Chapter Eleven
Kendall
It’s crazy to think that I’m now three months pregnant and I’m no closer to coming up with a way to tell Aleksi about this baby without him tossing out his entire new life just to ‘do the right thing’, which I know he’ll try to do.
The comment section on Trey’s interview is finally starting to die down, and I’ve blocked my mother three times since the photos of me and Tarron went live. She only ever texts when she wants something:
So happy to see you reconciling. I always liked him.
Of course, she did because he always bought her nice gifts and gave her tickets to his games as some sort of attempt to help mend our relationship. It took him two years into our relationship for him to realize she was just a user.
You blocked my last number. I’m trying here Kenny. If he gets a new start, why don’t I?
Blocked again.
Really? Blocked again? I figured you’ve changed. I thought maybe you care how I’m doing and how I could use some help. But of course not. Still selfish ‘ol high and mighty doctor. Tarron was always too good for you.
She only finds me when there’s money in it.
I hate the idea that Tarron leaked enough information that suggests I’m pregnant.
She’s the last person I want to know about it.
She didn’t even offer congratulations. Why would she?
She always told me in a drunken fluster how having a kid was the worst decision she ever made.
Another text comes through, and I cringe before looking down.
My heart immediately mends the second I see who it is. Relief and a smile come to my cheeks.
Vivi: I’m kidnapping you.
Me: I’m working.
Peyton: Liar. Practice is over for the day.
Vivi: We’re going shopping. Baby stuff. No arguing.
Me: I don’t even have a nursery. I live in a shoebox.
Peyton: Then we’ll call it “creative spatial planning.”
Vivi: I’m a genius at small spaces. Bring your comfy shoes.
Me: I don’t need anything.
Peyton: You need sunshine and serotonin.
Vivi: And decaf lattes. I’ll see you in thirty minutes, Momma Bear
I stare at the phone a full minute before I sigh and grab my keys.
They mean well. They always do, and after everything with my mom and Tarron, somehow, they knew I needed this.
Of course they did.
The shop downtown is all soft lighting and pale wood. Creams, pale pinks, blues, and yellows. Every stuffed animal imaginable lines the shelves, along with baby books, luxury breast pumps, and strollers that cost more than my car.
The sunlight spills through the wide front window. It smells like clean linen and lavender, and for the first time in weeks, my shoulders relax.
Not because I need retail therapy, but because being here, with my friends, embracing this baby and making this a fun experience for me, lets me revel a little in the fact that this baby is real.
It’s not just something between me and my OBGYN anymore.
Others know and they might even be more excited about it all then me.
Rows of tiny sweaters and impossibly small socks hang from copper racks. Peyton’s already fingering a line of plush animals, muttering about how the giraffe looks like her podcast co-host. Vivi’s holding up a delicate muslin blanket printed with tiny stars.
“This is the one,” she says decisively. “Gender-neutral, classy, and machine washable. We’re already nailing this.”
I laugh and then take a sip of my drink they got me before we met up. “I don’t even have a crib yet.”
“Then start with something small,” Peyton says. “Every story starts somewhere.”
I drift toward the back, fingertips trailing over soft fabrics and wooden mobiles shaped like clouds. For a second, I let myself imagine it. A tiny nursery corner in my studio apartment, the soft light through the window, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against my chest.
I’ve made every decision in my life with logic and precision. Med school, residency, fellowships, the NFL team I worked for before the Hawkeyes. Each one was planned, deliberate, and earned.
This… this wasn’t.
And yet, somehow, it feels like the first thing that’s ever been right. The only thing that feels off. The baby’s dad has no clue.
Vivi appears beside me, holding up a tiny onesie that says rookie of the year. I can’t help it—I smile.
She grins back. “That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from you in weeks.”
“It’s hormones,” I tease.
“Bullshit.” She bumps my shoulder. “That’s joy, and you’re allowed to feel it.”
She’s right, it is joy. I can’t pretend that being a mother isn’t something I’ve always thought I’d be, even if the idea of turning into my mother terrifies me.
I already love this baby so much. I just wish that the nagging complications of who the father is, isn’t the final nail in my career coffin.
It would be easier to tell him if I didn’t think dropping this baby bomb on him didn’t ruin his new happiness.
Across the store, Peyton calls out, “You know who’s back in town, right?”
The air shifts.
Vivi shoots her a warning look, but Peyton barrels on, unbothered. “The guys started trickling in yesterday. Training camp orientation is this week. I heard Aleksi’s flight landed last night.”
My heart gives a traitorous thump.
I smooth my hand over my stomach, grounding myself.
Vivi rubs my arm. “Don’t worry. He probably has terrible jet lag. You probably have another day or two to gather what you’re going to tell him,” she says, glancing down at the now, three month tiny baby bump that’s at the point of not being able to hide anymore.
For the last month, I just looked bloated and my ‘bigger’ scrubs did most of the hiding for me. But now I’ve “popped” per Isla and my little baby bump is pretty hard to pass off as just putting on a few pounds.
“Are you going to tell him?” Peyton asks gently.
“Yes, but I'm afraid to.” The word comes out wobbly and unsure. “He’s got a life in Finland now. A girlfriend. I saw the photos.”
Vivi frowns. “You don’t know that—”
“I do,” I say quietly. “And even if I didn’t, it doesn’t matter. He’d drop everything if I told him. His career, his team… her. He’d feel like he had to, I just know it. I don’t want him to drop everything for me and this baby. I can raise it on my own.”
Peyton shakes her head. “Don’t you think you should let him choose what’s worth giving up? I mean, if you’re willing to let him have a choice is any of this?”
“I’m protecting the baby, and him… and the Hawkeyes."
“Okay, I get it… I do. So I’m going to say this one last thing. And I mean this with love… but is there any chance that you’re protecting yourself from fear of rejection?” Peyton asks.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Vivi reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing once.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell us. You have your reason and we’ll support you.
” she says softly. “Our job today is to make sure you have everything you need. No matter what. If you want to downplay this whole thing to Aleksi and give him an easy out, then do what you have to.”
The pressure behind my eyes builds, but I blink it back. Peyton’s probably right but I just can’t go to that place right now. Rejection has been such a huge part of my life. My mother, Tarron, the media. Even medical school has a lot of moments where someone else is picked over you.
Admission letters, first year residency applications, everything has a waiting list and a line of people more qualified than you.
We wander for another half hour, falling into easy chatter. Peyton debates stroller models like she’s prepping for a sports draft. Vivi insists every baby deserves a plush blanket “so soft it makes angels jealous.”
I know Peyton and Vivi mean well, which is why I take into consideration everything they say, even if I need to process it for more time before I can answer it honestly.
For today, I’m going to allow myself to bask in being here. Surrounded by pastel chaos and people who refuse to let me feel alone.
Vivi’s voice breaks through my reverie. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I smile, small but sure. “Actually, I think I am.”
Peyton slings an arm around my shoulders. “Good. Because we’re doing this together. You and baby bubble get the whole WAG village.”
I laugh softly. “I think we’re gonna need it.”
And if I have to play along with Tarron’s redemption narrative to keep this peace intact, so be it.
He can use my name for good press. It keeps the Hawkeyes, Aleksi… and Penelope’s GM position safely out of the media’s line of fire. And I can use Tarron’s name for protection.
Penelope has done so much for me. I owe her a lot and dragging the start of her legacy as the first female GM in the NHL into the mud isn’t fair. She doesn’t deserve that.
This option is at least transactional.
No one gets hurt.
Aleksi
The walk from The Commons to the stadium takes maybe five minutes, but I’m practically buzzing by the time I hit the second block.
Back home, finally.
The three months in Finland did what I needed it to—reset my head, refill the tank. Between helping coach my nephew’s peewee team, sauna nights with my mom, and my sister force-feeding me home cooking, I actually feel… good. Grounded. Ready to take on this season
I didn’t text Kendall. Not even once.
She asked for space, and I gave it to her. Even when it felt like it was cutting off my oxygen. I can’t count the number of times I wrote something and then deleted it before I sent it. How many times I stalked her photos and the team’s socials trying to get any glimpse of her and how she’s doing.
And when those photos with Tarron hit the internet, I tried not to read into them.
The dinner, the hand on her back, the kiss on the cheek, the little bundle comment in his interview that made me throw my cell phone against the wall of my sister’s living room.
That cost me a brand new phone and a full interrogation about Kendall from a nosy twin sister.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That maybe she’d finally moved on.