Secret Baby for the Hockey Star

Prologue

ANNE

Iwas staring at two pink lines that were about to change everything.

The pregnancy test sat on my bathroom counter, those two definitive lines glaring back at me like an accusation. Like a promise. Like a bomb that had just detonated my carefully constructed life.

I was pregnant.

Three weeks. Liam had been gone for three weeks, halfway across the world in Sweden, living his dream while I was here alone in my Chicago apartment, holding proof of the life we created together before everything fell apart.

My hands shook as I picked up my phone. His international number was programmed in—the one he'd texted me from O'Hare before his flight, the last message I had from him.

I had stared at this number a hundred times over the past three weeks, my finger hovering over the call button, never quite pressing it.

This time, I pressed it.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I tried again, because maybe I had misdialed, maybe the connection was bad, maybe?—

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The automated voice was so calm, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn't delivering the final nail in the coffin of us.

He had changed his number. Or the team had changed it. Or I had written it down wrong through my tears when he left.

It didn't matter. The result was the same.

I was alone.

I sank down onto the cold tile floor, my back against the bathtub, the pregnancy test clutched in my trembling hand. The bathroom was too bright, too small, too empty. Everything felt too much and not enough all at once.

Three weeks ago, Liam O'Connell had walked out of my life with a suitcase and a four-year contract to play hockey in Sweden. Three weeks ago, we had chosen our careers over each other. Three weeks ago, I had watched the man I loved board a plane and never look back.

And now I was pregnant.

I could find him. His team's website probably had contact information. I could reach out to his agent, track down his family. I could tell him.

I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father. Come home.

But then what?

He'd come back. Of course he would. Liam O'Connell, who held doors for strangers and tipped 30% and couldn't pass a stray dog without stopping to pet it—he'd come back. Out of obligation. Out of duty. Out of guilt.

He'd give up Sweden. Give up his dream contract. Give up four years of playing at an elite level that could launch him into the NHL. He'd give it all up and he'd resent me for it. Maybe not today. Maybe not even this year.

But eventually.

Eventually he'd look at our child and wonder what his life could have been if I hadn't trapped him. If I'd just let him go.

I couldn't do that to him.

I couldn't do that to us.

I couldn't do that to this baby.

I pressed my hand to my still-flat stomach, feeling nothing but knowing everything had changed.

"I'll handle this," I whispered to the empty bathroom, to the two pink lines, to the future I couldn't quite picture yet. "Just until he comes back. Just until the timing is better. Just until..."

I was lying to myself and I knew it.

But I made the choice anyway.

I deleted the unsent text to his old number. I put the pregnancy test in my bathroom drawer, hidden under tampons I wouldn't need for nine months. I pulled out my phone and called Midwest Elite Sports Medicine—the job offer I had chosen over following Liam to Sweden.

"This is Anne Mitchell," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm calling to formally accept your offer. When do I start?"

I chose my career. My future. My life in Chicago.

And I chose to keep this secret.

Just for now.

Just until the timing was right.

Just until he came home.

A week later, after the initial shock had worn off and the reality had set in, I sat on my bathroom floor with my phone in my hand.

I had tried calling his number one more time. The number was disconnected.

And I realized: even if I did reach him somehow, what would I say? That I was pregnant? That I needed him? That I was terrified?

No.

He had made his choice. He had gone to Sweden. He had left me behind.

So I was going to make mine.

I pulled up my phone carrier's app and found the option to change my number.

My finger hovered over the button.

This would make it real. Changing my number meant I was giving up. It meant I wasn't waiting anymore. It meant I was choosing to close this door and move forward with my life—with our baby—alone.

I thought about calling his old number one more time—just to torture myself one last time.

But I was done torturing myself.

I clicked the button.

New number generated.

Just like that, I severed the last thread connecting us. If he ever tried to find me, he wouldn't be able to.

Nearly years later, I had moved on. Or so I told myself.