little stick, my mind a roaring maelstrom of disjointed thoughts and feelings. I couldn't pin anything down long enough to muster up a physical response, so I just sat.

Before I realized the time had passed, I could hear the sounds of Erik coming home and looking for me in the house. Eventually, he made it out onto the deck and greeted me as he always did, with a hug and a kiss on my neck. When I failed to lean into him as usual, he tensed.

"Elskede, is something wrong?"

Oddly enough, I found I could talk right away, even if my answer didn't fully encompass the issue. "Erik, I have to sell the Aston."

I could feel him making his confused face as he pulled away and grabbed another chair. He took a moment to settle into it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled before he asked, "Why do you need to sell your car?"

I choked back a hysterical laugh. "Because there's no way to get a car seat into the back."

"I am still confused. What are you trying to tell me?"

"That this," I held up the white stick, "says I'm pregnant." I cracked a grin, because I could tell he was fighting to keep a straight face, and allowed him several minutes of joyous celebration before I forced him to sit back down, this time with me in his lap. "The car is a minor detail. I can swap out the DB9 for a Rapide easily. The thing that's keeping me from being just as pleased as punch is that I could lose my studentship over this. I don't know if I can get maternity leave, since I'm not exactly employed."

"Darling, you married a lawyer—we'll work it out. I have a question, though."

"Shoot."

"How are you pregnant if you're taking your birth control?"

"Ah. Well, there's a 0.3% failure rate with perfect use, and my use was somewhat less than perfect while we were wandering the continent. It's uncommon, but not impossible."

"Clearly not." I had to laugh at that. Unfortunately, once I'd started laughing, I couldn't stop and Erik didn't know what to do with me. With time and deep breaths, I managed to calm myself enough to explain what was so funny.

"Back in Boston, I used to laugh at the women on Lady Godiva," I giggled, "because they were old and their sideline was full of kids who always needed sitters. Now I'm going to be just like them!" I punctuated the last few words by poking him in the chest, then dissolved into hysteria again.

.

In a way, it was lucky I got pregnant when I did, since by the time I got too big to work comfortably in lab, midway through April, I'd managed to gather most of the data I'd need to finish the work for that year at home. A week into September I'd had a nice, long chat with my advisor and we'd worked out a schedule that would hopefully work. It involved spending a lot more time in lab while I could, but allowed me to do the writing and more complex data analysis at the end when standing at a lab bench just wasn't possible, and hopefully by September I'd be good to go full-time again.

In terms of the pregnancy itself, I lucked out even more. From all the reading I did in between lab, I was having the world's easiest pregnancy—I'd been sick maybe twice, I gained weight where I needed to without adding too much to my diet, I was able to keep playing for a while (even if I had to stop laying out), and aside from being horny all the time my hormones kept it to themselves; granted, my feet still got sore and I practically lived in the toilet, but that was unavoidable. Sometimes, though, I'd get nervous and wish that I had a living female relative to talk to, which made me glad I got on so well with Erik's family—Aude and Silje were both a great help.

Erik, in addition to reaping the benefits in a fantastically creative fashion, spent the entire time teasing a colleague of his whose wife was also pregnant and, from what I understood, a real monster about it. Like the perfect husband he was, he came with me to every doctor's appointment and listened carefully, picking up on some things I missed and generally impressing the crap out of the OB/GYN. At my 20th-week appointment, he was muttering filth into my ear to distract me from the chilly ultrasound gel when Dr. Crane cleared his throat and looked pointedly at us. I slapped on my "crazy Sookie" smile, embarrassed about what he might have overheard.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Yes. Your baby is progressing perfectly, and I asked if you wanted to know the sex."

Erik and I looked at each other. We'd discussed this extensively, since I had mixed feelings, but we'd decided that we'd satisfy my scientific curiosity rather than letting tradition win out. He smiled at me, and I nodded emphatically.

"Yes, we do." Dr. Crane's smile almost looked pained—he was an excellent doctor, but uncomfortable with strong emotion. The ultrasound tech spun the monitor around to show us Foetus (unoriginal, yes, but it worked).

"So, it's being cooperative and sitting still in a position that's easy to examine, which is good. I can tell you then, with great certainty, that you're having—"

"A boy," Erik interrupted, peering at the image. The tech looked a little flustered.

"Well, yes. How…?"

"I did some reading. I agree, that turtle sign is very clear." At that point he caught my confused pout and gestured that the tech should continue. When she finished, I had to admit that the name 'turtle sign' was pretty accurate. Erik and I left the doctor's office with matching idiotic grins, only letting go of each others' hands when it was necessary for him to shift gears.

.

Our grins were less idiotic four months later when I started noticing contractions around three-thirty in the afternoon. By the time Erik got home after six, I was parked on the couch with a pen and paper, glaring at my phone. He stared at me, apparently furious with my mobile, and his face hardened into an expression of grim determination bordering on panic.

"Lover? If you needed to get to hospital, you should have called me."

"Shush, Erik, I don't need to go yet. Soon, but you have time to get out of your," I glanced up from writing, "incredibly sexy suit." He gave me his best 'stop being stubborn' glare and ran upstairs. I started to listen to him, imagining that butt of his stripping out of the trousers, but got distracted when another contraction hit and went back to staring at the phone.

By the time Erik got me to the hospital (in my new Aston Martin Rapide, since there was no way I was going to be able to get in and out of his car) and checked in, I was an hour and a half into four-minute contractions with a minute or less separating and starting to get cranky. Foetus didn't care, though, and kept me walking around my room and glaring in his general direction for several hours before Dr. Crane cleared me to start pushing. From there, it wasn't so bad—it hurt like hell, yes, and I screamed so loud I caught one of the med students shaking his head to clear the ringing, but fortunately for Erik's fingers (I noticed he didn't give me his throwing hand) it didn't take too long.

In the few minutes between finishing birth and the hospital staff giving me my baby back, Erik and I stared at each other and tried to smile through our exhaustion. When they did hand him to me, I realized with a start that I'd have to stop calling him Foetus. After that, though, I became engrossed with checking him over, making sure all the bits were where they should be. I was in the middle of counting his fingers, tiny nails and all, when I heard someone ask his name for records purposes.

"Tristan Lukas Stackhouse-Njordsen. Erik, make sure she spells it right." He disappeared from my side for a couple minutes, and when he came back, I realized he'd gotten everyone out of the room. I scooted over and grinned up at him, patting the space next to me. He climbed into the bed and curled around us, resting my head in its customary place against his chest.

"We made a teacup person. He's perfect."

"Of course. We're biased, though."

"Mm. May I?" I nodded and handed little Tristan over, settling him into one huge hand while the other remained wrapped around me. I stared at them for a while, engaged in the kind of domesticity I never would have picked for Erik back when I met him in Italy, and drifted off to sleep.

.

Windmill Windup a year later was perfection. I didn't care that it rained the whole weekend—as my college coach had always said, "embrace the elements." It didn't matter that I'd already played through the Mixed Tour—this was my comeback tournament, my return to the international stage. I was on fire, Erik was playing at his best, and Tristan was burbling happily to himself on the sideline and putting on his cutest behavior for his grandparents.

As a team we were stomping the competition, but I got the feeling that it was me that was putting the fear into them. I heard the panic in their voices when I had the disc and they knew they couldn't stop me from putting it anywhere I wanted; the frustration when I snatched the disc out of nowhere and they demanded to know where my defender had been; the whispers when I passed by teams we hadn't yet played, my name on their lips. Not Stacks—the Herd had given up on that one the first time I showed up with Tristan. I had a new nickname, a name that had been a force to be reckoned with in ultimate for close to thirty years, revived by my tales of Boston.

Godiva.

I would like to thank Charlaine Harris for her unwitting allowance of me to give her characters new lives, and politely ask that she not sue me should she or her legal team find this.

If you'd like to know more about Ultimate, I recommend this document to start: www (dot) usaultimate (dot) org / assets / 1 / workflow_staging / Page / 40 (dot) PDF