Page 18 of Power Play Daddies (Miami Icemen #1)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Daisy

The conference room smells like someone microwaved a week-old egg sandwich and left it out to rot. It’s hot, stuffy, and gross. I can feel the nausea bubbling up, but I clamp my mouth shut and try to focus.

This meeting has to go well.

Janice stands at the front, her usual power pose in full effect—arms crossed, blazer crisp, dark bob framing her sharp face. She glances down at her notes, then back up at us.

“All right, let’s talk wins,” she starts, her voice cutting through the low hum of whispered conversations. “Logan, your vibrator piece? It worked. Got decent feedback.”

“Thanks, boss,” Logan says with a smirk, leaning back in his chair like he owns the room, but Janice doesn’t acknowledge him.

“The overconsumption piece? It worked… a little. We’ve seen better numbers.”

There’s a murmur of agreement. I shift in my seat, the room’s heat pressing on me.

God, it’s so hot in here. Why does it smell like death? Is no one else noticing this?

“And Daisy,” Janice continues, snapping my attention back. “Your first Ice Men spread? Huge hit. The jerseys, the team insight—it’s got everyone talking. That’s the kind of content we need more of.”

I nod, trying to look calm, but my stomach churns harder.

“Thanks,” I manage, though my voice sounds shaky to my ears.

Janice glances around the table. “The rest of you need to step it up. We need fresh ideas, engaging pieces. The Ice Men are a hit, but we can’t rest on one good spread.

Logan, maybe you can work on something fun.

Interviews. Maybe…” She pauses, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

“What people do in their cars when they think no one’s watching. ”

Logan grins. “Hell yeah, boss. I’ll get you some wild stories.”

Someone snickers, and Janice shoots them a look that could freeze fire. “Make it professional, Logan.”

“Always,” he says, still grinning like a troublemaker.

I’m barely registering the conversation at this point. The egg smell is overpowering, and I’m sweating like crazy.

My stomach flips again. Oh god. Please don’t puke in front of everyone.

The meeting wraps up with Janice rattling off deadlines and updates, but her eyes land on me before anyone stands.

“Daisy, see me in my office.”

Shit. That’s never good. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

As soon as the door opens and people start filing out, I bolt for the bathroom. I barely make it to the sink before I’m throwing up.

It’s awful. My stomach feels like it’s turned inside out.

“Jesus, Daisy,” Logan’s voice comes from behind me. He must’ve followed me. “Are you dying?”

I rinse my mouth, trying to ignore how clammy my hands are. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” He grabs some paper towels, dabbing at my damp forehead like I’m a sick kid. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“It’s just the heat. And this damn smell. Seriously, does no one else smell the eggs?”

He chuckles. “Nah, just you. Poor baby. Still nauseous?”

I nod, leaning against the counter. “Yeah.”

“All right,” he says, stepping back. “Here’s the plan. I’m gonna grab you a ginger ale, and you’re gonna go charm Janice’s socks off in that meeting. Cool?”

I nod again, though the thought of facing Janice makes my stomach churn all over again. “Cool.”

“And after? You’re telling me all about what happens, okay?” He winks. “This might be the perfect time to pitch your digital transition idea. Miami Herald’s been stuck in the Stone Age forever.”

He’s right. This could be my shot.

I nod, even though my legs feel like jelly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

“Atta girl.” He pats my cheek, then grimaces. “God, you’re clammy. Seriously, ginger ale. Stat.”

He vanishes for a moment or two, and I hear a can fall into the receptacle in the vending machine.

“Here,” he says to me, shoving the sweating can in my face.

I gulp down the terrible taste in my mouth, washing it away with the fizziness of the ginger ale.

For a moment, I almost feel normal again. Then my stomach flip-flops again, and I close my eyes.

“Thanks, Logan,” I mumble, heading toward Janice’s office with my stomach rolling like I’m on a bad carnival ride.

Here goes nothing.

Janice’s office is cold. Like meat-locker cold.

The air-conditioning is cranked so high I’m shivering, but at least it’s better than the egg sweatbox from earlier.

She’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of papers. Her nails are painted with some deep, almost-black red that looks expensive. She doesn’t look up as I walk in.

“Sit,” she says, curt but not unkind. I do, my stomach doing a slow, nauseating churn.

“So,” Janice says, finally glancing at me over her glasses, “timeline. Do you have one for the follow-up stories? We need to keep the engagement high before the full article drops.”

I clear my throat. "I’m working on it. I was thinking of doing something behind the scenes—a ‘day in the life’ piece with the Ice Men.

I’ve already drafted a few player profiles—just need to finish up the interviews.

I also want to dive into the game-day atmosphere, the energy, the rituals, what makes their fans show up and stay loyal. "

She nods, but her expression doesn’t soften. “Good. We need fresh content constantly. The owners are on me about engagement metrics. Just last week, we laid off two more people.”

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms.

This is my moment. I sit up straighter, ignoring the way my stomach lurches at the movement.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I think moving toward a digital-first presence could?—”

“I don’t know if I can convince them to switch to an online-first model, love, but if you’ve got an idea, now’s the time to sell it.”

“Yeah. I’ve done research on the way people are…” The wave of nausea hits hard and fast, cutting me off mid-sentence. I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes darting around for something, anything?—

Janice’s orchid vase.

I grab it, barely registering her sharp, “What the hell, Daisy?” before I’m throwing up into it.

My stomach twists painfully as I retch, and I think I hear her gagging behind me.

When it’s over, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up. Janice is standing, one hand over her chest, the other holding a tissue like it’s a lifeline.

Her expression is equal parts disgusted and concerned.

“Are you sick? Is it contagious?” she asks, stepping back like I’m radioactive. “I have a date tonight, Daisy. A date.”

“No,” I croak, taking the tissue she offers and wiping my mouth. “Not contagious.”

She sits back down, studying me like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve. “Food poisoning, then?”

I shake my head weakly. “Doubt it.”

Her eyes narrow, and then she tilts her head. “Are you pregnant?”

Pregnant? Pregnant?

My brain short-circuits. “What? No. There’s no way.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re sure? Because Stacy from my book club had the worst nausea in her first trimester. Said it came out of nowhere.”

There’s no way. I mean, right? My mind races.

It’s been a few weeks since Beau. But then there was Kieran. And Mason. And condoms. We used condoms. Every single time. There’s no way.

Janice is still talking, but I’m not hearing a word. My stomach isn’t the only thing flipping now.

“Anyway,” she says, snapping me back, “you’re doing great on the article so far. We can have a meeting and discuss your take on the digital idea before I can present it to the higher-ups and see what they think. For now, focus on the article… keep the momentum going.”

I blew it. My one chance and I fucking blew it.

I nod, standing on shaky legs. “Thanks, Janice.”

She waves me off, then points to the vase. “And take that with you. I don’t want it stinking up my office.”

Great. Nothing like walking through the newsroom with a puke-filled orchid vase. My legs feel like they’re made of spaghetti as I head back to my desk.

I grab my phone and call Logan. He picks up on the second ring. “That was fast. How’d the meeting end already? I’m still here, flirting with Charles.”

Charles was our very straight, very married, middle-aged front desk security guard.

“Are you getting me more ginger ale?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“Of course, love. I’ll be back in ten.”

I hesitate. “Can you… bring me something else?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

I lower my voice, suddenly aware of how loud the newsroom feels. “A pregnancy test.”

There’s silence on the other end. Then, “Repeat that? Thought I heard you say ‘pregnancy test.’”

“Logan, please,” I whisper, my chest tight with panic.

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, and when he does, his tone is soft but serious. “Just hold on. I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later, Logan is sitting beside me in my tiny office, holding my hand. The test sits on my desk like a bomb about to go off.

“You ready?” he asks, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand.

“No,” I say honestly.

“Well, too bad. We gotta look.” He picks up the test, his expression unreadable.

I’m holding my breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t?—

“Positive.”

The word feels like a punch to the gut. I blink at him, waiting for him to say he’s joking, that he read it wrong. But he doesn’t.

“I’m pregnant?” I whisper, the words foreign in my mouth.

“Who? What? How? I mean, I know how, but like, how? I think we need you to go see a doctor to get a clear-cut answer…” Logan rumbles.

At the fucking start of my career, I get knocked up.

Fuck, fuck!

“Shit! Logan, I don’t even know who the father is,” I mutter, burying my face in my hands. “What the actual fuck?”