by Kendall Ryan
Shit. This is weird.
“Grab me that burp cloth, would you?”
“Uh, sure.” Rising to my feet, I grab the white cotton cloth printed with little green cacti and hand it to my teammate’s wife while trying to wipe the image of her tit from my memory.
Once the baby is settled on the other side and sucking away happily again, Becca meets my eyes. “Well, if she wants space, you have to give her space. But you can let her know that you’re there if she needs help.”
She’s right. I guess that’s all I can do. I’ve respected Ana’s desire to prove her independence, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure she knows my stance on things. I want to be by her side, even if it means laying my feelings bare. Even if it means possibly getting rejected again.
“You two all right in here?” Owen sticks his head through the open doorway and peeks inside.
“All good,” I say.
“Bishop’s done. Will you burp him?” Becca asks.
“Of course.” Owen crosses the room in a few easy strides and lifts the baby from his wife’s embrace.
She secures her top while I look down at my feet. When I look back up, Owen’s got his miniature son perched high on his shoulder and is patting his back with gentle strokes. It’s a sight I never thought I’d see—one of my teammates with a baby, those big, calloused hands being so tender. For a few seconds, I’m stunned speechless.
With a soft grunt, the baby lets out a wet-sounding burp. And then a fart.
We all laugh.
“He’s definitely your son,” Becca says lovingly, meeting Owen’s eyes.
Owen only chuckles and coos some nonsense sounds to his son.
A hard knot pushes its way up my throat. I wasn’t sure what to expect coming here today. They don’t look frazzled or sleep-deprived like I might have thought. They look happy. Really happy.
Everything in this room is exactly what I want. A wife. A baby. A home filled with love and respect, and a shared sense of purpose. I’ve been alone my whole adult life. I’m ready for more, ready to settle down with a good woman.
But Becca’s right—I can’t force Ana. She has to want to choose me. And not just because some piece of paper says I’m the father of her baby, but because I’m the man she wants by her side.
And if she doesn’t?
I have no fucking clue what I’ll do.
23
* * *
Time to Go
Ana
Tapping the sides of my phone with my thumbs, I try to keep myself occupied with the little screen until Grant comes home from practice. He’s running late, which he kindly told me via text message nearly forty minutes ago, so I went ahead and ate dinner without him. His portion sits in the fridge, waiting for him to come home.
Just like me, sitting at the kitchen counter, picking at a woven placemat with one finger . . . waiting for Grant to come home.
For the first time in a while, I regret opting out of the social media craze. It would be a nice escape to scroll through someone else’s life for once. Instead, I’m laser focused on two pieces of information that I will be dutifully relaying to my lovely host and potential baby daddy.
It’s a girl. I practice saying it without bursting into tears, mouthing the words silently.
I found out at today’s appointment when the nurse showed me the ultrasound photos. I didn’t want to know at first and kind of put it off, but today I was ready for them to tell me. It seems all the more real the bigger my belly grows.
The sight of that little nugget paired with the knowledge that I’m the mom of a tiny, precious little girl completely destroyed any resolve I had going in. I wept for joy in front of the ill-equipped nurse, who left me with a box of tissues to cry it out for as long as I needed to. And cry I did. I wasn’t even sure why I was so emotional—maybe because this all finally feels real.
Now, the second piece of information isn’t nearly as miraculous. Earlier this month, I found a small two-bedroom apartment in Wedgewood, just a few miles north of Grant’s condo. It’s cozy and semi-furnished, with a brick interior, tons of natural light, and a dog-friendly courtyard. Perfect for me. I contacted the landlord and worked out the particulars, dropping a sizable amount of this month’s paycheck on the initial security deposit. Which wouldn’t have been possible without all the extra income I’ve saved living with Grant rent-free.
Today, I got the confirmation that I can move in as early as tomorrow. With most of my belongings already packed away into boxes, it only took me an hour to get my travel bag packed and ready. I’m all set to go. Now I just need to tell Grant.
I’m zoning out, completely lost in the blurry photo I asked the nurse to snap of the ultrasound machine’s screen, when the front door opens. Hobbes barrels from the back of the condo, where he was up to God knows what, and makes himself a nuisance at Grant’s feet.
I lean from my spot at the counter, calling out, “Hey!”
“Hey,” comes Grant’s response between murmurs to the dog. When he finally comes into my line of sight, he has a panting, elated Hobbes tucked under one arm.
My heart warms at the odd pair and their bizarre friendship. Who knew?
“Sorry I’m late.” Grant sighs, his hair windblown and his cheekbones red with Seattle chill.
My impulse is to jump up and smooth his hair for him, brush those cheeks with my fingertips . . . but instead, I sit on my hands.
“You’re fine.” I smile, nodding my head to the fridge. “Your dinner is in there. It’s quiche.” A variation on the very meal he made for me the first night I stayed here.
“Awesome.” Grant chuckles, setting Hobbes down on the floor, who whines in dismay.
There’s a comfortable silence for a few minutes as I watch Grant putter around the kitchen, poking his head in the fridge, carrying his plate to the microwave, and filling a tall glass with water as the microwave thrums with the promise of a hot dinner.
With my elbow propped on the counter, I lean my cheek against my knuckles. I love watching this man, this superhero of a human, operate like a regular person. The way his giant hand wraps around the tiny microwave handle, all while juggling his drink and a small bowl of salad in the other, makes me giggle. His eyes are twinkling with good humor when he joins me, making himself comfortable next to me at the counter with a relieved sigh.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Oh, if you must know . . . you,” I say weakly, trying to contain the sadness quickly overtaking my voice.
Of course Grant sees right through me. He finishes chewing his first bite, his eyes narrowed in an I know you better than that way.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, setting his fork down.
“Do you recognize those flavors?” I say, pointing to his steaming plate. Ignoring well-intentioned questions isn’t my usual move, but I’m desperate for a little small talk. Just to start.
Grant opens his mouth to call me out on my subject change, but thinks better of it. With one eyebrow adorably quirked up and the other down, he inspects the quiche with the concentration of a detective on his most gruesome case yet. I cover my smile with my fingers.
“Sure,” he finally says. “Eggs, tomatoes, green peppers, cheese, and . . . onions.”
“The first night I stayed here, you made me an omelet with those very same ingredients,” I murmur softly, tapping the counter space between us.
Grant reaches across the quartz surface, catching my fingers in his big strong hand. “That’s right,” he says, caressing my knuckles with a soft squeeze that I feel in my heart.
He doesn’t realize how hard he’s making this.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, dipping his head a little to catch my downcast eyes.
“Well . . . I’m moving out,” I say softly.
Grant’s thumb halts its dance across my knuckles. He releases me, his back straightening. “I’m aware. Have you still been looking for a place? We could tour a few places in the neighborhood.”
<
br /> “I’m actually moving tomorrow morning to a small place in Wedgewood.”
“Tomorrow?” Grant rarely looks surprised, so the shock on his face hits me hard in the gut.
I knew I should have told him sooner.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I just wanted to tell you in person.”
“I see.”
He leans back, somehow closer to the guarded man who first took me in, and further from the kind, intuitive soul I know him to be.
How can I fix this?
“Hey, look on the bright side,” I say with a fake smile. “You’ll get your bachelor pad back.”
“You mean I’ll be alone again.”
His eyes are searing with emotion, catching me completely off guard. I feel my own eyes pricking with tears, and a lump forming in my throat.
“I need to do this, Grant. I need to take care of myself and stand on my own two feet. Don’t get me wrong; I’m forever indebted to you for carrying me this far. But if I’m planning to bring another life into this world . . . well, I need to know that I can take care of myself first.”
All that talking, and the lump in my throat still hasn’t subsided. Grant listens to my speech with a solemn expression on his face. Finally, he gives me one solitary nod, a small smile cracking through his stoic defenses.
“Will you at least let me help you move?”
I grimace. Every time I open my mouth, I say something that completely crushes him. I hate this.
“Actually, Owen, Jordie, and Justin are coming by before practice.”
Grant leans back, releasing a pained sigh. I didn’t think about how much it might hurt him that I asked his teammates for help rather than ask him. Maybe I can salvage this.
“I was going to ask you’d help us load the boxes into Jordie’s truck,” I say, a sheepish grin forming on my lips.
Grant, meanwhile, seems unconvinced.
I reach across the counter again, touching his hand. “I would really love your help, Grant.”
When he meets my eyes, the emotion I see in them is almost too much to handle. “Of course I’ll help you.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand. “There’s something else I want to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, obviously bracing himself for another bombshell.
I smile. “It’s a girl.”
Grant’s defenses crumble, his eyes widening. “A girl?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes tell me the whole story. I hold his gaze, a single tear escaping my eye. As badly as I want to look away and hide from the enormous feeling lingering behind his eyes, I don’t. The moment simmers with emotion, and I can’t deny there’s a little voice inside asking if I’m sure.
I swallow and break eye contact.
I have to do this, have to be certain I’m capable of taking care of myself.
• • •
With all but a handful of boxes unpacked, my new apartment is looking more and more put together by the second.
The team did an astounding job of moving my belongings from Grant’s, to the truck, across town, and up two flights of stairs. Sure, we got a few odd looks from Owen and Justin when they walked into Grant’s condo to see all my things piled neatly by the front door. After I explained that their team captain had been kind enough to hold on to most of my things when I was displaced by the breakup, Grant just had to bark a few orders to get their bug eyes focused on the project at hand.
Hobbes sat, quivering anxiously in my lap for the whole ordeal.
Overall, the guys were done in two hours and off to morning practice. I spent the day unpacking and arranging . . . and rearranging. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to make the decisions in my own home.
It’s nice.
My phone buzzes. It’s Becca, letting me know that she’s not going to be able to make it to my housewarming tonight. Understandably, what with a newborn baby.
The plans came together rather suddenly when a few of the hockey wives wanted to show their support in their own way. Several long hours of unloading my life and one group chat later, I’m expecting Elise, Sara, and Bailey at seven o’clock.
Normally, I’d be overwhelmed by the attention. But I’m honestly excited for a little female companionship. Georgia has been busy with work, and she’s the first to admit that she’s a little freaked out by the whole baby thing, so I’m giving her space.
Tonight will be refreshing, if nothing else. Besides, Elise has made serious promises of pizza delivery, and I’m starving.
The kitchen is mostly unpacked and organized, being my favorite room in any living situation. I’m too daunted by my lack of baby necessities to touch the nursery yet. The living room (or maybe it’s a den?) is suitable enough for company. I just hope no one wants a tour, because my bedroom isn’t ready for guests.
After breaking down a couple more empty cardboard boxes, I carry them to the alley, a leashed Hobbes leading the way. After a long walk around the block—long enough to let him sniff every exciting new twig, leaf, and fire hydrant—we head back home. I fumble awkwardly with my new keys. You’ll get used to them.
When I get the door open, Hobbes tears inside, a completely new dog compared to the timid little thing he was this morning. He rounds the whole apartment, coming to a halt at my feet with a wagging tongue to match his tail.
I scoop him into my arms, eliciting a happy yip. Together, we plop down onto the couch for an impromptu cuddle session. I don’t realize how exhausted I am until I sink into the plush cushions of the couch. I’m a goner before I know it.
• • •
I wake up to the sound of an apartment buzzer. I jolt upright, unfamiliar with the tone. Hobbes runs to the window, barking. With a little effort, I push myself up from the couch, hobbling to the intercom.
“Hello?”
The voices that come through are scrambled and very, very enthusiastic.
“Ana—babe— Can—let—in? Downstairs—”
“Come in, come in!” I laugh as I punch the door button, and soon I hear the sounds of three pairs of feet charging up the stairs.
Elise is the first to enter when I open the door.
“Oh my God, Ana! This place is perfect,” she says with a gasp. She reaches out to squeeze my arm while her gaze travels from one wall to another.
“It’s a good size,” Sara says with a smile and a nod, stepping in just behind Elise. “Hi, Ana. Thanks for having us.”
I get a whiff of an enviable perfume when she leans in to hug me.
“Of course,” I say with a smile, closing the door after Bailey steps in, all smiles and wide eyes. My place is kind of cramped with this much energy. But it’s nice too. It was really quiet before.
“Hi, puppy!” Bailey kneels down immediately to pamper Hobbes, who attacks her fingers with kisses of the sloppy variety. She looks up at me with a question on her lips.
“How are you feeling?” Bailey, the doctor, asks. She looks me up and down, and I find myself smoothing my tousled hair.
“Sleepy, mostly,” I say with a chuckle.
“That’s totally normal.” Bailey gives me her dazzling smile.
“That’s a relief.” I sigh and wave the women toward the couch. “I haven’t had time to set up the TV, but I’ve got my laptop if you want some background noise.”
“Speaking of background noise,” Elise says in a singsong voice, pulling a small package from her purse wrapped in bright yellow tissue paper with white polka dots.
A gift? “What’s that?”
“Open it!” Elise practically squeals, tossing the package to me and plopping down on the couch. There are a couple other presents—a dark pink envelope resting on Sara’s knees and a purple gift bag resting at Bailey’s feet.
What’s going on?
With a little suspicion in my expression, I carefully unwrap the present, revealing a high-tech baby monitor that promises to hook up with my phone. It looks e
xpensive.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, searching for answers in the expectant faces of my friends. I clasp the gift to my heart and struggle to find words.
“You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. It’s just a little informal baby shower for an amazing woman,” Sara says matter-of-factly, giving me a warm look.
“We wanted to spoil you!” Bailey cries out, beaming from the couch cushions. “Please let us.”
That pesky lump is making a home in my throat again, and my eyes are welling up with tears. These dang hormones have me crying 24/7.
“You guys didn’t have to do that.”
After several protests that, yes, they did indeed have to do that, I open the other two presents. From Sara, I receive a gift card to a local baby boutique for a dollar amount that makes my jaw drop. Oh, to have an attorney’s salary . . .
“Their stuff is pretty damn cute, or you could just blow it all on a top-of-the-line stroller,” Sara says with a sly smile.
I reach out to her with both arms, wrapping her in a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She rubs my back comfortingly. “You got it, babe,” she whispers back with a chuckle.
“Me next!” Bailey chirps, shoving a gift bag at me with an enthusiasm I’ll never replicate.
Tossing the tissue paper to the side, I discover an assortment of small, thoughtful gifts: a baby thermometer, seven cloth diapers, a package that contains bottles with an assortment of different-sized nipples, a plush elephant stuffed animal, and a soft gray blanket.
Rubbing the material of the exquisitely soft blanket between thumb and forefinger, I look up at Bailey, who watches me with a knowing grin.
“I’m gonna love your kid so much.” Bailey sighs happily. “I can already tell.”
“Aww,” I coo, melting. “Come here! All of you, come here.”
They do, wrapping me in their arms and soothing scent. Cloaked in the warmth of my friends’ embrace, I smile as Hobbes curls up against my feet. I’ve never felt safer or more at peace. Well . . . except for when I’m curled up in bed with a certain mountain of muscle.
