by Kendall Ryan
I hear the door creak open through my panting.
“Can I come in?” Grant’s soft, soothing voice says from behind me.
I nod in response, coughing once before flushing the toilet.
Somehow, Grant seeing me at my worst doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. Maybe because of that day he rescued me from my apartment, broken and bloody. Maybe because he’s always so strong and composed—nothing seems to bother the guy.
He holds out a glass of water, a thermometer, and a damp washcloth.
“Thank you.” I swish my mouth with the room-temperature water and spit. Leaning back against the side of the tub with a groan, I stick the thermometer in my mouth. It must be the stomach flu.
While we wait for the thermometer to give us the verdict, Grant presses the cool washcloth to my cheek. His touch is soft and methodical, his eyes revealing equal parts concern and concentration. My pulse has slowed to a regular rhythm when the thermometer beeps. Grant pulls it from my mouth, squinting at the numbers.
“What’s it say?”
“You don’t have a fever. Could it be food poisoning?”
I shake my head. “I’ve had food poisoning before. This isn’t that bad.”
“Then what is it?” Grant frowns, confusion in his voice.
I sigh, going back over the list of what I’ve eaten lately, where I could have caught something, when I last felt so crummy . . .
Oh no.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday. Coach gave us the day off.”
“No, I mean, what’s the date?”
He thinks it over for a second. “The eighteenth. Why?”
A cold shock slithers down my spine. With all the changes in my life lately, I haven’t been paying as close attention as I should have. I’m late. I lift a shaking hand to my mouth.
“What’s the matter? Ana?” Grant lifts my chin with his fingers.
Oh God. I meet his eyes. “I need to go to a drugstore.”
“You can’t go like this. I’ll go. What do you need?”
I wish I could flush myself down the toilet and disappear like my breakfast.
My voice is low and timid when I reply. “A pregnancy test.”
Grant nods slowly. I can see him processing this information, his jaw clenching and unclenching. We’re silent for a moment, our eyes locked and mouths shut.
Suddenly, he stands, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get one delivered.”
“You can’t get them delivered. They aren’t like pizzas.”
Oh fuck. The thought of pizza—cheesy, gooey, sloppy pizza—sends another wave of nausea shooting from my belly to my throat.
I push Grant out of the way and hang my head over the toilet again. I feel like I’m dying, emptying my insides like this. The only thing keeping me grounded is Grant’s hand on my back, rubbing in soothing circles.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs when I lift my head with a sob.
We repeat the process again—me swishing water and cleaning my mouth, and him wiping my face with a cool cloth.
“I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
I nod.
Grant lifts me in one gentle motion, not too quickly, but steady. I nestle my head against his shoulder, curling into the warmth radiating from beneath his thin T-shirt. He carries me across the hall into his room, saying something about the blackout blinds being better, and I’m too tired to argue. He settles both of us gently on the bed. I sink back into him, willing whatever is left in my stomach to settle.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, hating myself for being such a burden.
“Don’t be sorry.” He breathes into my hair, one hand seeking mine. “Just rest.”
As our fingers curl together, I let my eyes close. I don’t realize it at first, but our breathing falls into a steady pace, matching in perfect time.
I feel so secure in Grant’s arms, more than I have ever in my life. With my fingers clasped with his, I drift away.
• • •
My dreams are interrupted by barking, and then voices. The deep rasp of male voices.
“Two bottles of Gatorade. Two tests—early-detection kind. Some of those Pepto tablets, and some carbonated water.”
I’m trying to make sense of the strange list before I open my eyes and register where I am. I reach across the duvet, squinting at the rosy light spilling in through the curtains. It has to be late afternoon already.
The door is half-open, two voices carrying clearly from the hall. It’s Grant and . . . Jordie? Yes, that sounds just like Jordan Prescott, twenty-five-year-old hotshot left winger, a.k.a. a rookie on the team. I’ve always been a little aware of Jordie, since Jason was constantly threatened by his mere existence. Not to mention that the guy is really talented on the ice. And totally cute too.
Feeling much better than I did before I fell asleep, I slip out of bed. Wrapping myself in an oversized cardigan, I tiptoe down the hall and find I was right. Jordie stands across from Grant, whose broad back is to me.
One by one, Jordie pulls items out of a brown paper bag and sets them on the kitchen counter. “Saltine crackers, chicken noodle soup, some orange juice—”
“You can keep the orange juice. She’s not going to want that. Lost a ton already.”
“Shit, really?”
“Yeah. Thanks for all of this, Jordie. I owe you one, big time.” Grant claps Jordie on the back, who looks up at him and grins.
“Nah, man. We’re good. You would have done the same thing for me. No questions asked.”
I hate to interrupt this moment between friends, but the men haven’t noticed me yet. I clear my throat and wave at Jordie, whose eyes practically bug out of his head.
“A-Ana?”
“Hi, Jordie.”
“Oh,” Jordie chokes out. “I didn’t know . . . this stuff is for you?”
Interesting. So Grant had him run an errand, but didn’t mention who the woman in question was who needed these things.
Grant approaches me with a concerned expression. “Are you okay?”
I return his look with a reassuring smile. “I feel so much better now. Thank you.”
“Did you sleep?” he asks in a soft voice.
I nod.
“Okay,” Grant says, but his eyes tell me he isn’t entirely convinced.
I don’t blame him. I’m known for making a molehill out of a mountain. I’d downplay getting shot if I had to.
“So,” Jordie says, pointing at the supplies emptied out onto the counter, to me, to Grant, and back at me. “Are you two . . .”
Oh Jesus.
Grant steps between us, entirely blocking my view of Jordie with his massive body. “Friends. Besides that, you don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Understood.”
“I’m dead serious, Jordie. If you breathe a word of this to anyone . . .”
“I wouldn’t.”
Placing one hand on Grant’s back to calm him, I peek around his torso to catch Jordie’s eye. “Thanks, Jordie.”
“Just following orders, ma’am.” He grins with a boyish twinkle in his eye.
“I’ll walk you out,” Grant mutters, nudging his teammate on the shoulder and turning him toward the door.
Jordie calls over Grant’s wall-like shoulder with some effort. “Maybe it’s just the flu! Feel better, Ana.”
“Hope so! Thanks.”
Grant and Jordie stand in the doorway for a moment, their voices low and almost indiscernible. I hear the name Kress and suddenly realize I don’t need to hear this conversation.
I step over to the counter, covered in an assortment of items you might receive in a care package. I smile, unscrewing the top of a blue sports drink, and take a tentative sip. When my stomach doesn’t flip-flop all over the place, I take a full swig, appreciating the feel of sugar hitting my bloodstream again.
Then, before I can think too hard about it, I pick up both of the pregnancy tests and head to the bathroom. After selecting o
ne, I tear the box open and read the directions, pull my yoga pants down, and sit on the toilet. Now would be the moment to utter a prayer, but I’m not sure what I would ask for. I’m not ready to have a . . . baby. I can barely think the word, let alone speak it.
When I’m done, I set the stick on the edge of the sink and wait. No use panicking. It’ll be whatever it’s going to be. Until then . . .
Deep breaths.
16
* * *
Consequences
Grant
Deep breaths.
Ana closed herself inside my bathroom with the pregnancy tests five minutes ago, and I’m practically vibrating with anxiety while I wait for her to come out. With absolutely zero chill, I pace the hallway, running through various scenarios in my mind while nervous energy swims inside me.
Hobbes, sensing something is up, scratches at the floor near my feet and looks up at me.
“What?” I say, agitated.
He yips out a reply and dances around.
With a sigh, I bend down and lift him with one hand under his belly. Stalking over to the bathroom door, I give it a gentle knock. “Hey, Ana?”
“Be out in a minute.” Her voice is muffled through the door, and I can’t tell if she’s upset, or relieved, or something in between.
“I’m just going to take Hobbes out. Take your time.”
I secure his leash to his collar and head out. “You’ve got shit timing, you know that?”
He looks up at me with brown eyes and licks his nose. Then again, maybe taking Hobbes outside is better than standing around waiting for news I’m not even sure I’m ready to hear.
As Hobbes squats and pees on the grass, I can’t help the thoughts swirling inside my head. Thoughts about the night of the storm when I came home and found Ana in my bed . . . and more specifically, what happened after.
I was bare that night. We were so caught up in the moment, we didn’t even stop to think.
Well, that’s not true. A split second before I came, it did cross my mind, but I was already there, erupting inside her like half a second later. I figured she was on the pill. Stupid of me, I know.
Still, I don’t regret what we did. That night was one of the best I’ve had in a very long time. A sweet woman in my bed, begging me to hold her and make her feel good? I felt useful. Needed. I was on top of the world that night.
But actions have consequences, and those consequences might be that we’re going to have a baby. Maybe that should scare me, but if anything, it only makes me feel more for Ana. It makes me want to protect her and take care of her.
God, seeing her sick today, hunched over the toilet? I felt so helpless. I just wanted to fix it.
By the time I make it back inside, Ana’s sitting on the couch, facing away from me. Her shoulders rise with a deep breath, and when Hobbes barrels over to her, she murmurs something soft to him, ruffling his fur with her fingers.
My throat is bone dry. I take a step closer to the couch, then pause and run one hand along the stubble on my jaw. “So, uh, how are you feeling?”
She licks her lips and meets my eyes. “Maybe you’d better sit down.” Her eyes are red and look like she’s been crying.
My chest tightens.
Following her instructions, I sit in the chair across from her. “Everything okay?”
She nods and swallows hard. She’s hesitating. Like she’s afraid I’ll freak out at the news.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Whatever happens, I promise I can handle it.” My voice is soft, deep, and sincere.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant,” I repeat softly.
She nods again.
“How are you feeling?” I move closer to sit beside her on the couch.
She inhales and lifts one shoulder. “Still a little nauseated, but okay.”
“I meant about the news. That’s big, right?”
Ana and I have covered a lot of topics in the short time she’s been staying here, but she’s never mentioned if she wants children or not. She’d make an amazing mother, I’m sure of it, but I don’t know if this is what she saw in her future plans.
“A lot of things. It’s hard to put into words.”
I nod. “I’ll bet.”
She gives me a weak smile. “I feel . . . overwhelmed. In disbelief.” She exhales slowly. “And so incredibly embarrassed.”
“Why embarrassed?”
She twists her hands in her lap, and I can practically see the discomfort rolling off her in waves. “Well, because I don’t know if the baby is yours or Jason’s.”
My stomach tightens, and I release a slow exhale. “Yeah. I was wondering about that too.”
“I feel so stupid.” She drops her face into her hands and lets out a deep groan. “Or maybe slutty is a better word.”
“Hey.” Squeezing her shoulder, I move closer. “Don’t ever call yourself that.”
Ana scoffs. “Well, what kind of woman doesn’t know who the father of her baby is?”
With a soft touch to her cheek, I turn her face toward mine. “The kind who ended one relationship and moved on with her life. There’s nothing wrong with what we did, Ana.”
For the first time, I realize I actually believe those words. I felt guilty at first—because as a teammate’s ex, she should have been off-limits to me. But somewhere along the way, those feelings went away. Maybe because I’d have to respect Kress in order to feel guilty about sleeping with his girl. And I definitely don’t respect him.
“Then why did you say it couldn’t happen again?” she asks, pinning me with a serious stare.
Jesus. What does one say to that?
Because it would be so easy to fall for you? Because I would never be okay being your casual fuck buddy? Because you’re the kind of girl who makes a guy want it all—a white picket fence, kids in the backyard, a dog who’s a total pain in the ass but you love anyway.
I force my gaze to return to hers. “Because I didn’t think you’d be ready to jump into another relationship.”
She chews on her lower lip, still watching me. I’m wondering if she’s going to point out that people don’t have to be in a relationship to fuck, but she doesn’t. Thank God. She just stays quiet with an emotion I can’t read written all over her face.
I’m not the type who can separate sex from feelings. Maybe it’s because I’ve been alone for too long. Maybe because some part of me has already fallen for her. Who the hell knows?
When Ana doesn’t say anything else, I touch her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
She looks uncertain. “Are you sure?”
“Very.”
If the baby’s mine, I have enough money and resources to make sure both her life, and our baby’s, is comfortable and safe. And even if the baby’s not mine, hell, that doesn’t change much in my eyes, because my number one priority now is ensuring that both Ana and the baby are safe.
“You can stay here as long as you like. I’ll do whatever I can to protect you both. And if it’s mine, well . . .”
She looks up, her delicate eyebrows arched, waiting for the next words out of my mouth.
“I’ve always wanted kids. A whole bunch of them.”
She smiles, her face relaxing. “But I’m guessing you didn’t imagine it would be like this.”
“I didn’t, but that doesn’t change anything. If the baby’s mine, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re both happy and healthy. And if it’s not, I’m still going to be here. This is your baby, Ana, and I’ll protect you both.”
“Grant . . .” Tears well in her eyes and she looks down at Hobbes, not wanting me to see her cry.
“We’ll just face one thing at a time.”
She shifts on the cushion, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Okay.” Her voice is small and raspy with emotion.
“Let’s feed you two. Think you can handle dinner?”
She nods, a soft smile on her face at the mention of feeding both her and the baby. �
�I’m starved, actually.”
“Good. Something bland and easy on your stomach, or . . .”
“Enchiladas from Casa Mana.” She grins, her eyes lighting up. “With extra jalapeños.”
“Or that,” I say with a chuckle.
“And maybe a movie. A comedy.”
Rising to my feet, I can’t help the smile on my face. “I’ll order dinner. You can pick the movie.”
Ana lets out a happy sound. It’s just a sigh, really, but I can tell she’s starting to believe that maybe everything really will be okay.
Somehow.
Maybe.
I hope.
17
* * *
Going Home
Ana
Waking up in my childhood bed is a strange enough experience. But hearing the distant clatter of my father down the hall, starting the morning coffee? It’s almost like I’ve gone back in time.
Actually, I’ve come home, but only for a few days. I got in late last night and surprised my father. The look on his face when he answered the doorbell to find me on the stoop was sweeter than any pastry I could whip up.
I check my phone. Almost eight a.m. I wonder if Grant’s already at practice.
Reminding myself that I don’t need to be thinking about Grant right now, I toss my phone aside. I snuggle briefly under the worn covers, willing myself back to a time when boy troubles only went as far as Corey Sullivan in the tenth grade. To a time before I found out I was pregnant.
But coffee lures me out of bed, like it has every day since I started drinking it. And since I’m still allowed one cup a day now that I’m pregnant, that’s exactly what I’ll have. I pull my tangled hair into a low ponytail, then slip off my pajama pants and oversized T-shirt to step into some jeans and a sweater.
In the kitchen, my dad is standing over the stove, flipping what I assume are pancakes, based on the slight burnt smell.
“Good morning,” I call over the hiss of the batter in the pan.
“Ana! Help me out with this.” He waves the spatula in the air. “I haven’t made pancakes in years. It’s like riding a bicycle. Gotta run into a few trees first.”
