Chapter 10 Beatrice
BEATRICE
As predicted, Everett didn’t know we were at the game. Hell, we could hardly tell he was there, we were sitting so far away.
But that didn’t stop my heart from skipping a beat the second his name was called at the beginning of the game, before he shot out onto the ice to thunderous applause.
I sat there silently, my stomach rolling as memories of the last time I was here played on repeat in my head.
Sienna reached for my hand in a show of silent support, and she kept hold of it throughout the entire first period.
At the bar, she’d tried to convince me not to come. I refused. She wanted to see the game, and really, it wasn’t going to change anything. I wasn’t going to see him, and when I walked out, I’d still be pregnant. The damage has already been done.
Sienna offered for me to stay at her place, but again, I refused. As much as I appreciate her support, I needed space. I needed…a fucking miracle.
But instead of finding one of those, I went home, crawled into bed, and accidentally typed “Everett Donnelly” into Google and spent way too long reading an article about the man whose baby I’m growing.
When I showed up at work the next morning with sore, swollen eyes from lack of sleep, Sienna ambushed me with her own research.
Hers was much more useful. She’d looked up my somewhat limited options for healthcare, and then she opened her laptop to an online application form for Medicaid that she’d already half-filled in.
She forced me to sit down and do the rest, assuring me that she’d take care of everything while I did it.
It isn’t going to help in the short term. I’m still going to have to pay for appointments and ultrasounds, but at least I’ll get it back at some point.
Once the application was in, she forced me to book a doctor’s appointment and tried to get me to book an early ultrasound.
While I was happy to get checked over by a doctor, it felt wrong to go for an ultrasound when the father of my baby was walking around clueless that he had a hand in making another person.
Before anyone puts one of those wands to my belly, he needs to know. He has to at least have the option to be there. And that’s exactly why I find myself inside the Crown Arena for a third time. Only this time, I’m alone. Sienna would hate me if she knew, but I need to do this by myself.
I’m not entirely sure what this is, but I’m hoping I’ll figure that out at some point.
I was here early in the hope of catching a glimpse of him before he went in. But understandably, the players don’t just walk through the main entrance.
My seat is terrible, although not as awful as the last time I was here.
At least I can see the players’ numbers on their backs.
As the team progresses through the playoffs, it gets harder and harder to secure tickets.
I didn’t think I was going to get one, but I got lucky yesterday and managed to snag it on resale.
Throughout the entire game, my eyes are locked on Everett.
It doesn’t matter if he’s on the ice, on the bench, or more often than not, in the penalty box.
I spend the whole time he’s down there studying him, trying to get a better idea of who he is.
But I don’t learn anything new. He’s still the arrogant player with anger issues I met that night.
I sit there staring at the ice long after the rest of the fans have filed out and the machine thing that cleans up the ice has finished for the night.
It’s peaceful, and when I look at my cell when I’m finally kicked out by a team of cleaners, I can’t believe my eyes.
It’s late—really freaking late—and as I start making my way down the stairs to the exit, my muscles let me know just how tired they are.
I might only be a few weeks into this thing, but I’m already feeling the effects.
As I make my way outside into the warm spring evening, my eyes are everywhere, searching for the man I came here for.
I know it’s pointless. He’s not going to be walking out of the fans’ exits, but it doesn’t stop me from looking.
After calling a rideshare and climbing in the back when it arrives, I pull up social media and hit my most recently searched name.
There hasn’t been anything posted since their last road game. I stare at the image of him with a shot in his hand and a woman on either side of him.
One is blonde and one is brunette, and both of them look like catwalk models. They’re both almost as tall as him, and painfully beautiful.
I sink lower in the seat, feeling wholly inadequate.
Despite having done so numerous times over the last few weeks, I keep scrolling, feeling a little sicker each time I see him pictured with a woman.
Each one feeds into my insecurities, and by the time the driver pulls up outside my building, it takes every bit of self-control I have not to burst into tears.
“Thank you,” I say in a rush as I throw the door open and all but run into the building and, soon after, the elevator.
The second the doors slide closed, I shatter.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t even care about him or those women. I just…I just want what’s best for our baby. And what’s best is having two parents who love them.
We don’t need to be a family, not in the conventional sense, but I never, ever want to have the conversation with my child that their father didn’t want them.
No child should ever have to deal with that.
Just like no child should have to grow up with the constant grief of losing a parent before they even had a chance to know them.
I didn’t have a choice in how my life played out. But right now, I can make a decision for my child, and I will fight for them, even if it turns out I’m the only one who will.
By the time I get into my apartment, my tears have faded and anger over the unfairness of my own childhood has taken hold.
I toe my sneakers off, throw my purse on a pile of boxes in the hallway, and march to my bedroom, pulling my cell from the pocket of my leggings as I go. By the time I’m inside the room, I hit the message option on his Instagram page and begin tapping as I pace back and forth across my bedroom.
Bea Walsh: Hi, you probably don’t remember me. But I met you after your final regular-season game. I was wearing your jersey. You might remember pinning me against a wall in the back area of Club 52.
“Shit,” I hiss, staring at my words.
I can’t send that.
But what’s the alternative?
Bea Walsh: Hi, I’m pregnant, and it’s yours. Reply please.
This is hopeless.
I know Sienna is right. I need to get a lawyer and let them handle reaching out and informing Everett of the situation. But I can’t afford that, and I’m certainly not pulling any favors from the lawyers I just so happen to be related to. No, the further they are from all this, the better.
Deleting the message. I try again. However, it isn’t any better the second time around.
Bea Walsh: Hi, we met a couple of weeks ago, I wore your jersey to a game, and then we met again at Club 52. I could really do with talking to you and I’d really appreciate it if you could get back to me.
Without overthinking it, I hit send, throw my cell onto my bed, and stalk to my bathroom to get ready to sleep.
Despite the nap I had between finishing at the salon and going to the game tonight, I’m exhausted.
I tell myself not to do it. I beg myself to put my cell on charge and crawl into bed without looking.
But I can’t do it.
The second I open Instagram, my heart sinks, because not only isn’t there a reply, but it hasn’t even been read.
Am I surprised? No, of course not. I can only imagine the number of messages a man like Everett has in his request box. I have no doubt that the kind of messages he receives are way more inviting than mine.
Maybe I should have added a picture of my tits. That might have helped trigger a memory.
Or not. He’s probably seen so many that they all blur into one.
Before I can stop myself, I start digging.
The Vipers won tonight; there’s no way they won’t be out celebrating.
I find a bunny account, and right there in the stories is exactly what I was expecting.
My stomach twists painfully as I tap through the images.
When I find him, my breath catches, and tears burn my eyes.
It’s stupid. I don’t want him. I don’t care that he’s got his tongue down some girl’s throat.
I just…
“Fuck,” I breathe, closing my cell and angrily wiping at my wet cheeks.
I hate that there’s a small part of me that has this stupid, fickle hope that maybe, just maybe, this could all work out. That my little one could have two loving parents, a family, the kind of life I never had.
It’s pointless, though. That isn’t our destiny.
Abandoning my cell in the sheets, I curl up into a ball, wrap my arms around my stomach, and sob.
I have no idea what time I eventually fall asleep, but it’s late, and I wake up just as tired as I was the night before.
Days pass and nothing changes with my message. When I get frustrated, I send another in the hope it might change things. But it never does.
My messages are just sitting in his request box, along with thousands of others, no doubt.
I can’t help but wonder if there are other women out there in the exact same position.
I guess the chances are high. We’re talking about a man who has a different girl on his arm every night; these things have to happen eventually, even with all the right protection in place.
As the weeks pass, and the date of my first ultrasound looms closer, my stalking of the man who put me in this position becomes increasingly obsessive.
Looking at where he’s been, or more importantly, who he’s been with, becomes a huge part of my day.
Every night I lie in bed trying to find out everything I can.
I tell myself it’s so I can figure out a way to get to him, to tell him, but I’m aware I’m lying to myself.
And each morning, I grab my cell, cancel my alarm, and check his socials again.
I’ve discovered all kinds of useful things.
His father was also a hockey player—a really good one, if what I’ve read can be believed.
He’s now retired, and his parents are travelling the world.
I’ve found their Instagram account. His sister’s, too, who also works for the Vipers.
She’s in a relationship with Lincoln Storm, Everett’s teammate and childhood best friend.
I could reach out to any of them. Maybe I’d get a response, or maybe they’d also ignore me, assuming I’m a bunny after money and fame.
But I don’t want either of those. I just want my child to have a family.
I go to more home games, not that I can really afford the expense, both with and without Sienna. But I don’t ever see him, other than on the ice. I never get an opportunity to get close to him, to talk to him. And it soon becomes obvious that there’s only one way I’m going to make that happen.
So, feeling desperate, I pull on a dress and a pair of heels. I do my hair and makeup, and I head out with Sienna as my wing woman in the hope of stealing the hockey player’s attention for a second time in as many months.