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“They’re just reporting the same thing, using the originalstory as their source. Hockey Fans International claims blah… blah… blah,” I defend.

Coach keeps me far away from the media room and says to be in his office tomorrow morning, so I sneak out and call Mr. Cross to let him know about that ref so they can see if there are any dots that connect.

But before I put my phone on the seat beside me, I listen to the voicemail Becca left me, not once but five times.

What did she mean by “we can make it without you?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Becca

Choking on my tears, I reread his message a thousand times, or maybe I just stare at the message.

I do love you, just a lot going on. We’ll talk soon.

Soon? Not tonight or call me when you can.

I guess when push comes to shove, John proves my theory about dating athletes.

I’ll come last. They’re too busy, cocky, and gorgeous to stay with one person. Of course, I know there are some capable of having a relationship. Corbin and Oakley. Reed and Brooke. Bryce and Emmaline, and so many more, but they’re in the minority. Most professional athletes are stepping out on their wives or girlfriends on an ongoing basis.

Corbin and the Notes had an away game tonight, and the girls went with them. Thank God, because I’m reeling over having a baby in my belly and don’t know how I would explain not having a daiquiri.

The couch dips and cradles my body as I get comfy and pullup the Rattler’s game on my laptop. Streaming his game is always a gamble—the picture freezes every time I get invested, turning every big play into a pixelated guessing game. I place my finger on the screen, following every shift of his body, desperate for the smallest connection between the man I fell in love with two months ago. But he’s hidden by a helmet, pads, and a uniform, making the physical and mental distance between us even wider. It was stupid to try to feel him through the screen.

I feel a rush of nausea coming on, so I push the laptop to the side. I hop up and run to the bathroom. My morning sickness is all day, every day, and I want to call my mom and tell her about my pregnancy, but John needs to know first.

My vision of being pregnant came with a husband, a house, yard, and staring at a pregnancy stick together. Going to our first appointment together. Picking out baby furniture. Trolling the internet for baby names, not being by myself and not knowing if our baby will have a father who he or she sees every day.

When I get back to the couch, it’s the second period and suddenly, John’s fighting with the opposing team. Not just a shove but throwing punches, and the ref gets caught in the middle. After the dust settles, John sits in the penalty box, scowling.

I slam the computer closed. Seeing him, even on a screen makes my heart twist and ache with worry. It’s only nine in the evening, and I have an excessive amount of work yet to do. Instead, I put on John’s t-shirt he snuck into my luggage.

Property of Dallas Rattlers #22

The fabric is weathered, worn, and oh so soft, it almost feels like a second skin. And the smell still has a touch of John’s masculine scent mixed with a beach smell. How? Because I haven’t washed it. Nearly seven weeks of not seeing him and until a week ago, things were fine.

That is until I found out I was pregnant.

And when he started distancing himself from me.

It would be one thing if it was because of the baby but since he doesn’t even know, the pregnancy can’t be the reason.

I grab my briefcase and pull out a file to work on, and it takes me back to John asking if Ilovebeing a lawyer. I begin to question myself. Is this the life I want for my baby? A mom who works eighty hours a week but has nice things. Even if I work twenty-five percent less, it will still be a sixty-hour work week.

A groan slips out as I tip my head back, thumping it lightly against the couch in defeat. Surely, this can’t be my life—nights that turn into mornings spent hunched over briefs and contracts. And in the glow of the laptop at midnight, I feel the life I thought I wanted slipping away. A sharp pang of clarity shoots through me: I don’t love being an attorney. I like what it affords me.

I tap my pen against the legal pad that I’m taking notes, letting my epiphany simmer.

What would make me ecstatic to go to work every day? Oakley’s a hairdresser, and she’s happy. Brooke is a ballet teacher. Lettie is a chart-topping country singer, but she works around their kids’ schedules. No tours but an occasional performance when Dane’s basketball season is over. All of them have one thing in common; they all love their careers.

What do I love?

Chocolate? Yes. But I don’t want to make candy.

Decorating. Yes. That’s a possibility.

But only one thing makes my insides smile and gets my adrenaline pumping—cheerleading. Getting thrown up in the air, somersaulting in the sky and landing in the arms of my stunt partner. Competing against the best. Tumbling across a mat until I’m dizzy. I love cheerleading. But cheerleading isn’t a career. It’s not like hockey or the other sports where there’s a clear winner. Competition cheer is someone’s opinion based on skills.