Page 17

Chapter 17

Garrett

I check my phone again; the screen is blank. No new messages from Cyn. It's been five days of this dance—me reaching out, her pulling back with excuses that feel paper-thin. The emptiness in my chest expands, an uncomfortable void that I recognize as worry.

The team filters into the training room, sticks tapping against the polished floor. I tuck my phone away and plaster on my coach face. Professional. Focused. Not at all distracted by the fact that Cyn is obviously avoiding me.

"Morning, Coach." Martinez nods as he passes, clipboard in hand.

"Morning." My response is automatic while my eyes drift to the medical suite door down the hall. No sign of her.

On Monday, I caught a glimpse of her between sessions. She was leaning against the wall outside the women's restroom, her face pale as winter ice. When she saw me, she straightened up, squared her shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked, keeping my distance. Professional boundaries in the workplace – our unspoken rule.

"Feeling a little better," she said. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Before I could say more, she was gone, hurrying back to her office with that purposeful stride that usually makes me grin. This time, it left me standing alone in the hallway, feeling oddly hollow.

I snap back to the present when Barnsey misses an easy drill. "Eyes up, not down!" I bark, channeling my frustration into coaching. "You won't find the puck on your skates."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I wait until the players rotate through the drill before checking it.

Cyn: Sorry, still feeling off. Rain check on dinner?

My thumbs hover over the screen. I type and delete three different responses before settling on something casual.

Me: No problem. Need anything? Soup? Ginger ale?

Her reply is almost immediate.

Cyn: Just rest. Talk tomorrow.

I stuff the phone back in my pocket, that hollow feeling expanding. This isn't like her. Cyn is direct, fearless. She says what she means. This avoidance is new, and it's setting off alarms in my head.

I force my attention back to work, to the players who need my guidance. But my mind keeps drifting to Cyn's green eyes, how they couldn't quite meet mine on Monday, how quickly she disappeared.

After practice, I try once more.

Me: Just checking in. Miss your face.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.

Cyn: Miss you too. Just need to kick this bug. Still not 100%.

I sigh, drop my phone into my gym bag. Whatever's going on with Cyn, it's clear she's not ready to share it. The question is: how long do I pretend not to notice?

Later, my apartment feels too quiet. I pace from living room to kitchen, beer in hand, untouched. The thought hits me like a blindside check – morning sickness. Pale face. Fatigue. I stop moving, blood rushing in my ears. Is Cyn pregnant?

I set the beer down on the counter. The thought loops in my head, gaining momentum with each passing second.

"Jesus," I mutter to the empty room.

We’ve been careful. Haven't we? I rake my fingers through my hair, We’ve used protection, but was it enough? Nothing's foolproof.

I drop onto my couch, elbows on knees, head in hands. A baby. The possibility sits heavy in my stomach, part terror, part something else I can’t pinpoint.

When Sarah and I were married, we talked about kids early on. I pictured myself coaching little league, teaching a son or daughter to skate. But then came the fights, the growing distance, the divorce. The dream of fatherhood faded in the rearview mirror of my life.

Now I'm thirty-eight. Starting over in Chicago after several directionless years in Palm Springs. Finally feeling like I have direction again with the Blades. A baby would detonate my careful plan.

"Fuck." The word hangs in the air.

I stand up, restless again. If Cyn is pregnant, why hasn't she told me?

Maybe she's figuring out how to tell me. Maybe she's not sure yet. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions based on a stomach bug and my own paranoia.

But I don't think so. Something in my gut tells me I'm right.

I pick up my phone, stare at our last text exchange. Her avoidance screams louder than words. I could wait for her to come to me, but that's never been my style. Not on the ice, not in life.

If she's pregnant, she's scared. Hell, I'm scared. But she shouldn't have to carry this alone, whatever "this" turns out to be.

I set my phone down, decision made. Tomorrow, I'll go to her place. See her face to face. Have the conversation we're both avoiding.

The thought of fatherhood still sends a tremor through my hands, but beneath the fear, there's something else stirring. A memory of the man I once was, the dad I once thought I'd be.

I stand outside Cyn's door, knuckles raised, hesitating. The hallway smells faintly of someone's attempt at curry. My heart hammers against my ribs. Showing up unannounced feels invasive, but five days of distance has left me no choice. I knock, three sharp raps that echo my pulse.

The sound of Oscar's excited barking comes immediately. Paws scrabbling against hardwood. A muffled "Oscar, quiet!"

The door swings open. Cyn stands there, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing joggers and an oversized Chicago Blades sweatshirt. Her face registers shock, followed by something like panic, before settling into forced casualness.

"Garrett. Hi." Her voice is tight. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I know. Sorry to drop in." I shift my weight. "Just wanted to check on you."

Oscar saves us from the awkward moment by pushing past Cyn's legs to greet me. His tail whips back and forth as he presses against my shins.

"At least someone's happy to see me," I say, bending to scratch behind his ears.

"Don't be ridiculous." Cyn steps back from the door. "Come in."

Her apartment tells its own story. A blanket twisted on the couch. Ginger tea and saltines on the coffee table. A trash can piled with tissues. The blinds drawn against the late afternoon sun.

She moves quickly, gathering items, straightening pillows. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting company."

"No need to apologize." I stay by the door, giving her space. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Too quick, too bright. Her hands don't stop moving.

Oscar circles my legs, nudging at my hand with his wet nose. I focus on him, not wanting to stare at Cyn as she flutters around the room like a trapped bird.

"You look tired," I say.

She freezes for a second. "Well, aren’t you a smooth talker?"

"That's not—I'm just worried about you."

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly. "There’s nothing to worry about."

I watch her collect mugs from the coffee table, movements jerky and uncertain. She is all nervous energy and averted eyes.

"Can we sit?" I ask. "Talk for a minute?"

She stops, mugs clutched to her chest like a shield. Her green eyes finally meet mine, wide and frightened. In that moment, my suspicion solidifies into certainty.

"I don't know if now's a good time," she says, but her voice breaks on the last word.

I cross the room, gently take the mugs from her hands, set them down. "I think it might be the perfect time."

A tear spills down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly, frustrated. "I hate this. I'm not a crier."

"Hey." I touch her arm, feather-light. "It's just me."

Her laugh comes out watery, brittle. "That's exactly the problem."

Oscar whines, sensing the tension. He presses against Cyn's legs, protective and concerned.

"Sit with me?" I ask again, nodding toward the couch. "Please?"

She takes a deep breath, nods once. The moment stretches between us, fragile as ice in spring.

We sit on opposite ends of her couch. Oscar settles on the floor by Cyn's feet, his chin resting on her slippers. Her hands twist in her lap. I wait, heart drumming against my ribs, already knowing what's coming but needing to hear her say it.

"I don't know how to do this," she finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Just say it," I tell her. "Whatever it is."

Her eyes meet mine, glossy and brimming with unshed tears. "I'm pregnant."

The words hang in the air between us. Even though I suspected it, hearing her say it aloud sends a jolt through my system. My suspicion was right. I'm going to be a father. The thought is both terrifying and strangely exhilarating.

"I found out Sunday," she continues, words tumbling out now. "I'd been feeling more tired, but I thought it was stress. Then I realized I was late, and..." She trails off.

"Vegas," I say.

She nods. "Must have been."

I struggle to process everything I'm feeling. Shock. Fear. A strange, unexpected flutter of something else. Something warmer. "Are you sure?"

"Three home tests and a doctor's visit yesterday. I'm sure."

I reach for her hand. Her fingers are cold against my palm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm still figuring out how I feel about it." Her voice catches. "Because we're not even officially together. Because I didn't know how you'd react. Pick a reason."

"I would've been there. At the doctor's."

"I know." She squeezes my hand. "But I needed to hear it alone first."

I shift closer to her on the couch. "I'm here now."

"Are you freaking out?" she asks. "Because I'm freaking out."

I almost lie, and say I'm fine. But Cyn deserves more than that. "Yeah, I'm freaking out."

A small, surprised laugh escapes her lips. "That's refreshingly honest."

"I'm scared as hell," I admit. "This isn't how I pictured this happening. But..." I pause, searching for the right words. "I want you to know I'm in this with you. Whatever you decide."

She studies my face. "You mean that?"

"Yes." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "I know we haven't been together long, but I care about you, Cyn. A lot."

"I want to keep it," she says quietly. "I've thought about nothing else for days, and that's what I keep coming back to. I want this baby."

Something shifts in my chest—fear giving way to something steadier. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."

"It won't be easy."

"Most good things aren't."

She moves closer and leans into me then, her head finding the space between my shoulder and chest. I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close. Her body feels small against mine.

"I was so afraid to tell you," she whispers.

"I get it." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "But no more keeping things from me, okay? Even the scary stuff. Especially the scary stuff."

"How did you know?" she asks, looking up at me. "You weren't surprised when I told you."

I shrug. "Call it intuition.”

Her hand finds mine again, our fingers intertwining. A small connection in the face of enormous change.

Cyn pulls away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The moment shifts, vulnerability giving way to practicality. Her brow furrows. Even with puffy eyes and messy hair, she looks determined. Ready to tackle the next obstacle.

"We need to talk about work," she says.

I nod. The elephant in the room. "The no-dating policy."

"It's more than that now." She gestures vaguely at her stomach. "This is going to be obvious eventually. We can't exactly hide it."

"We were already breaking the rules," I point out.

"But no one knew. This is different." She runs a hand through her hair, pulling out more strands from her bun. "I worked so hard for this position, Garrett."

"I know." I do know. I've seen how she lights up working with the players, how respected she is by the medical team. "We'll figure it out."

"Will we? I’m afraid one of us will be asked to find a new job. And I’m pretty sure that will be me."

I’m pretty sure we can make a case that there's no conflict of interest. You treat all players equally. I don't influence your medical decisions."

She considers this. "That's true, but?—"

"Martinez is an old friend. If we approach this right, explain the situation, he might advocate for us with management."

"You want to tell your boss I'm pregnant before I'm even through my first trimester?" She looks horrified.

"No, not yet." I take her hand. "But we need a plan. And that plan starts with being honest about our relationship, baby aside."

She sighs, leaning back beside me.

“You're too good at what you do for them to let you go. The team needs you."

"Management might not see it that way."

"Then we'll find other options. I can find another job. Maybe get into commentating. A lot of retired players do that."

She turns to me, skeptical. "You'd leave the Blades?"

I don't hesitate. "If I had to. But I don't think it'll come to that."

"I can't believe you're being so...reasonable about all this."

"What were you expecting? That I'd run for the hills?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. We haven't exactly defined what we are to each other."

I capture her gaze, hold it. "Well, I'm defining it now. We're in this together. All of it. The baby, the job stuff, everything."

A small smile forms on her lips. "That simple, huh?"

"No. Not simple at all. But clear." I squeeze her hand. "We'll take it one step at a time. First step, you focus on feeling better. Second step, we talk to HR together, but not until you're ready."

She nods, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Okay. One step at a time."

Cyn shifts on the couch, wincing slightly.

"Still feeling rough?" I ask.

She nods reluctantly. "The nausea comes and goes. But everything aches. No one tells you that part."

"Come here." I pat my lap. "Put your feet up."

She raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Foot rub. I've been told I'm pretty good at them."

"You don't have to?—"

"I want to." I meet her eyes.

After a moment's hesitation, she shifts on the couch, swinging her legs up. Her feet land in my lap, small and vulnerable in their fuzzy slipper socks.

"Nice socks," I say, tugging one off. "Penguins?"

"They were a gift." She looks embarrassed. "From my mom."

I take her bare foot in my hands. Her skin is soft, warm. I press my thumbs into her arch, and she lets out a small gasp.

"Too hard?"

"No." She sinks deeper into the couch. "Perfect."

I work methodically, applying pressure where she seems to need it most. Her eyes drift closed, tension melting from her face with each stroke of my fingers.

"Where did you learn to do this?" she murmurs.

"Mostly hockey. Years of foot cramps, muscle strains."

Oscar watches us for a moment, head tilted. Then he trots away, returning with a well-loved plush moose clenched in his jaws. He drops it at my feet, tail wagging hopefully.

"Is that for me?" I ask him.

Cyn laughs. "That's Marty. He doesn't share him with just anyone."

I reach down with one hand, scratching Oscar's ears. "I'm honored, buddy."

Oscar responds by jumping onto the couch and settling against my side, chin resting on my thigh.

"He likes you." Cyn sounds surprised. "He's usually more reserved with new people."

"Dogs know good people when they meet them," I say, switching to her other foot.

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. Scientific fact."

She smiles, eyes still closed. "Then I guess you pass the test."

I work her foot in silence for a minute, watching her face relax. The afternoon light filters through her blinds, casting soft stripes across her living room. For a moment, I can picture a future here – the three of us, soon to be four. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Will you stay for dinner?" she asks suddenly. "Nothing fancy. I can barely look at most food right now, but maybe toast? Or scrambled eggs?"

"I'll cook," I offer. "You rest."

Her eyes open, studying me. "You don't have to take care of me, you know."

"I know I don't have to." I massage her ankle gently. "But I want to."

"We'll figure all this out," I say softly. "One day at a time."