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“Just stress,” I hissed. “Stupid douchebros.”
Stress made me late sometimes — three days, a week. Never much more than that, but I’d had a lot to deal with — Jim and Mark, Stern, my angst with Spencer. Hunting apartments. Maybe New York. That was enough to make anyone late. But so was a baby. So was?—
A horn blared behind me. The light had changed. I flicked on my blinker and turned right instead of straight, and headed for the grocery store instead of for home. My hands had gone numb, my throat dry and tight. My pulse raced as I made my way inside.
I found what I was looking for, paid, and stood frowning. I couldn’t wait twenty minutes to do this at home. I could barely wait three minutes to watch the stick change.
“Miss?” The cashier was staring.
I coughed. “I’m sorry. Uh, where’s your bathroom?”
“In back, by the pharmacy.” She pointed the way.
What followed was the longest, the longest three minutes, more like three centuries, crammed into that space. I sat in that cramped little white bathroom stall, watching the light flicker over my head, trying to picture my reaction if the answer was yes. Was this something I wanted? I didn’t know. Maybe. I’d always thought someday, but did I want this today? Could I do this right now, the babyproofing? The feedings? The midnight ER visits because what did I know about children? How would I know a heat rash from measles?
I thought of the cribs I’d passed heading back here, the cute little mobiles, the overstuffed bears. The car seats, the swings… babies loved swings. I’d get her a swing, and one of those bounce chairs. And those puffy books to read in the bath. Footie pajamas. A frog-shaped hat. All the cute stuff… wait. Did I want this?
I’d wanted a fresh start. Or, no. Not just that. I’d wanted to move on. To grow. To evolve. I’d have to do a lot of that to be a good parent. A scary amount of it, but maybe I was ready. Maybe this was what I’d been looking for, but what about Spencer?
The season would end soon. I’d tell him right after. Hopefully in that sweet spot when he’d just won the cup. I’d tell him, and— yeah. Yeah. It would all be okay. Whether we were a couple, or whether we weren’t. He was still a good man. He’d be there for his child.
I pulled out my phone and typed an email to Donna: yeah. Yeah, I’d take it. I’d be staying right here.
Then I looked at the test, and the strip was bright pink — two pink lines. Pregnant.
I smiled so damn wide my face felt like cracking.
CHAPTER 19
SPENCER
We weren’t just losing.
We were getting slaughtered.
This close to the cup, this couldn’t be happening. We couldn’t afford to lose, but we were dying. Penalty after penalty, flub after flub — it was like we’d all grown ourselves an extra left foot.
I scored one goal six minutes in. That was our first goal, and our last one. I swung around after, peering out at the stands, trying see if I could spot Izzy up there. But the crowd was too dense. I couldn’t see jack. She hadn’t texted me either, to wish me good luck. She’d never not done that in all the time we’d been friends.
“Keep it up,” bellowed Dan, and thumped me on the back.
I fully intended to, but something had changed. I couldn’t get my bearings. Couldn’t handle the puck. My stick had gone heavy, my legs stiff and numb. My head felt too full, and I couldn’t focus. I missed a clear shot, my reflexes jamming. Dan pulled up short and I slammed into his back. Enrique came within inches of scoring an own-goal, then the other team swooped in and scored for real. Rodriguez got into a dumb, half-assed brawl, and got his ass sent to the penalty box. We were playing like clowns, and the harder I fought it, the worse it got.
We took the ice for third period, and I scanned for Izzy again. I spotted Leon and felt my heart soar, but when I checked to each side of him, I didn’t see Izzy. She’d really not come, then. She’d blown me off.
Rage spiked in my chest, and I gripped my stick tight. So, fine, whatever. She didn’t feel how I felt. But we were still friends, or at least I’d thought so. Friends showed up for each other. Friends?—
I loused up the face-off, still stewing on Izzy. The crowd roared their fury. I stormed after the puck. I got hold of it briefly and broke us back out, but my butthurt-fueled effort was too little, too late. We had the puck a whole twenty seconds, then Rodriguez chipped it, and I missed it on the rebound.
Why didn’t she want me?
What was in New York?
I chased after the action, pissed at myself. Now who was the shitty friend, trying to hold her back? Putting my own wants ahead of her dreams? Maybe she’d sensed that, and she’d backed off.
But it hurts she’s not here. We’re still best friends… right?
“Moron,” I muttered, hating myself. My breath puffed out white from under my mask. I sucked a lungful of air and blew it out through my teeth, and did it again till my head felt clearer. The game snapped into focus, but we’d already lost. I’d jinxed the whole team with my half-ass playing, and nothing I did could pull us together. We defended our goal for the last fifteen minutes, and the score finished up five-one against us.
