13. Mallory
Mallory
Jaymie parked in his usual spot in the garage—same crooked angle, same crooked grin, as he killed the engine and glanced over at me.
“You sure you’re okay to walk?” he asked, hands still on the wheel like he didn’t fully trust me not to collapse in the ten steps it would take to get inside.
“I’m fine,” I said, softer than I meant to.
His brow furrowed. “Fine-fine or just saying-that-so-I-leave-you-alone fine?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t push it, Prescott. ”
He smirked, clearly satisfied I had enough sass to throw back. We climbed out, the cool air licking at my neck as we made our way toward the elevator.
The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was... full. Not uncomfortable, but heavy in a way that made me too aware of how close he walked beside me. The doors opened and we stepped inside, alone.
Jaymie hit the button for my floor, then leaned against the wall, watching me.
“Still no more urge vomiting?”
I shook my head. “Stomach’s settled. For now.”
He nodded, arms crossed over his chest, hoodie pulled tight over his broad shoulders. God, he was frustratingly attractive. Tall, dark, strong—and somehow also completely unaware of just how good he looked with his curls mussed and his glasses a little foggy.
When the elevator dinged for the eighth floor, I stepped out, keys already in hand.
“Okay, thanks for walking me—”
“I’m coming in.”
I turned, one eyebrow arched. “Jaymie.”
“Just to make sure you eat something,” he said, holding up both hands. “Then I’m gone.”
I hesitated. My gut said to send him away. My gut also hadn’t kept food down in twenty-four hours, so maybe it didn’t get a vote.
“Fine. One hour. ”
He grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “I work fast.”
My apartment was tidy—small, but mine. Open-concept kitchen and living room, all white and muted grays, no dining area. Just the breakfast bar and a tiny table in the corner I only ever used for dropping my keys. I watched him as he walked in, taking it all in with those warm brown eyes.
“Looks like a smaller version of mine,” he said, slipping off his boots. “You copy me?”
“Obviously. Everything in my life revolves around you.”
He smirked, toeing the line between charming and cocky. “Clearly.”
I kicked off my shoes and pulled my hair up. “I’m going to change. Make yourself useful.”
“On it.”
I disappeared into my bedroom, pulling on the same gray sweats I lived in on my off-days and one of my old UVM t-shirts. Comfortable, forgettable. My brain felt like static. What the hell was Jaymie doing in my apartment?
Not just being sweet but being gentle. Attentive. Like it wasn’t even a question that he would take care of me. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He wasn’t like Jackson. Not even close.
Not that that meant anything.
I rubbed my face with both hands and shook off the thoughts, but I’d barely pulled my hair into a bun when I heard it .
“Uh, hey... Mal?”
My heart stuttered.
It wasn’t the words—it was the tone. Quiet. Uneasy.
I knew that tone.
I’d worked enough injuries, watched enough players hear bad news to recognize the way someone's voice cracked when they didn’t want to say what came next.
I stepped out slowly.
Jaymie stood by the stove, spatula in one hand, looking like I’d just kicked his puppy. His other hand hovered over the garbage can, lid still open. A carton of eggs sat cracked on the counter beside a sizzling pan.
And on top of the trash, unmistakable, pink plastic. White cap.
My heart dropped.
“I wasn’t snooping,” he rushed, shaking his head. “I swear—I was just throwing out eggshells and the... it was right on top.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My breath caught halfway up my throat and stayed there.
“I just—Mal, I didn’t mean to see it. I didn’t even realize what it was until…” he trailed off.
“I guess that’s really why I was nauseous,” I cut in, voice quiet but steady. “Apparently morning sickness doesn’t always hit in the morning.”
He blinked, stunned into silence.
I leaned against the wall, the cool paint grounding me .
“Well,” I said, gesturing to the stove, “you gonna burn that omelette or what?”
Jaymie looked from me to the pan, flustered, then started flipping it like he was on a cooking show.
“I, uh—cheese okay?”
I nodded.
Silence stretched again. The air was too thick. I walked over slowly, not sure what to say. My feet dragged like I was walking into a whole new life I hadn’t asked for.
Jaymie handed me a plate, careful not to meet my eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“But... I’m here. If you want.”
I looked at him then, really looked. His glasses had slipped down his nose again. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen. He looked scared. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
And still, he stayed.
My throat tightened.
“Thanks,” I said. “Really.”
He gave me a small, crooked smile.
We stood in the kitchen, side by side, as I ate in silence.
And for the first time since the test, I didn’t feel completely alone.