Chapter Nine #2
I clutch my purse a little tighter. My heels click against the wet pavement, every step a reminder that I’m walking straight into something I probably shouldn’t.
“Just don’t trip on your own heels and we’ll survive the night,” I mutter under my breath, forcing a tight smile as the valet gives me a courteous nod.
I circle the front of the car, blinking against the gleam of the restaurant lights, and there he is—Tarron McCoy.
Tall. Composed. Effortlessly magnetic in a tailored navy suit that probably costs more than my rent.
He’s standing in the entrance, waiting for me, like no time has passed at all.
And just like that, my pulse stumbles, because for the first time in three years, I’m not looking at the ghost of my past.
I’m staring straight into it.
The man responsible for my no-player rule.
The only man who’s ever truly broken my heart.
“Still punctual,” Tarron says when I reach him, that easy, charming smile sliding into place like he’s practiced it in the mirror.
It’s the same smile that once made me forget every red flag waving in front of me.
“Takes one to know one,” I manage, adjusting the thin strap of the crystal-studded clutch Vivi lent me. The one that matches the shoes perfectly. Then he leans in and presses a soft, too-familiar kiss to my cheek.
His hand lingers at the small of my back, just long enough to remind me how much I used to love that touch, and how much I hate myself for noticing it now.
“You look incredible,” he says, his voice dipping the way it always does when he wants something.
He’s not lying. Vivi’s dress hugs every curve, Isla’s jewelry sparkles under the entrance light, and Cammy’s pep talk still echoes somewhere in the back of my head.
But the compliment doesn’t land.
It never does anymore, because I know he considers his compliments as currency. He’s trying to buy something… like my trust, self confidence, a night in his bed.
He won’t get any of those, but he can certainly try.
“Thank you,” I say, polite but clipped. “You clean up well too.”
He smirks. “You used to like when I wore this suit.”
I did. I also used to think the man wearing it was responsible for hanging the moon and stars in the sky.
A hostess appears before I can reply, bright smile and clipboard in hand. “Mr. McCoy, your table’s ready.”
Of course it is. Tarron’s name still carries weight. Even after everything.
He gestures for me to go first, and I force my legs to move. The restaurant is dim and warm, lit by candles flickering on every table. Glass clinks, laughter ripples, and the smell of roasted garlic and seared steak turns my stomach in an instant.
Not from disgust. From nausea. Again.
Being quarantined and thinking you might die in a desert motel in the middle of nowhere was enough reason for me not to clock the missed period as odd for me.
I swallow hard as we follow the hostess toward a window booth overlooking the water. The drizzle has started again, tracing slow rivers down the glass, blurring the city lights outside.
“This is nice,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
He flashes that winning grin that used to make me melt. “It’s good to see you, K.”
That nickname again. The one only he uses.
The waiter arrives before I can respond, all professionalism and charm. “Can I start you two off with drinks?”
Tarron doesn’t even hesitate. “She’ll have a Moscow Mule, and I’ll take a Whiskey with a splash of coke.”
My throat tightens. I haven’t had a drink since Nevada. And now with what could potentially be, I’m relieved I haven’t. I certainly don’t want to risk it now until I know if I’m pregnant or not.
“No,” I say quickly–too quickly. The waiter blinks. Tarron looks up, surprised. “I mean… water, please. Just water to start.”
The words tumble out too fast. I clear my throat, forcing a light laugh. “I’m driving.”
The waiter nods and disappears with a polite smile. Tarron leans back, studying me.
“You’ve never turned down a drink at a nice restaurant before.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say.
He tilts his head, that old, calculating gleam flickering behind his eyes. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
The air leaves my lungs like a punch.
He’s always been able to read me. I used to think it was because he was in tune with me. Now, I just wish I was a mystery he couldn’t solve.
“I—what?”
He shrugs, like it’s an offhand observation. “You’ve got that look.”
I laugh, but it comes out brittle. “What look?”
“The one you used to get when you thought you’d messed up,” he says quietly, like he’s remembering something fond.
“You’ve always carried everything like it’s life or death—like one mistake and you’ll end up like your mom.
You were hardest on yourself long before anyone else ever could be. It’s your ‘tell’.”
I stare at him, jaw tight. I want to be angry, but mostly I just feel… tired.
He softens, leaning forward. “I didn’t mean to… look, Kendall, if you are, you know you can tell me.”
Something inside me twists painfully. For a moment, I almost see the man I fell in love with years ago.
The one who’d bring me coffee at two a.m. during med-school rotations, before he ended up on the team in New York, the man who’d read my flash cards out loud even though he could barely pronounce half the words.
But that man died somewhere between the fame, the cheating, and the headlines.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say quietly.
His brows lift. “Who is he?”
“No one you know.”
He sighs, sits back, and looks away toward the bar. “He’s on the Hawkeyes, isn’t he?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.
When his gaze comes back, the teasing is gone. “Kendall… the medical board. You know what they’ll do if they find out.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I snap before I can stop myself.
I glance around but luckily the table Tarron reserved for us is the most private, set back a little ways for the rest of the main dining hall.
He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does he know you might be pregnant?”
“No. He doesn’t.”
The waiter returns with our drinks, breaking the tension. Tarron thanks him smoothly and waits until he’s gone before leaning in again.
“I’ll say it’s mine.”
My heart actually stops. “I’m sorry, what?”
He says it so casually, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
“Come on. It’s perfect. He doesn’t know, and neither does the board.
We tell people we’re… figuring things out.
That the baby’s mine. With us both in the same city again, it’ll make sense that we’re trying again. No one would question it.”
“You’re insane.”
As if I would ever make any agreement with him. Besides, he never does anything out of the goodness of his heart. Well… not anymore.
He shrugs again, swirling his drink. “No, I’m pragmatic. It helps us both.”
There it is. I stare at him, disbelief and nausea tangling into one. “Define helps,” I say flatly.
“It protects your license,” he says plainly. “And it gives me the image I need. A family man, second chances, a redemption arc. The Sentinels will eat it up and can sell it.”
“Do they really care about your reputation that much?” I ask.
“They do,” he says. “Especially when their GM used to run New York. He’s the one who had my coach fire me.” He looks at me, expression even. “They don’t play around.”
“They canned you because you were drinking and partying too much. You were missing practice–”
“I know. I was there,” he says, stopping me from continuing.
Did he think I forgot?
“How does this help you exactly?” I ask.
“You help me clean up my name, and I keep yours out of the medical board’s crosshairs.” His voice is clinical, almost rehearsed.
I can’t breathe. “You think pretending we’re back together will fix anything?”
He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers against mine. I freeze.
“I’m not exactly suggesting we pretend,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s temporary, until we both get what we need. Or maybe it’s fate. I know you want to be a mother. If it turns out you’re not pregnant… I could change that result for you too.”
I pull my hand back and let out a shaky laugh. “You really haven’t changed.”
“I have Kendall. More than you think. But I need a chance to prove it. This is my chance,” he says, smiling faintly. “I still care about you. And if I can protect you, why not let me?”
And damn him, he almost sounds sincere.
I take a long drink of my water and stare out at the rain-blurred window. “I’m not even sure I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
“If you’re not, and you want to be, my offer stands either way,” he says easily, as if we’re planning a vacation and not rewriting our lives.
The waiter reappears with our food. Tarron thanks him again, his polished charm on automatic, and I can’t decide if it’s worse that he’s being kind or that his offer would actually solve my immediate professional problem.
As he talks about training camp and rehab, I nod, letting his voice wash into the background. The knot in my stomach tightens with every second.
When I get home, I need to take that test. One way or another, I need to know.
If I’m pregnant, I’m probably about eight weeks gestational with them counting the time from my last period.
I don’t know when I’ll start to show, but I need to be prepared.
Thank God scrubs aren’t form-fitting, and neither are the Hawkeyes’ athletic sweats.
That could buy me more time… if I need it.
Tarron’s offer gives me one other benefit I hadn’t intended to consider: if he claims paternity publicly, I don’t have to drop a bomb into Aleksi’s life now that he seems to have found someone who makes him genuinely happy.
After how I shoved him away after the playoff loss and our night in Nevada—after everything—I don’t want to yank him back into chaos.
Maybe this is the best outcome for everyone.
Maybe I’m just rationalizing.
Either way, the test in my car is burning a hole in my glove compartment.
Dinner wraps in a blur. I don’t even remember the last thing Tarron said before the waiter cleared our plates.
Outside, the drizzle has turned into a fine mist. The valet jogs off to get my car while Tarron stands beside me under the awning, hands shoved in his pockets.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place? It’s got a great view of Seattle,” he says, voice smooth, practiced, like he’s offering comfort instead of complication.
“You’re not asking me back to your place to check out the view.”
He shakes his head and looks down with a grin.
“Okay, I’m not. I miss you and maybe I don’t want this night to end.
I screwed up with you. I know that. Tonight was a start to fix it.
And then you came to dinner dressed like that…
” he takes a full scan of my body. “And we were always good in bed together.”
That makes me think of Aleksi. Now that I’ve had better than Tarron, I don’t share his same sentiment about our past sex life.
In some ways, it would be easy to fall back in bed with Tarron.
He’s hurt me in the worst way, but there’s comfort in being with him too.
Something that has more to do with me than him.
Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. But falling in bed with him just to not be alone tonight while I find out my fate about whether I’m pregnant or not isn’t what I need.
I’ll only hate myself more in the morning.
“Not tonight… probably not ever,” I say. “Dinner was all I can handle right now.”
He studies me for a beat longer, searching for something in my face that I’m not willing to give. Finally, he nods. “You’ll consider my offer though? About the pregnancy?”
“I will take your odd proposal into consideration.”
The valet pulls up my car, the headlights of my old but reliable car cutting through the rain-slick pavement.
Tarron waves off the driver and holds the door open for me.
These are the kind of moments when I see the old Tarron.
I slide inside, thank him, and wait until the door shuts before exhaling and unclenching the abs I’ve been holding all night with nerves.
Through the windshield, I catch his reflection. confident, charming, and perfectly unbothered by my rejection because he’s confident I’ll come around, like I always did. The man who used to be my whole world, and then took a wrecking ball to it in less than a second.
I grip the steering wheel. “I’m not pregnant,” I whisper to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “I can’t be.”
My heart doesn’t believe it. Not even a little.
By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the city feels half-asleep. My hands tremble as I reach into the glove compartment and pull out the pregnancy test Isla gave me. It feels heavier now than it did when I left Vivi’s house. Like it already knows the answer I’m not ready for.
In the bathroom, I follow the directions with clinical precision. Years of medical training don’t make it any easier. I set the test on the counter and wash my hands, because it’s something to do while I wait.
But waiting is the worst part.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Before I can talk myself out of it, I open Instagram again.
Aleksi’s page.
The first thing I see is a new post: him on the ice, grinning, arm wrapped around that same blonde woman. She’s laughing up at him, cheeks pink from the cold, like they share a secret only they know.
My stomach twists. God, he looks happy.
The caption: Nothing better than being home. A heart emoji and a Finnish flag.
I want to be happy for him. I do. But the air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale.
He deserves this. Some peace and normalcy. A woman not running from him to save her career.
And I… can’t be the one to take that away.
A baby with Aleksi could cost me my license and cost the team and Aleksi sanctions.
It doesn’t change the fact that seeing them together makes the nausea rise fast. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.
When it’s over, I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. I look pale despite the full face of make-up, and I’m shaking–terrified.
I turn toward the counter.
The test is ready.
Two pink lines stare back at me.
My knees almost buckle. I grab the sink, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Aleksi’s smiling face flashes in my mind again, that woman tucked under his arm, his caption about being home.
“I can’t ruin this for you,” I whisper.
But the truth glows bright and undeniable in front of me.
Positive.
There’s no undoing this.
I’m pregnant.
And it’s his.