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“That won’t be necessary. Leah and I are both too busy for a relationship.”

“Leah! We’ve got a name,” Brooker shouted before pulling out his phone.

“I told you, we—”

“But you do have time now,” Brooker interrupted. “You don’t have to overwork yourself or hold off on finding somebody, dude.”

“Brooker’s right, Cap,” Taylor said. “Sharma’s actually got his shit together. The team isn’t gonna fall behind if you get a life.”

“But he’s only been with us for a month, he still needs the extra support.” Even as I said it, I realized I didn’t believe the words. Sharma was more than competent and while he did ask my advice every so often, he didn’t need it. He didn’t rely on me the way Boyd did. The team would function just as well if I didn’t come in early or stay late.

It was entirely possible I could make a relationship work now.

But not with Leah.

“Well … she isn’t looking for a relationship either, so … yeah.” I chewed at my lip, trying to force the discomfort away and ignore the guys as their faces dropped. But I couldn’t bear to see my team like that, especially knowing those looks were on my behalf. So I straightened my shoulders, pretended like I didn’t care that I’d never see Leah again, and told them, “It was just one night, that’s what we agreed to. But enough about me, let’s get to practice.”

The Test Results

Leah

Two months later

Istepped back into my bathroom and rested my mom’s photo on the toilet. Then with a heavy sigh, I pressed my back against the wall and slid to the floor. I looked at mom "on" the toilet and crinkled my nose. Taking the frame, I set her on the edge of the bathtub. But the ledge was too narrow and she slid off.

“Fuck, fine,” I grumbled, reaching into the tub to grab her and set her back on the toilet. I settled back on the floor, crossed my arms, uncrossed them. Crossed my legs, uncrossed them. Finally I just splayed out, lying completely flat on the bathroom floor, thankful this was my house and that I had no male visitors, so I knew the cleanliness level. Plus, this position had the added bonus of not being able to see the pregnancy test sitting on the counter.

“So Mom, I may be pregnant,” I told the picture frame. “And I really don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Oh sweetheart, that’s amazing!” I said in my best impression of Mom. It’d been … eight years since I heard it though, so lord knows how accurate it was.

“Mom, I’m not sure amazing is the right word. I mean, it’s kind of a miracle that guy’s sperm could defeat a condom, the pill, and all those issues I probably inherited from you.”

“We don’t know if those issues were hereditary.” I think I was around sixteen when my mom first asked if children were in my future and we had a conversation about her struggles. Looking back at it, I wonder if she felt her age wearing on her, knew that she was entering the end of her lifespan, and was making sure she didn’t leave with any important conversations left unspoken.

Grief is weird. It’s got high and low tides, but they’re not predictable. I can’t look up at the moon and know I’ll be drowning in sorrow in a few days. Though I can kinda track it through my period, which I guess is a little like the moon phases. But my missing period was the reason why I was on the floor of my bathroom, talking to my dead mom via a framed photo sitting on the toilet.

My parents had me in their late fifties and passed away when I was nineteen. That really fucked me up. It left me feeling like having someone close to me would always end in grief. So I’ve kept to myself since then, didn’t date, didn’t do friends, just one night stands and lonely weekdays.

But a kid was different. They wouldn’t die on me at a very young age. And since I was only twenty-six, I wouldn’t die on them. It was possibly the only relationship I could commit to without that crushing fear of loss.

“I think I want to keep them,” I told Mom, a hand on my stomach. “For the most selfish reason though.”

“Wanting someone to love isn’t selfish.”

“How do you always know what to say? Is it because you're a figment of my memory?” I sighed and sat back up. My phone would ring soon and then I’d have to look at the test.

But I had a strong feeling in my gut that it’d be positive.

“This could be my only chance at having a kid. And this kid does have a literal pro athlete for a dad. Or genetic dad.”

“A pro athlete?” "Mom" said giddily.

“Yeah, yeah. I fucked a hot soccer player. And he liked my bit about not remembering his sport. He was … kind.”

“That’s a good trait in a partner.”

“Nah, not a partner. A … shit, I guess a co-parent, if he wants.”