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“Then what was with all the threats when I first got here?”
She shrugs and walks into the bathroom. I stand in the doorway and watch as she begins an elaborate routine involving multiple bottles of stuff that she smears all over her face. “I thought there was achanceyou’d react like you did after you got hurt.”
I think of the harsh words I said to Azalea last summer, the way I pushed her away when she was ready and willing to help me get through my injury just like she’d helped me through every other hard thing in my life, and I’m filled with shame.
Only a few months ago, I was convinced that not being able to play baseball meant my life was over. The aftereffects of that single-minded focus I’ve had my whole life lingered, to the point where I was tempted to go all-in on a longshot chance to play again.
But the second I learned that Azalea is pregnant, everything snapped into focus. I saw baseball for what it is—a game I love, but still just a game—and I saw Azalea and our future family for what they are: the center of my universe.
There’s just no competition.
“I’ve grown up a bit since then,” I tell Callie now.
“Little Maverick Weaver,” she coos, splashing water on her face. “An actual, functioning adult. Now you just need to learn how to use a condom.”
I roll my eyes and push off the doorframe. “You’re annoying.”
“Yeah, someone told me that once.”
I consider going back to bed, but now that I’m awake, I’m feeling keyed up. Antsy. “I’m going out to my car to grab my bag real quick. Leave the door unlocked.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
When I return with my backpack, it’s dark in the apartment and Callie’s bedroom door is closed. I plop down lazily on the couch and pull out my laptop. My final business communication assignment is already pulled up. The assignment is to write a proposal for a strategic response to a public relations problem, and as I skim what I’ve written so far, I realize that it sucks. No business is getting out of hot water by following this shitty advice.
Already feeling frustrated, I click over to the example we were given and read it again. I grab a pen and notepad from my backpack and write down a few things I see mentioned in the example that I had neglected in my own paper.
Then I highlight my whole draft, hit delete, and start over.
The clock passes midnight, one, two in the morning. There comes a point where I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, but I don’t stop. I’ve never felt this kind of urgency toward anything school-related before. For some reason, getting an eighty-nine on this paper and passing this class seems like the litmus test for proving that I’m capable—that I’m worthy—of being a partner and a father.
When I do start to slip into sleep against my will, eyes drifting closed and staying that way, computer slipping off my lap and falling to the carpet with a softthudthat only distantly registers, my last conscious thought is that I might finally deserve to be proud.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Azalea
WhenIwakeupalone in my bed, my heart sinks. Maverick was holding me when I cried myself to sleep last night, and now he’s gone. I pick up my phone and am both disappointed and relieved not to see a message from him—disappointed not to have an explanation for where he is, relieved because there’s no proof he left because he freaked out about the baby.
I roll out of bed and use the bathroom, then wander down the hall. When I emerge into the living room, I stop dead in my tracks.
There is Maverick draped over the couch, arms curled into his chest and one long leg angled toward the ground. His backpack is on the floor and his laptop is beside it, open and tilted over like it was dropped there.
Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave. I stand there a moment, waiting for my heart rate to slow, and then tiptoe toward him.
“Mav?” I call softly. He doesn’t stir. I move his things onto the coffee table and sink down on the edge of the couch. His face is relaxed, the lines that mar his forehead when he’s stressed or angry nowhere to be seen.
They weren’t there last night, either. I’m not sure what reaction I expected when I told him that I’m pregnant, but I know it wasn’t a quick, fleeting look of surprise before his demeanor was overtaken by calm determination. Even as I floundered and rambled about not knowing what to do, he never joined in my panic. He surrounded me with gentle touches and soothing words, and I felt safe. I felt protected.
I felt like maybe we could do this.
But in the light of day, after waking up and briefly thinking that he’d left, I’m not sure how I feel.
“Hey,” comes his husky voice. I glance over and my heart squeezes with affection at the sight of Maverick’s half-open eyes, mussed hair, and lazy smile. His warm hand rubs the spot at my lower back where my shirt has ridden up. “What’s up?”
“I thought you left,” I admit.
“No,” he says, gesturing to his backpack. “I just came out here to work so I didn’t wake you.”
