Page 15 of The Unexpected Lineup (Lost in Translation #2)

I’M NOT PLANNING TO MESS IT UP

RASMUS

I step through the gym doors two hours before puck drop, my headphones slung around my neck, the upbeat rhythm of ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” still echoing in my ears.

The familiar scent of disinfectant and sweat hits me, the combination you can’t get rid of as an athlete.

I nod at one of our trainers and make a beeline for the stationary bike, zoning out the chatter around me.

My pre-game routine isn’t flashy, but it works. Half an hour on the bike, ABBA on repeat. Something light to eat. Double-check my gear, making sure the tape job on my stick is tight and listen to the pregame meeting. Then it’s show time.

I toss a towel onto the handlebars and swing a leg over the bike, settling into the seat. I move slowly, pushing through the stiffness left over from the morning skate, then pick up speed. It’s muscle memory. Doesn’t matter if I’m home or away, playoffs or regular season. This part never changes.

Scanning the room, I spot my linemates. ?kerman is stretching his legs on the mat, all calm and composed.

Rocket’s doing resistance band work in front of the mirrored wall.

Papa Shane is methodically rolling out his back with a lacrosse ball, grimacing through the exercise.

Lee and Silas are chatting in the corner, laughing at something.

Even if I try to focus my mind on tonight’s game plan, my brain starts to drift as it often does during warmups.

Four days. It’s been four days since the party. Since Haisley dropped the bomb and told me I’m going to be a dad.

And I still don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to feel.

Most of the time, my thoughts lean positive, but there’s still this heaviness that never goes away when I think about my own parents and childhood.

About my mom walking out when I was four, the previous night filled with slurred words and shattered plates.

My maternal grandparents stepped in to raise me, only to die before I graduated high school.

They never saw me receive a college scholarship or become a third overall draft pick.

They never saw me become anything more than a kid barely surviving.

“You’re pedaling like hell’s hounds are chasing you,” a voice says behind me.

I don’t bother turning. “Just warming up.”

?kerman leans against the bike next to mine, arms folded, as if he’s got all the time in the world. We’ve barely spoken since my trade if you don’t count the party. A few sentences here and there, mostly about the game play, but never about the past.

“We need you sharp tonight,” he comments.

“I will be.”

He assesses me closely. “You good? ”

I nod automatically, even though good isn’t the word I’d use.

“You were always a shitty liar,” he snorts a humorless sound.

My jaw tightens and I keep pedaling. I don’t bite back, even if it takes every inch in my body to hold back a retort.

“You talk to her after the party?”

I glance around, making sure nobody’s within earshot. Lee and Silas are still cracking jokes, Rocket’s bobbing his head to whatever is blasting through his AirPods, and Papa Shane is nowhere in sight. Safe enough.

Lowering my voice, I say, “Yeah. But let’s not talk about it here. Not exactly gym talk.”

He nods once. But of course, he doesn’t drop it. “She doing okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

There’s a beat of silence and his voice drops further, sharp enough to cut. “You’re gonna treat her better than you’ve treated anyone else, right?”

I stop pedaling. “What?”

“You heard me.” His eyes narrow. “She’s not just some woman you hooked up with.

She’s Haisley Lavigne. She’s my friend. She’s close with Vivian and Em, too, and pretty much everyone in that locker room thinks the world of her.

You mess this up, Westerholm, it won’t be only her you have to answer to. ”

I square my shoulders. “I’m not planning to mess it up.”

“You planning to be in it, then? For real?”

I pause. Not because I don’t have an answer. But because the weight of the question presses down on me .

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “I’m in it.”

He watches me a beat longer, then gives a slow nod before walking off, stretching one arm across his chest. Like he didn’t just remind me of the thin ice I’ve been skating on all week since Haisley’s unexpected news.

We’ve been texting a fair amount since then. Mostly everyday things, including random jokes and memes. Baby related facts we find online. Nothing too deep, but still some bits and pieces of our lives.

And I meant what I told ?kerman—I want to be involved, I just don’t know how it’ll look in the long run.

Not when I’ve only known for four short days. Not when the woman carrying my child is the GM’s daughter. Not when her father could ice my entire career with one phone call if he chooses. Not when my teammates are on her side.

So I keep pedaling and let another ABBA track fill my head and drown out the thoughts I can’t quiet.

Eventually, Felix appears, his hair still damp from the shower. He offers me a protein shake without a word—plain chocolate, my usual choice—and I take it, nodding my thanks.

For a second, I almost tell him everything. But then Coach MacBride walks in, reminding us that the pre-game meeting starts in fifteen.

I swing off the bike, towel off the sweat, and knock back the shake in four gulps.

Time to suit up. Time to shut down all my thoughts. There’s a game to win.

The Woodpeckers come hard and fast. No surprise there. ?kerman’s former team known as The Wood has a reputation for aggressive gameplay and relentless pressure from puck drop to final horn. But tonight, our new lineup is clicking into place, making us stronger.

Less than a minute left in the third, we’re leading by one goal. The air is electric with tension, the crowd on edge. Every second counts.

I fly down the right side, looking across the ice at my teammate and faking a pass. The defenseman in front of me bites, crossing over to the middle, anticipating something different than I have in mind.

Picking up speed, I skate toward the goal, the puck on the blade of my stick. My heart hammers in my chest as I push harder, adrenaline roaring in my veins. Their defenseman recovers, crossing back over towards me, but it’s too late. I’ve already spotted my window.

I pass the puck to ?kerman who catches it clean and takes his shot. The other Woodpeckers’ defenseman manages to block it with his stick. The movement sends the puck ricocheting toward me.

Instinct takes over me. I catch it off the bounce and snap off a wrist shot that sails clean over the goalie’s shoulder. He stretches, but the puck’s already inside of the net. Hell yes!

The red light behind the goal illuminates the air around it, and I throw a fist in the air as celebration. My linemates come to congratulate me and together we skate to the bench.

“Peacocks goal scored by number nineteen, Rasmus Westerholm, with fifteen seconds remaining in the third period,” booms around the arena and our fans cheer loudly .

I drop down, grabbing a bottle, spraying water to my mouth. Glancing up at the jumbotron, I wait to see a replay of the goal. Instead, I see her.

Haisley.

She’s on her feet in the Owner’s Suite, arms thrown in the air, celebrating my goal. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, eyes bright, mouth moving as she hugs Vivian and Em.

There’s only one word for her right now: glowing.

Not just because she’s stunning. Not even because she’s carrying my child.

But because for the first time since I found out, I see her proud of me. Celebrating my accomplishment. And it feels better than any goal could. Okay, okay, maybe the winning goal in the Cup finals or Olympics could only beat this feeling. Barely.

With her smiling as though she’s proud of me, everything else fades away. The Bird Nest Arena, the fans, the game. It all blurs until the only thing in focus is her. And for a few seconds, it’s enough.

The buzz of the win hums under my skin as I trail behind ?kerman to the family room. He got a text from Vivian saying the women were waiting for us after the game. Like an overexcited rookie, I asked him to hang back so we could leave the locker room together.

My hair’s damp from the post-game shower and the white dress shirt under my fitted burgundy suit sticks to my back. Wearing a suit on gamedays is a hassle sometimes, but tradition is tradition .

Rounding the corner, I spot them right away. Vivian is chatting with Em, who’s animated as hell, probably recounting a play in dramatic fashion. And there, in the middle of them, is Haisley.

She’s still glowing, laughing at something Em says. Her hand rests absently on her lower stomach. It’s subtle, but now that I know, I can’t not see it. Can’t ignore the fact that the baby growing inside her is mine .

Haisley’s eyes find me in the crowded room. She tucks a piece of her golden hair behind her ear and smooths a hand down the front of her Peacocks purple fitted sweater. It hugs her in a way that makes my brain short-circuit. Not fucking fair.

“Nice goal, Westerholm,” she comments, her voice light.

“Thanks.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling much more awkward than ten seconds ago. “You’re good luck, apparently.”

?kerman snorts beside me. “Oh, now you believe in lucky charms.”

I shoot him a look, but he just smiles way too innocently. Em raises an eyebrow, clearly not catching the subtext, and Haisley quickly changes the subject.

“You should’ve heard when Em got into an argument with the guy next to us in the concession stand line.”

My agent huffs. “It’s not my fault that he started chirping about Jasper and Rasmus, and didn’t realize who he was standing next to.”

“You’re still arguing with random fans?” I ask with a chuckle.

“Always,” Em says proudly, and her eyes move somewhere behind us. “Oh, look, Felix is here. I’ll quickly say hi to him before leaving. ”

We say our goodbyes and Em walks across the room to our goalie. Vivian turns to me, a knowing smile spreading on her face. “So, now that we’re alone, I can say congrats, Dad . Jasper shared the news after the party.”

Haisley narrows her eyes at her friend. “Viv,” she warns.

“What did I do now? I just wanted to congratulate your baby daddy,” Vivian says innocently.

“Not here,” Haisley mutters, but I can’t help feeling glad she has someone to talk about the pregnancy with.

?kerman coughs into his fist, clearly biting back a laugh. I swear my body temperature hikes up. My collar suddenly feels too tight.

“Anyway, I stand by it. This little peanut’s gonna break hearts with those superior genes. I mean, look at you two!”

“Little Meatball,” I mutter, ignoring the rest of her statement.

?kerman and Vivian both look at me with questioning expressions. Haisley groans under her breath. “Rasmus, ever the Swede he is, started calling the baby our little Meatball after finding out that the baby is the size of it at twelve weeks.”

Vivian gasps delightfully. “Stop. That’s actually adorable.” While ?kerman comments, “Why does that not surprise me at all?”

“It started as a joke, but then it stuck,” I explain.

“Little Meatball,” Vivian repeats, clearly savoring the words. “I’m never calling them anything else now.”

“You’re welcome,” I deadpan.

Haisley’s phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down at the screen, and her whole expression shifts .

“My dad just texted,” she says, already stepping back. “He wants to see me upstairs.”

Vivian raises a brow. “Everything okay?”

“I think so,” Haisley replies, but there’s a tightness around her mouth she doesn’t bother to explain. “He probably wants to talk about my brothers or something.”

She squeezes Vivian’s arm and shoots ?kerman a quick smile before turning to me. For a second, we just look at each other—as if there’s a million things we should be saying and zero space to say them. Not here, not right now.

Then she steps closer, and in a voice meant only for me, murmurs, “I’ll text you.”

I nod and she turns, her heeled boots clicking softly as she leaves the room.

Saying a quick goodbye to ?kerman and Vivian, I head toward my car in the player parking lot as my phone buzzes.

Haisley

Don’t forget, we have the ultrasound appointment tomorrow *baby emoji*

Rasmus

12 pm, right?

Haisley

Yeah. Do you need the address?

Rasmus

I got it. Can’t wait to see our little Meatball.

Haisley

Me too

Rasmus

If they’re as cute as their mom, we’re in big trouble

Haisley

Smooth, Westerholm. Very smooth.

Rasmus

I try

Haisley

See you there

Rasmus

See you *smiley face emoji*

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to ask if she’s really okay. Another part wants to tell her that I’ve been thinking about this appointment since the second we scheduled it two days ago. That I’ve been thinking about her. About us.

But no words in any language I know feel right. So instead, I slip the phone into my pocket and unlock the truck. I rest my hands on the wheel, but I don’t start the engine, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.

Tomorrow, I’ll see the first glimpse of the tiny human we made. The proof that this isn’t some surreal dream I don’t want to wake up from.