Page 2 of Honest Boys Don’t Play

My mind is a cyclone of whirling thoughts just waiting to touchdown, but I choose to focus on what she said last. It seems easier than trying to sort through my tumultuous thoughts. “But other than that, you’re feeling, okay?” I ask, hoping she can’t hear the tremble in my voice.

I don’t want her to think that this news is scary to me. It’s shocking, sure, but not scary in the way one might think. This wasn’t planned, but I’ve always wanted to be a dad, and I have no doubts that Bertie would be a great mom. Is this ideal? Obviously not. But we’ll figure it out.

“I guess,” she sighs, her eyes shifting around the coffee shop. “Just scared.” She tugs on the sleeves of her Aldridge University sweatshirt. “I want you to know I … uh … I don’t expect anything from you.”

My brows knit in confusion. “Huh?”

She flushes. “I just mean, if you don’t want to be involved with the baby, I get it. I … this is my choice to keep the baby, and I think you should have a choice too.”

I blink at her, at a complete loss for words. I understand what she’s saying, and where she’s coming from, but it never even crossed my mind when the words I’m pregnant left her mouth that I would run from this.

I shake my head. “Bertie.” I clear my throat and reach across the table to lace our fingers together. She blinks down at our joined hands in surprise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not?”

“I know we didn’t plan for this, but I’m in this with you.”

She inhales a shaky breath. “Good. That’s … good.” Her lower lip wobbles. “Thank you.”

I don’t know exactly what she’s thanking me for. I know a lot of guys can be epic douchebags about this kind of thing, but Bertie didn’t make this baby by herself. I’m just as responsible.

Her eyes widen in horror, and I wonder what I’ve possibly managed to fuck up in the last two seconds.

“Oh no.”

She slaps a hand over her mouth and shoves the chair back. I nearly dislocate my neck, tracking her as she runs through the coffee shop to the restrooms.

“Oh, fuck,” I mutter, shoving back my own chair. I grab her abandoned purse and sling it over my shoulder before I run after her.

There are only two shared restrooms in the coffee shop and thankfully she didn’t bother to lock the door on the one she chose.

I open it to find her heaving over the toilet and barely holding her hair back.

Seeing her like this feels like a punch to the chest. This is my fault. If only I had kept my dick to myself and been a gentleman like I had planned. But no, I am putty in the hands of Bertie and I’m not sure she even realizes it.

She shudders when my fingertips graze her bare neck, carefully tucking every visible strand of her hair into my fist.

“I’m so sorry.” I rub her back.

She gags again. “I should’ve known better than to try to eat that muffin. Everything makes me sick.”

I struggle to find any words of comfort. After all, this is my fault.

Finally, I settle on, “My mom had really bad morning sickness with me. Maybe she has some advice.”

Bertie lets out a low wail. “Oh, God. We have to tell your mom. I love your mom and now she’s going to hate me.”

I press my lips together, holding in my snicker. “She’s not going to hate you.”

“Yes, she is.” Actual tears wet her face. “I’m ruining your life. We’re ruining your life.” She presses a hand to her flat stomach. “You’re headed to the NHL, Luke.”

Her words have anger rising up inside me. Not at her, but that she’d possibly think that.

“You and this baby are not ruining my life, Bertie. Don’t say that.”

She doesn’t reply, instead she dry heaves over the toilet again.

“I don’t think anything is left in my stomach,” she says and moves to stand. I grab her hands and haul her up, so she doesn’t have to do all the work herself.