Prologue
FINLEY
“Please be over,” I groan, hands clutching onto the sides of the toilet seat for the third time tonight. It would be fine if I were losing my lunch in the comfort of my own home, but locking myself in the employee bathroom at Club Tilt when I’m supposed to be serving drinks isn’t ideal.
When I feel like it’s safe, I stand, my head spinning for a moment as I bring my palm up to my clammy forehead.
I’ve been battling some sort of weird stomach bug all week—one that seems to be triggered by the smell of alcohol and pretty much all of the fried foods we serve here at our upscale nightclub.
Thankfully, I have two days off to rest after my shift is over, and I plan to stay in bed for as much of that time as I can.
I slowly walk to the sink, turning on the tap and washing my hands.
The cool water feels good against my skin, settling my stomach slightly as I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror.
I look atrocious, with flushed, sweaty cheeks and bags under my eyes.
I’ve been working my fingers to the bone lately to pay my bills, and clearly, it’s catching up with me.
“You’re almost done, Fin,” I tell myself. Peering down at my watch, I find that I’m about two hours from getting out of here, but it’s not the time that makes me stop in my tracks. It’s the date.
The twenty-third. My period is over a week late.
My brows furrow, brain moving a million miles a minute as I try to figure out how I didn’t notice earlier.
My cycle generally fluctuates by a day or two, but otherwise, it’s always been pretty regular.
I’ll start to feel a little bloated about a week before, sometimes with minor cramps, then everything else comes like clockwork.
But I don’t remember any of that happening recently.
My thoughts continue to roam as I attempt to think, dates and calculations flying at me faster than I can add them up.
The idea that I could be pregnant buzzes in the back of my mind, annoying me like a gnat at a barbecue while I pretend to ignore it.
I haven’t missed a single birth control pill in years, and with all the hours I’ve been working, I’ve barely even had time for sex.
But I guess it only takes once, doesn’t it?
Fuck.
“It’s fine,” I murmur to myself, taking a deep breath. It could be anything, really. A stomach virus. Food poisoning. A reappearance of last month’s raging urinary tract infection. I need to relax until I know for sure.
Taking a slow, deep breath, I pull the door open, determined to return to work without letting anything stop me.
As usual, there are several tables full of high-profile athletes and influencers waiting for drinks, and the last thing we need is a bunch of bad reviews because we didn’t serve them in a timely fashion.
Rounding the corner, I see Eric laughing with his teammates at a corner booth.
His thick, blonde hair is perfectly messy, the dimple in his cheek sinking in as he smiles.
He’s the epitome of the guy you want to take home to meet your parents, which was what attracted me to the Cleveland Vipers’ point guard in the first place.
I crushed on him for weeks, until finally, he asked what I was doing after work one night.
One thing led to another, and our situationship was born.
Don’t get me wrong, I like him, but I understand what we have.
He told me flat out that he travels too much for his job and doesn’t have time to devote to a girlfriend.
I’m fine with it, because I work a lot too—late hours, at that—and we really only see each other when we can fit it into our schedules.
As much as I wish things were different, it’s what I agreed to, and it’s certainly been nice blowing off steam with him when we can.
I guess we blew a little too hard on that last meetup.
I cringe at my own terrible joke, making my way toward the bar with a million thoughts going through my head. If I’m not wrong, and I am pregnant, how will things change with me and Eric? Will he want to co-parent? Will he suggest giving an actual relationship a try? Do I want any of that?
I’m so lost in the what-ifs that I don’t even see the giant wall of muscle in front of me until I’m slamming directly into it.
My face bounces off of what have to be the hardest pecs this world has ever seen, making me stumble backward as the stupid stilettos we’re required to wear wobble underneath me.
Before I lose my balance and plummet to the ground, two strong hands grip onto my arms, holding me steady.
“Fuck, Finley. Are you okay?”
I swallow, the gravelly voice of Theo Calloway short-circuiting my brain.
He barely speaks when I’m around, only giving one-word answers every time I try to strike up a conversation.
I honestly thought I did something to make him dislike me, but with the way his fingertips are burning through the fabric of my sleeves as he holds me protectively, I’m not so sure.
My eyes slowly lift, roving over him like a fucking creep, because I quite literally can’t stop myself. He’s in his usual attire of Converse, jeans that hug him in all the right places, and a long-sleeved Henley that shows the outline of every single muscle underneath.
It’s slutty, is what it is. And illegal, probably.
“Finley,” he repeats, snapping me back to the present as I whip my eyes up to his. Big mistake, though, because those fuckers are blue—bright, ocean blue—and full of concern as I fall right into them. “You look sick. Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah! I’m great!” I reply, about twenty octaves higher than I normally speak.
Embarrassment washes over me, because I obviously look like a bag of smashed assholes if he’s noticing—especially since he hardly ever looks at me.
I pull back, hoping he’ll let it go so I can get back to work.
But unfortunately, he doesn’t buy my terribly unconvincing answer, continuing his inquisition.
“Are you sure? You look pretty rough.” My eyes go wide, humiliation hitting me like a brick-filled sock to the face as he quickly puts both hands out in surrender.
“No! I don’t mean you look rough. You’re hot, obviously.
Super fucking hot.” He cringes, taking a deep breath through his nose and exhaling slowly before he tries again.
“You’re beautiful, as always. You just seem a little off tonight, and I wanted to check on you. ”
Off? Does he normally pay attention to me?
Worry mars his expression, and my heart squeezes in my chest, because he’s right.
I’m clearly not feeling well, and it shows.
You’d think Eric would’ve been the one to notice, since it was the smell of his teammates’ shots that caused me to puke in the first place—but he barely even gave me a second glance.
Theo seemed to catch on right away, making sure I was okay when the person who might be partially responsible for my sickness is over there acting like I don’t even exist.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, a pang of sadness settling in the pit of my stomach at the thought, but I do my best to push it down.
I certainly can’t sort through all these big emotions right here, when there’s so much work to do.
I’ll finish my shift, get the answers I need, then figure out the rest from there.
“I’m fine, Theo,” I say softly, giving him the best smile I can muster. “Have a good night.”
He nods in understanding, his shoulders slumping as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You too, Finley.”
And then, I’m gone, with heaviness in my heart over the possibility of facing the biggest chapter of my life, all on my own.
The Interception is coming Early 2026!