Page 4 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

THREE

LIA

Then—Ten Months Ago

T he two pink lines stare up at me from the bathroom counter like they're judging my entire life plan, mocking every carefully constructed boundary I've built since my parents died and left me to figure out adulthood ten years too early.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Closing my eyes I tell myself this is fine.

I am fine. I have invoices to send, sketches due, a prototype dress half-pinned on the mannequin upstairs with a deadline that's creeping closer by the minute.

My world does not stop for a couple millimeters of dye on a plastic stick.

My business, my independence, my everything I've fought for doesn't vanish because of biology.

Except it does. Because the lines are still there when I open my eyes, stark and unforgiving against the white background, refusing to fade no matter how many times I blink.

I want to let profanities flow from my lips like a waterfall, but what good will that do now?

The damage is already done. I want to rage and cry until my throat is raw, maybe call Alexis and collapse into her practical wisdom.

She'd probably make a joke about how the surprise pregnancy trope is overdone.

I'll laugh with her, but I know she'll know what to say without making me feel judged.

Or even Brea—no, definitely not Brea, considering everything she's been through with loss and heartbreak.

That would be selfish, dumping this on her when she's finally found happiness with my brother again.

I pace another circuit around my studio, fingers tracing the edge of my sewing table, trying to ground myself in the familiar.

I need. . .God, I know exactly what I need to do, and that's what terrifies me most. Devan will take this news and run with it like he's just scored in overtime.

It's what he's always wanted, what he's been patiently waiting for while I've kept one foot perpetually out the door, his hockey career, a real relationship without my walls, and ultimately a family.

The hopeless romantic that he is would probably have a nursery designed by morning, complete with little hockey mobiles and romance novel quotes painted on the walls.

He'd be so goddamn happy while my carefully constructed independence crumbles.

Fuck. Just. . .fuck.

With trembling fingers, I text Devan: Need to talk. Tonight. My place.

Not ‘our place’, not ‘home’. My place. The distinction matters.

Three dots pop up, disappear, pop up again. Even in text messages, he second-guesses himself, always trying to find the perfect words that won't set off my defenses.

Devan: Anything you need, Li-Li. I'll be there.

The nickname makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

I pace the length of my studio until my legs ache, straightening bolts of fabric that don't need straightening, rearranging scissors and pins, checking my phone every thirty seconds until his knock rattles the front door.

The moment he steps inside, six-four of sunshine and after-practice sweat, locs tied up in a top knot, still in his Vipers warm-up gear, I almost lose my nerve. Almost.

"Li-Li? You okay?" His gaze skims my face, my hands, the room, like he's checking for smoke or blood or some tangible crisis he can fix with those big capable hands. The same hands that cup my face like I'm something precious, that trace patterns on my skin in the dark.

I hold up the test, unable to find words elegant enough for this moment. "I'm late on a deadline."

His brows pinch together, confusion clouding those warm brown eyes until understanding dawns like a slow sunrise. "You're?—"

"Pregnant," I finish, forcing clinical detachment into my voice. "About eight weeks, give or take. I did the math."

For one perfect heartbeat he just beams, dimples carving deep grooves in his cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners like the universe has handed him the Stanley Cup for the fourth time.

Then he remembers who he's smiling at, prickly, independent Lia who flinches at forever and reins it in, dimming his joy to something more manageable, more acceptable to my carefully constructed world.

"We've got this," he says, stepping closer until I can smell his woodsy aftershave mingling with ice and sweat. "Doctor's appointments, late-night cravings, nursery shopping, name it, I'm there. We'll call Ridley tonight, tell him together that he's going to be an uncle?—"

"Whoa, whoa." I plant both palms on his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my fingers. Solid. Steady. Far too tempting. "Slow your roll, Scott. This isn't a fairy-tale montage where we suddenly move in together and pick out baby names while shopping for mini-hockey sticks."

The hurt flickers across his face, quick and bright as summer lightning. "I want to do right by you. . .by the baby. By us."

"I know." I love him for it, which is exactly the problem. Loving Devan Scott is the easiest thing in the world. It's trusting that love that terrifies me. "But here's what I need."

I tick the points off on trembling fingers, each one a fortress wall I'm building.

“One, separate roofs. We will have one parent in each house so nobody's career gets swallowed whole.

So I don't lose myself in being someone's someone.

. . Two, Chloe if it's a girl, Bryan, after your dad, if it's a boy.

He will be over the moon. . . Three, no rush, no ring.

We co-parent first, figure the rest out later or never.

No pressure for a happily-ever-after I'm not sure I believe in anymore.

. . Four, my work matters. I am still the CEO, the designer, the woman who built something from scratch that isn't hockey-adjacent or defined by my brother's or your fame.”

He listens, jaw tight enough that I can see a muscle ticking at the corner, nods like every sentence is a slap he's decided to accept for the greater good. "Anything else?" His voice is rough, controlled.

"Yeah." I force a shaky grin, desperate to break the tension before it drowns us both. "No Vipers onesies. Okay, I may not be able to get away with that one. Fine. A few will be approved."

That wins a laugh, rumbling up from his chest. He nudges my chin up with one finger, gentle, heartbreaking in its tenderness. "Li-Li, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever lines you draw, I'll stay inside them. For now."

For now. Two words that feel both safe and dangerous, a promise and a warning wrapped in his deep voice.

I should step back. Instead, I rest my forehead against his chest for exactly three seconds.

Long enough to hear the thunder of a heart that loves too hard and dreams too big, that believes in romance novel endings I've stopped banking on. Then I retreat, shove a folder of prenatal information I’d printed off into his hands, and declare the meeting adjourned with all the authority of a woman who isn't falling apart inside.

"Ridley can wait until morning," I say, smoothing my vintage Blondie t-shirt over a stomach that doesn't yet betray my secret. "You have a game-day skate at six. Coach will have your ass if you're dragging."

He hesitates like he wants to argue, to stay, to wrap those arms around me until I stop pretending I don't need him.

Then he tucks the folder under his arm with reverent care.

"Text me if anything feels off. I mean it, Lia.

Any weird twinge, any question. Doesn't matter what time. Don't shut me out, Li-Li."

"I know where to find you, big guy." I manage a smirk that feels brittle at the edges.

He lingers on the porch, silhouette framed in porch-light gold, before finally heading to his truck with reluctant steps.

I lock the door, press my back to the wood, and let out the breath I've been holding since the test turned pink, sliding down until I'm sitting on my hardwood floor, knees pulled to my chest.

Boundaries set. Life plan intact. Everything under control.

So why does it feel like every line I drew tonight is already starting to blur, like ink in water, washing away the moment his smile hit me full force?

Ridley takes it exactly how I expect: stunned silence, followed by a string of curses that would make the Vipers' equipment manager blush.

"My best friend and my sister? A baby?" He paces my kitchen, running his hands over his close-cropped hair.

"I knew you two were hooking up. Even though you didn't officially tell me.

Why hide what you two have? Geez, sis. I'm not going to ask you if you've both been careful. I understand accidents happen."

I perch on a barstool, sipping ginger tea that's doing nothing for my nausea. "Your sister is an adult who doesn't need your permission to have a sex life."

"It's not the sex, it's the secrecy." He stops, eyes narrowing. "And Dev. . .he's all in, isn't he? Because that man's been half in love with you since?—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "We have an arrangement that works for us."

Ridley snorts. "An arrangement. That's cold, even for you, Lia-Bia"

The old nickname stings. I slide off the stool, crossing to where fabric samples spill across my dining table. Work keeps me grounded when emotions threaten to pull me under.

"What do you want me to say? That I'll play hockey wife because it's convenient?

Move into his penthouse with his cat, Glitzy, and pretend I don't have my own life?

" I shuffle swatches with more force than necessary.

"I've spent years building this business.

I watched Mom give up everything for Dad's career, then they both died and left us with nothing but trauma and debt.

So forgive me if I'm not rushing to be someone's afterthought. "

Ridley's face softens. He crosses the room and wraps those ridiculous hockey-player arms around me. "You know Dev's not like that."

I lean into him despite myself. "It doesn't matter. This way, nobody gets hurt."

"Somebody's already hurting, Lia." He pulls back, searching my face. "And I'm not talking about Dev."

"I'm fine," I retort.

"You're terrified," he replies

The truth of it burns in my throat. I blink back tears, because crying is admitting defeat and I refuse to be defeated by hormones and feelings and the memory of Devan's face when he saw that test.

"I'll be at every appointment," Ridley says, switching tactics. "Every late-night craving run. You don't have to do this alone."

"Brea?" I say hesitantly.

His faces falls for just a fraction. No doubt he is thinking of his own baby. The baby Brea miscarried years ago.

"She's happy for you. It's still hard for her. But you will have her support as well," he finally says.

I manage a wobbly smile. "Between you and Dev, this kid's going to have more dads than she knows what to do with."

"She? You're having a girl?" His whole face lights up.

"Just a feeling. It’s too early to tell yet." I press a hand to my still-flat stomach. "But if you tell Dev I'm picking out pronouns already, I'll sew sequins into all your game socks."

Ridley mimes zipping his lips, but his eyes are dancing. "Secret's safe. But Lia?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't punish him for not being the bad guy you're waiting for." He kisses the top of my head, a gesture so like our father that my heart clenches. "Some people actually keep their promises."

After he leaves, I stand in my empty house, surrounded by the life I've built thread by careful thread. Independent. Safe. Mine.

For the first time, all these walls I've constructed feel less like protection and more like prison bars.

Somewhere across the city, a man who looks at me like I hung the moon is probably stockpiling What to Expect When You're Expecting , wondering if I'll ever let him close enough to love me the way he wants to.

I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his name, then set it back down.

One step at a time. Baby first. Feelings later.

Or maybe never.