Page 2 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)
Chapter Two
EVA
“ T he good news, Evangeline,” the doctor says, standing next to my hospital bed surrounded by three young residents, “is that both you and the baby are fine.”
I breathe out a long sigh of relief and slump back against the raised mattress.
The older doctor nods toward one of the residents, and she explains how my body gave out on me, thanks to a combination of dehydration, low electrolytes, low iron, and exhaustion.
“After we’ve finished giving you IV fluids and iron, you’ll be fine to go home.
But you need to start taking iron and some additional supplements, and you definitely need a few days of rest. You really shouldn’t push yourself so hard while you’re pregnant. ”
“I’m a figure skater trying to qualify for the Olympics,” I remind them, my voice tight with the frustration I’m feeling. “Pushing myself is part of the job. ”
I’m not being flippant. I know what my body is capable of. Or what it was capable of, apparently, since pregnancy seems to be changing me daily, and what I could easily do three days ago might be challenging today.
That’s precisely what happened in our last international competition, when I had to downgrade a difficult jump that Christopher and I had executed perfectly dozens of times.
That competition should have been a first-place finish and the crowning glory at the end of a season fraught with personal challenges.
Instead, we dropped from being the top-ranked US pairs team to third place.
“For the next few months, you’re going to need to take it easy,” the older doctor says. Christopher’s hand tightens around mine in response to the way I squeeze his, while he sits rigidly beside me.
“Define taking it easy,” I say, annoyance ringing out in my tone.
I’m fine. I don’t know why they even brought me to the hospital.
I’d slept on the plane from Paris to New York, which meant I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, and when I stood up too quickly after landing, I passed out.
Christopher caught me, it’s not like I even hit my head or anything.
But despite assuring everyone I was okay, I was taken off the plane by EMTs.
I couldn’t tell them, in front of our coach, Jessie, that I was pregnant. As of right now, the only two people who know are my skating partner, Christopher, and my best friend, Luke. And I’d like to keep it that way until I’m ready to start sharing the news.
So, here we are—wasting time at the hospital, having missed my connecting flight to Boston, and Christopher missing his flight back to LA.
“You’re pregnant,” the young female resident says with a sigh, as if I don’t understand this fact or that she somehow knows my body better than I do. “You shouldn’t even be skating when you’re this far along.”
I’ve been incredibly proud of myself to have continued at this level despite battling queasiness and fatigue for months on end.
My coach and some of the other skaters we train with have noticed a difference in my energy levels, but only Christopher knows why.
Pretty soon, though, I’m going to start showing.
And from what I understand, that’s the point at which I’ll need to slow down in order to avoid injuring the baby.
But we’re not there yet.
I needed to finish this season strong, and I did the best I could.
Now, we’re headed into our month-long summer break, which is the only time of year that I’m in Boston to see my parents.
Then, in the late summer, we normally start our hardcore training in preparation for the competitions in the fall.
Even though I won’t be able to go all out this summer, I’ll still need to push myself. I have to be in the best physical condition possible during this pregnancy or I won’t be in good enough shape afterward to pick up where I left off with my training.
After I have this baby, there will be one more chance to qualify for the Olympics—a goal that was handed down to me at birth, by virtue of being the child of two Olympians. There’s no way I’m going to be the only person in my family not to achieve that .
I know it’ll be that much harder with a newborn. But I’m determined to qualify for the Games, and to be the best mom humanly possible.
“I’ll talk to my OB about it when I’m back in Boston,” I say, hoping that ends this conversation so I don’t have to mention that I don’t actually have an obstetrician in Boston. Mine is in LA, and I won’t be back there for a month, which means I probably need to find someone to see in the interim.
“We’ll give you some discharge paperwork to share with your doctor,” the resident says. “You’ll be out of here later tonight.”
Next to me, Christopher slides his phone out of his pocket, and when I glance over at him, I can’t read his expression.
This is a recent phenomenon. After years of being completely in tune with one another, recognizing and experiencing every emotion together, there have been a few moments lately when he’s felt a bit distant, almost like a stranger.
I exchange pleasantries with the care team as they leave, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do my whole life. Performance Eva knows how to put on the “everything is great” front, no matter what I’m actually feeling.
When they’re gone, I turn to Christopher. “What’s wrong?”
He hands his phone to me. A single text from Luke. The only one he’s ever sent to Christopher, apparently.
I quickly scan through the message. Oh, shit.
My eyes lock with Christopher’s and, finally, I can tell exactly what he’s thinking. My mom showing up is bad. But Luke showing up here would be worse .
“Where’s my phone?” I ask, trying, but failing, to quell the panic.
He walks to the end of my bed and fishes through my belongings that were placed in a blue plastic bag when I was brought to the ER. My phone is in the pocket of my jacket, silenced like it always is.
And on the screen is a series of text messages from my mom, starting hours ago, telling me that Jessie called her and she’s catching a flight from Boston to New York. Fucking Jessie.
And then there are messages from Luke, asking if I’m okay and warning me that my mom is on her way. Thank god he also texted Christopher, or I might not have gotten the news before she arrives.
“You have to go tell the doctors not to say anything in front of my mom,” I plead, looking over at him. With his dark hair and nearly black eyes, we could be siblings. Instead, the whole world is convinced we’re lovers. And for too long, I let myself hope for that as well.
“Eva,” he sighs. “You’re going to have to tell your parents eventually.”
“Yes. On my terms, and my timeline. And that time isn’t now.”
Another sigh. “Fine,” he says, all six feet of him rising from his chair.
Wearing broken-in jeans and a tight black T-shirt beneath his trademark leather jacket, I can already envision the way heads will turn as he walks through the hallway.
He’s got a classically refined bone structure, with smooth skin and smoldering eyes, plus a cool indifference that makes women, and occasionally men, swoon .
“Thank you,” I say, clicking back to my text thread with Luke as Christopher heads out the door.
I’m about to respond to my best friend’s text when I hear my mother’s voice, her faint British accent that lingers even after decades of living in the States. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were in the hospital.”
She sweeps into the small ER room. Her Hermès sunglasses sit atop her head, holding back her dark hair with her trademark silver streak that starts at her side part and sweeps across her forehead.
God, she’s beautiful. Severe, but beautiful.
“You didn’t even answer my calls or respond to my texts. ..”
“I just saw them two seconds ago and was about to call you.” The second part is a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“What happened?” she asks as she sinks into the seat Christopher vacated a minute ago. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just got dehydrated and passed out. It’s really no big deal. I wish you hadn’t come all this way?—”
“You’re in the hospital. Of course I was going to come!” The genuine worry in her tone puts me at ease. I expected her to blow in here mad. She’s got a big personality and big emotions, with a knack for making everything about herself.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and save you the trip. I’m fine, really.”
Letting out a relieved sigh, she pulls her glasses off her head and tucks them into the large bag she always carries. “Thank god.”
I don’t miss that she doesn’t say the thing most moms in this situation probably would: you’re pushing yourself too hard. There’s no such thing as pushing yourself “too hard” in Helene Wilcott’s book—at least not when an Olympic medal is the goal.
I nod toward the IV in my arm and tell her, “They’re just giving me some fluids, and they’re going to add in some iron because mine is low, and then I’ll be good to go.”
“Your iron is low? I’ll talk to your nutritionist about adding in more red meat.”
Closing my eyes briefly, I will myself to remain calm. I’m twenty-six years old and my mom still acts like she needs to make all my decisions for me, even what and how often I eat.
“I’ve got it under control, Mom.”
“Clearly not.” Folding her arms across her chest, she sits back in the chair and assesses me with her cool, impervious gaze. Is she worried? Disappointed? Upset? It’s impossible to tell.
The only person in the world who can read her, who can handle her and her big emotions, is my stoic father. Dad’s so different from Mom, so gentle and soft.
I’m instantly reminded of what happens every year.
I always look forward to coming home for the summer, but within minutes of being around my mom, I struggle emotionally.
Still, the quiet moments with my dad, enjoying a cup of tea on the deck each morning, and quality time with Luke almost every day, are what keep me coming back summer after summer.
A nurse knocks twice on the door before entering the room with Christopher on her heels. “I’m just going to add this to your IV, and we’ll start getting your discharge paperwork in order,” she tells me, ignoring my mom, where she sits next to my bed.
Mom opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can say anything. “Thank you so much,” I say to the nurse. “Do you have a sense of how long that’ll be, so we can reschedule our flights?”
“My guess is that you’ll be out of here in the next two hours, tops.”
“Thank you.” I turn toward my mother. “Mom, maybe you can work on getting us flights back to Boston tonight? And Christopher, is there a chance you can make it to LA tonight?”
“There’s a flight that leaves at 8 p.m. and has a few seats open. But I wasn’t sure,” he says, his eyes darting to my mom quickly, “if you needed me to stay.”
“No, it’s fine,” I assure him. “You should go back to LA, and we’ll go to Boston, as planned.”
“All right,” he says, glancing down at his phone. “I’ll book that now.”
Is it my imagination, or does he seem relieved?