Page 13 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Twelve

LUKE

I try not to watch as Dr. Lowery preps for the ultrasound by tucking Eva’s shirt up into her bra and pushing the waistband of her skirt down so low it’s practically indecent—but it’s kind of a nice distraction from the way my dad’s voice has been on replay in my head the whole time I sat in the waiting room: This is why I didn’t want you to bring Luke onto this team.

Eva’s got her eyes screwed tightly shut, so my hand finds hers where it’s curled into a fist by her side. Given what she’s told me about the circumstances of this pregnancy, and how afraid she is of disappointing her parents and Christopher Fucking Steele, I’m not surprised she’s so tense.

The tips of her fingers curl into my palm, and she squeezes, then lets her head fall to the side so she’s looking at me.

You’re good. I mouth the words, not wanting to interrupt the silence as the doctor gets ready. Instead, I take the opportunity to reach out and sweep back the strand of hair that’s fallen onto her forehead and tuck it behind her ear as I whisper, “We got this.”

Eva gives me a small nod and takes a deep breath.

“This is going to feel cool,” the doctor says, squirting some clear gel onto Eva’s belly.

We both look up at the screen above her feet.

It’s black with some grayish spots at first, but as Dr. Lowery moves the transponder around, a large bubble appears in the center of the screen.

We watch in awe as the shape of a baby emerges—the head, followed by the curved body, and tiny legs and arms.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, my eyes getting watery as I’m struck by the magic of what we’re seeing.

It was one thing to see drawings of a fetus side by side with various fruits and vegetables in the app while reading about each week’s development.

It’s another entirely to see the shape of an actual baby, to watch it move, to imagine what it will look like.

Eva’s hand is squeezing mine so tightly I’m pretty sure I’ll have a permanent imprint of her nails in my palm.

I glance at her, noticing how her breaths are shallow as her eyes remain fixed on the screen, unblinking.

I can’t tell how she’s feeling—is this awe, or the beginning of a freak-out?

Or is it just reality setting in even further?

She closes her eyes and a tear leaks down the side of her face. Reaching up, I wipe it away with my thumb, then lean forward and kiss her forehead. All I want to do at this moment is make sure she knows she’s not alone. I’ll do whatever I can to help her—always have, always will.

Dr. Lowery explains some of the measurements she’s taking, confirms that the baby is perfectly healthy and growing right along schedule.

“One thing to note is that you have a retroverted uterus, which means it’s slightly tilted backward.

That might be another reason you’re barely showing at this point.

It shouldn’t impact your labor or delivery, but we’ll keep an eye on it to make sure that it rights itself as the pregnancy progresses. ”

Eva nods, and then Dr. Lowery asks, “Do you already know the sex of the baby? Or do you want to know?”

Yes . It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I have the good sense to hold that in. It’s not my place to have an opinion here, no matter how curious I am.

“No,” Eva says. “Maybe eventually . . . but not yet.”

Dr. Lowery just nods and touches the screen. The whirling sound of a printer fills the room, and she reaches down to rip off a five-inch-wide strip of photo paper that curls as she hands it to Eva. “Here are some photos for you,” she says, but Eva doesn’t take them, she just looks over at me.

“Thanks,” I say as I reach out my hand for them.

I don’t miss the way Dr. Lowery looks at Eva with concern as she wipes the gel off her abdomen.

“We’re done for today. On your way out, you can make your next appointment.

Take all the time you need getting out of here.

” She gives Eva’s shoulder a squeeze, making me wonder how much Eva told her about the circumstances of her pregnancy, and then heads out the door.

Eva swings her legs over the edge of the table, sitting up to face me. But she makes no move to fix her clothing or stand up.

“Did you ask her about skating?” I ask her.

“Yeah, she said I’m fine to keep going until I’ve more significantly popped.

She said I also need to eat more protein and religiously take my vitamins and supplements so I don’t let my iron get low again.

I don’t know...all this makes me wonder if I shouldn’t hop on a plane back to LA so Christopher and I can get some more training in before I can’t anymore.

Losing this time on the ice seems...irresponsible, given that I’ll get to a point where I’ll be forced to stop skating.

Shouldn’t I take advantage of every moment I do have to train? ”

Noooooo. The thought erupts from my soul and reverberates through every part of my being. I thought she’d be here for at least a month and hoped maybe she’d stay through her whole pregnancy. I don’t want to lose one second with her.

“I also need to figure out my health insurance. If I stop skating, will I still have insurance?” She shakes her head.

“And really, how am I going to tell my parents? I can’t even get myself to come up with a solid plan for that because I can’t figure out a way to not disappoint them.

Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up.

God, I’ve fucked everything up so badly! ”

“Hey,” I say, standing and stepping between her legs so I can gather her up in my arms. She leans her head against my chest and her arms come around my lower back as she clings to me. Her shoulders shake with sobs, and I want to do something, anything , to make this better.

“What if we got married?” The suggestion is out of my mouth before the thought even fully forms in my head.

Holy shit. I did not just say that.

She freezes, then pulls back, looking up at me with her eyebrows raised into high peaks above her swollen eyes. Head tilting, she coughs out a laugh. “What?”

I swallow so deeply I can feel the muscles ripple along my neck, and I watch her eyes track the movement before her gaze returns to my face.

And even though I didn’t intend to suggest marriage, even though I didn’t think it through before making that offer, now that it’s out there—the one thing I’ve always wanted but thought I could never have—I don’t want to take it back.

“Think about it, Evie,” I say, bringing my hands up to cup her shoulders. “It could be a mutually beneficial solution to both of our problems.”

“How so?”

The fact that she didn’t laugh in my face and say, “you flatter yourself,” has to be a good sign, right? She didn’t push me away or immediately put up barriers, like she normally does the moment she senses us inching beyond “just friends.”

“Well, if we got married, and then told everyone we were expecting a baby together, I think both our families would be thrilled. Plus, once the world knows about your pregnancy, it would make your change in the routine at the last competition more explicable, and fans would finally lose interest in you and Christopher being a couple. Plus, it would help explain my performance in Game 7.”

Her eyes widen the slightest bit as she gazes up at me, and that’s when I realize I’ve said too much. Now she has to know that the way I played that night was because I was worried sick about her. And fuck, now if she says yes, it’s probably going to be out of guilt.

“So you’d be painted as the father-to-be who was distraught when he found out the mother of his child was rushed to the hospital,” she says slowly, working out the story we could tell.

“I’d be painted as someone who pushed herself too hard, given my condition, because I didn’t want to let my partner down. ”

I nod. “Mutually beneficial. No one needs to know how and why you got pregnant, and you wouldn’t need to worry about insurance or childcare or anything else, really.

I’ll take care of you, Evie. Besides, our parents will be thrilled.

Mine have been itching for grandchildren for years.

Yours might still have concerns about your skating career and next year’s Olympics, but if they thought this baby was ours , conceived after years of friendship that grew into something more.

..” I say as my fingertips slide across her shoulders and up the sides of her neck so I can cup her jaw in my hands.

“I don’t think anyone would question it. ”

Her cheeks push up as she smiles and lets out a bubbly laugh. “No, I agree. We could probably convince everyone that this is our love child.”

I’m about to ask her if it’s because the two of us are so good at making people believe our ridiculous stories, or if it’s because our friends and family have always wondered whether there’s more to our friendship than we’ve ever admitted, when she says, “But I feel like I’d be taking advantage of you. ”

“How so?” I run my thumbs along her cheekbones as I try to figure out why she looks sad all of a sudden.

“Because what do I bring to this marriage? You provide me with healthcare, and I live here with you. You make it so that I don’t have to admit how I really got pregnant, which gives me cover from the fans who would otherwise suspect I had cheated on Christopher.

Instead of looking like an irresponsible harlot, I’m a woman in a secret relationship with her best friend, not with her skating partner like everyone thought.

My dad will be thrilled, and hopefully my mom will be a little less mad than she would’ve been otherwise.

Aside from still having to figure out how to train and compete, this solves all my problems. What do you get out of it? ”

You.

The thought of Eva hopping on a plane back to LA to start training again—with Christopher Fucking Steele, no less—makes me nauseous.

I know she’s never going to feel the same way about me as I feel about her, but all good marriages are built on friendship.

In fact, our long history and the way we’ve always been there for each other over the years—even when living on opposite coasts and sometimes in different countries—probably makes our marriage more likely to survive than most. Don’t all marriages eventually just turn into deep, abiding friendships anyway, once that initial passion burns out?

“Besides making sure you’re taken care of, I get the media off my back about Game 7.

I give them a plausible story to explain my performance that night, and I give them something else to focus on.

And most importantly”—I glance away so she won’t see my shame—“a grandchild, here in Boston, gives my dad a reason to keep me on the team.”

Her eyebrows pinch at that. “What? Why would your dad not keep you on the team?”

I wasn’t planning on telling her what I’d overheard—not yet anyway. And I probably shouldn’t say anything until I’ve had some time to process it. But I’m just desperate enough to find anything that will keep her here with me and, on the off chance this is it, I have to bring it up.

“This morning, I overheard him talking to AJ. He said the Game 7 loss was exactly why he didn’t want her to bring me to Boston in the first place.”

Eva’s face falls and she leans forward, tightening her arms around my back to pull me against her. My hands move to the nape of her neck as she rests her forehead against my chest. “Luke...I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too,” I tell her, staring at the gray wall behind her, my voice flat as I force myself not to give in to these emotions—otherwise, I’ll probably end up fucking crying in this room with her.

She gives me another squeeze, then sits back and looks up at me. “I think we both need to think about this a little more. There are probably factors we’re not considering.”

“Like?”

“I don’t think the doctor’s office is the place to figure this out,” she says, glancing at the door. “Dr. Lowery probably wants us out of here so she can take her lunch break. Why don’t we go get something to eat, and then...we can think this through properly.”

“Hungry already?” I ask with a chuckle. She’d been eating lunch—a grilled chicken sandwich that was stuffed so full it had lettuce, tomato, cheese, and avocado hanging out the sides—when I got back to my place after my meeting with AJ.

I’d made myself a quick protein shake, and I’m not even remotely hungry yet.

“I’m never not hungry. This little...” She trails off as she gazes down at her bare belly, and then looks up at me with a small smile. “...squash must be consuming every calorie I eat.”

“All right,” I say, bringing my hands to her sides, where her shirt is tucked into her bra, and pulling it down to cover her abdomen. “Let’s go feed you and Baby Squash.”