9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Holly
M y stomach churns again, and I curse whatever bug has decided to make a home of my body. Stress, probably. The new job with the Grizzlies is no joke, and here I am, squatting on the cool tile of Sawyer's too-neat bathroom, rummaging for some aspirin under the sink.
"Come on," I mutter to myself, pushing aside bottles of fancy hair products that Sawyer never got around to packing. My hand brushes against a familiar box, and I freeze. Tampons. A whole unopened box just sitting there, mocking me.
"Wait." The word barely whispers past my lips as I sit back on my heels, my brain doing the math. Late. I'm late.
"Shit."
I push to my feet, feeling the room tilt a bit. It's stress. It has to be stress. Images flash through my mind—intimate moments, heat, and definitely not enough caution. God, how could I have been so careless? Condoms were an afterthought more often than not with the boys. It’s ironic because I've always been the one preaching safe sex to my friends.
But I’m on birth control. And I’m religious about taking it. Hell, I set an alarm to make sure I not only remember to take it, but take it at the same time every day because it’s more effective that way.
"Stress," I chide myself, pacing the small space. “It’s just stress.”
But then, another thought slams into me like a body check. Antibiotics. I was on them last month for that stupid sinus infection. The doctor even mentioned...something. What was it?
"Oh, fuck," I blurt out to the empty room. Antibiotics can mess with birth control, making them less effective. That's what she said. How could I forget that?
My hands are shaking now, and I lean against the sink, taking deep breaths. This is not happening. Not now. Not when everything else is finally falling into place.
"Okay, Holly, think." I need to know for sure. I need to...
"Later," I decide. "I'll deal with this later."
But deep down, I know it's not something that can wait.
I grab my keys and phone with a trembling hand, pausing only to shove my feet into the nearest pair of sneakers. My heart hammers against my ribs as I lock Sawyer's apartment behind me, descending the stairs two at a time. The cool air outside does nothing to calm my racing pulse.
"Focus," I whisper to myself.
The corner store is a blur of neon signs and last-minute shoppers. I dart through the aisles, zeroing in on the test kits. My fingers wrap around the first box I see, not bothering to check the brand. At the checkout, I avoid the clerk's eye, feeling like everyone must know why I'm there.
"Have a nice day," the clerk says, but I'm already halfway to the door.
"Thanks," I mumble, the automatic doors closing behind me.
Back at the apartment, I waste no time. I rip open the package, my hands clumsy, and read the instructions three times just to be sure. One line, not pregnant. Two lines, pregnant.
"Okay," I say aloud, steadying myself on the bathroom counter. "Okay."
I do what needs to be done, set the stick on the edge of the sink, and force myself to wait. Every tick of the clock is a thunderous beat in the silence. I close my eyes, bargaining with every god I know and even some I don’t.
"Please," I beg the universe. "Please let it be stress."
But when I open my eyes, there are unmistakably two pink lines staring back at me. A positive. Pregnant.
"No, no, no," I chant, the sound a mantra of disbelief. This isn't happening. It can't be.
My phone rings, slicing through the fog of panic. Sawyer's face lights up the screen. My insides twist. How am I supposed to act normal?
"Hey, Sawyer," I answer, pressing the phone against my ear with a shaky hand.
"Hey, Hol. You sound...off. Everything okay?" His voice is laced with concern—it always is when it comes to me.
"Yeah, I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Just tired from work."
"All right, if you're sure..." He trails off, obviously not convinced. "Listen, I've got a bit of downtime. Thought I'd call, catch up?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure." I struggle to keep my voice steady. "That sounds great.”
“Switch to video.”
I accept the video call and then scramble to hide the box of test kits under the sink just as my big brother’s face takes over my screen. My heart hammers in my chest like it's trying to break free. I smooth down my hair and take a deep breath, hoping my face doesn't betray the chaos inside me.
Sawyer greets me with that familiar crinkled-eye smile, but his grin fades a touch. "You look pale. Sure you're okay?"
"Never better," I manage to say, even though my voice trembles.
"Okay..." He sounds skeptical and his eyes slide off my face, looking around as if he might find clues as to what's really eating at me.
“How—how have you been?"
"I've been good," Sawyer replies, his voice warm and comforting. "Just settling into the new team, you know how it is. I miss the Grizzlies, though. I’m pissed I can’t be there to see you shine this season."
Sawyer's voice is warm and filled with genuine affection as he updates me on his recent games and the adjustments he's making on his new team. I listen, trying to focus on his words and not the life-changing discovery I just made moments ago.
He ruffles his wavy blonde hair, a sure sign he's worried about something. Probably me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
"Really, Sawyer, I'm good. Just...work stuff, you know?" I offer the most convincing smile I can muster. It feels fake even to me.
"Right." He nods, unconvinced, and leans back against the cushions. His protective gaze lingers a moment longer before he lets the subject drop. "So, tell me about the latest game. You were on fire with that commentary."
"Thanks," I reply, the compliment warming me like a shot of whiskey. We chat about hockey, about the team, and I almost forget the storm brewing in my own life. Almost.
The conversation shifts easily between us, as naturally as skating on fresh ice. But every laugh, every shared memory, is tinged with guilt. I'm keeping this massive secret, and it's building a wall between us.
"All right, Hol. I’ve gotta get back to it. But call me anytime, okay? I'm here for you."
"Will do," I promise. The call ends, and the weight of my secret presses down on me until I feel like I’m buried.
"Damn it," I mutter. Alone again, the full reality of my situation settles in. I want the guys. I want Cameron’s calming presence, and Jaxon’s worrying, and Deacon’s control. But…I can’t.
How will I tell them? What if they don't want this? What if...I don’t even know whose baby this is.
No. Can't think about that now. I need a plan, but first, I need to breathe. I need to play this close to the chest until I figure out my next move. Until then, it's just me and this tiny, unexpected life we've created.
"Okay, baby," I whisper, placing a hand on my still-flat belly. "It's you and me against the world."
For now.
It’s two days later when a knock on the door startles me. I’m not expecting anyone, but the guys tend to show up whenever they want. I check the clock as I walk over. They should still be at practice. And I’ve been avoiding them like the plague.
So, who is at my door?
The apartment door swings open, and Sawyer steps inside, shaking snowflakes from his jacket. His hazel eyes scan the room, then land on me, huddled with a blanket cocooned around my shoulders.
"Hey, Hol," he greets me, but his smile falters as he takes in my pale face.
“Sawyer! What the hell are you doing here?”
“I have a break between games. And you’re the worst liar I know. You’re not okay. And you can’t lie to my face. So, here’s my face. For real this time. How are you?”
"Fine," I lie. The word feels like a stone in my throat.
"You don't look fine." He drops his bag and sits beside me, close enough for warmth but leaving space between us. He’s respectful. Always respectful.
"Really, I'm—" I start, but the words die in my throat.
"Out with it." He gently nudges my knee with his own.
Deep breath. "I'm pregnant."
He blinks, once. Then stillness there’s just stillness between us, like the world outside our window, frosted over and quiet.
"Okay," he finally says. Not mad. Not shouting. Just matter of fact. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know." It's barely a whisper. "I’m scared."
"Scared of what?" His voice is soft, coaxing.
"Of telling the network. Of doing this alone." Tears prick my eyes. Stupid tears.
"Hey." He reaches over and tilts my chin up. "You're not alone. You have me."
"Thanks." A tear escapes. Then another.
"Whatever you decide, I've got your back. Always." His promise wraps around me, stronger than any blanket.
"Always," I echo, clinging to that single word like a lifeline.
"Always," he confirms, and even though nothing's fixed, it feels like maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay.
Then he asks a question I’m not prepared for. “Who’s the father?”