24. BAILEY #2
Finn: Found something called developmental contrast cards. No idea what they are, but they seem intense for someone currently poppy-seed-adjacent.
I’m at the nurses’ station when that one comes in, trying to chart while the scent of someone’s reheated pasta threatens to end me.
I type back with one thumb.
Me: Finn.
His reply is instant.
Finn: Too much?
I look at the screen for a second too long, because the answer is yes, and no. Also, I love that you care, and please stop making me feel like there’s an invisible checklist I’m already behind on.
I don’t know how to fit all of that into a text. So I send the safest version.
Me: A little.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Finn: Got it. Scaling down. Baby internet is benched.
I smile despite myself.
Then another text appears.
Finn: For now.
I close my eyes, fighting a laugh.
This man is going to be the death of me.
***
The first sign that something has gone wrong is Finn calling me at ten-forty-two in the morning.
Finn texts during the day.
He doesn’t call while I’m at work.
I’m at the nurses’ station, charting with one hand and eating crackers with the other when his name appears on my screen, and my heart gives one hard thump.
I step into the supply room and answer. “Everything okay?”
There is a pause.
“Define okay,” Finn says.
I close my eyes. “Finn.”
“I’m going to start with nobody is hurt.”
“That is a terrible opening.”
“I know. I heard it after I said it.”
“What happened?”
Another pause.
This one is worse because I can hear voices in the background. Male voices. Loud ones. Someone laughs. Someone else says something I can’t make out, followed by what sounds like a chair scraping across a floor.
“Are you with the team?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you sound like you’re calling from the scene of a crime?”
“Because, in a way, I am.”
“Finn.”
He exhales. “Ty knows.”
My stomach drops.
Not because of Ty specifically, though Ty knowing anything does seem like the opposite of containment.
“Ty knows what?”
“That you’re pregnant.”
For one second, the supply room gets very small.
My fingers tighten around my phone. “How?”
“I told Dylan.”
“You told Dylan.”
“Privately,” he says quickly. “I told Dylan privately. We were at breakfast after morning skate, and I asked him if he had a minute. I was trying to be normal about it.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
At least he is self-aware.
“I wasn’t going to tell everyone,” he continues. “I swear. I just needed one person to know, and Dylan is less likely than Ty to make a banner and hang it in the locker room.”
I lean against the supply shelf and press my free hand to my forehead. “What did Ty hear?”
“The word baby.”
“That’s it?”
“And maybe something about not telling anyone yet.”
There is a burst of noise on his end. Finn muffles the phone for a second, then comes back. “Ty says he didn’t mean to overhear.”
“Do you actually believe him?”
“I believe he didn’t mean to be obvious about it.”
Despite myself, a tiny laugh escapes, but it doesn’t erase the tightness in my chest.
Finn hears both. “I’m sorry, Bailey.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“I know that too.”
“I should’ve waited. Or taken Dylan outside. Or written it down and set the paper on fire after he read it.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“I’m open to dramatic if it helps.”
I close my eyes again.
The thing is, I’m not angry. Not exactly.
He told Dylan because he needed someone. I understand that. I told Emerson before I even told Finn. Then the women. I don’t get to be the only person who needs a handhold while the ground shifts.
But understanding does not make the exposure disappear.
The team knowing means more people picturing my future before I’ve had a chance to understand it myself. More reactions. More opinions. More jokes made with love that still press against places already tender.
“What did they say?” I ask.
Finn is quiet for half a second. “Do you want the sanitized version or the accurate one?”
“Accurate.”
“Ty said he knew my genetics would be a gift to future generations.”
I stare at the wall. “Of course he did.”
“Dylan told him never to say that sentence again.”
“Good.”
“Nico congratulated me and then told Ty to stop talking.”
“Also good.”
“Knox asked if you were okay.”
That softens something in me before I can stop it.
“And Beck said if I needed fatherhood advice, I should ask Sienna because she’s the reason their children are alive and emotionally stable.”
That gets a real laugh out of me, and Finn’s breath changes on the other end, like he’s relieved to hear it.
“Then Ty asked whether the baby would get tiny skates,” he says.
“Finn.”
“I know.”
“How did we get from one overheard word to tiny skates?”
“It was a fast-moving situation.”
“I’m beginning to understand why men should not gather unsupervised.”
“Honestly, that’s not wrong.”
The background noise gets louder again. Someone shouts, “Tell Bailey we’re happy for her,” and someone else immediately says, “Don’t yell at the pregnant woman through the phone.”
I close my eyes and laugh, even though my throat feels tight. Finn says something away from the receiver, low and sharp enough that the room behind him quiets.
When he comes back, his voice is softer. “I’ll shut it down. I promise.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It is currently a thing.”
“Don’t make it a bigger thing, then.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?”
“I’ll try.”
I let out a breath and look at the boxes of gloves stacked on the shelf in front of me. Small. Medium. Large. Everything sorted. Everything labeled. A room full of useful things with a place they belong.
My life doesn’t feel the least bit sorted.
It feels like everyone keeps stepping into it with good intentions and loud feelings, and I’m standing in the middle trying to smile because I know I’m loved.
The problem is that love can still be a lot.
“Bailey,” Finn says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m not mad the way you think.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know you didn’t tell everyone. I know Ty overheard. I know the team is excited because they care about you.”
“They care about you, too.”
That makes my throat tighten again.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“And that’s part of it?”
I close my eyes. “A little.”
He goes quiet.
Not because he doesn’t understand.
Because I think maybe he does.
“I’ll tell them to keep it contained,” he says. “No questions. No advice. No tiny skates.”
“Especially no tiny skates.”
“Banned at least until the poppy seed’s first birthday.”
“And Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to need someone, too.”
The silence on his end shifts.
“I know,” he says, but he says it like he is still learning.
“I told the girls.”
“I figured.”
“And I’m glad I did. It helped. It was also overwhelming.”
“I get that.”
“I think that’s what this is. Not anger. Just... too many people knowing something I barely know how to feel about yet.”
His voice drops. “Okay.”
“I need time to catch up.”
“I can give you that.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Can you?”
“I can attempt it with enthusiasm.”
“That sounds like the opposite of giving me time.”
“Quiet enthusiasm. I’ll work on it.”
The supply room door opens an inch, and one of the nurses peeks in. “Bailey? Sorry, room 212 is asking for you.”
I nod. “I’ll be right there.”
Finn hears it. “Go. I’ll handle the idiots.”
“They’re your idiots.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Dylan I’m not mad at him.”
“He’ll appreciate that. He currently looks like he’s considering witness protection.”
“And no one else needs to know yet. Outside the team.”
“No one else,” he says immediately. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m in trouble, though, right?”
“Probably.”
“That’s not wrong.”
I smile despite myself. “I’ll call you after work.”
“I’ll answer.”
When I hang up, I stand in the supply room for three extra seconds, letting the quiet settle around me.
Then my phone buzzes.
Finn: Ty asked if tiny goalie pads are better. Dylan is handling it.
Christmas comes and goes in a blur of soft lights, too much food, and too many people looking at me like I might shatter if they hug me.
I stay in Redwood Grove instead of driving down to see my parents, which I justify with work, weather, and the fact that holiday traffic makes people lose their humanity. All of that is true.
It is also not the whole truth. The whole truth is that I’m not ready to tell them yet.
I’m not ready for my mother’s sharp inhale, my father’s careful silence, the questions I won’t know how to answer.
So I stay in town. I work. I let Emerson feed me soup.
I let Jade drop off crackers, ginger chews, and a pair of tiny socks she swears are “for morale.” I let Sienna remind me that early pregnancy is mostly survival and snacks.
By New Year’s Eve, Finn has toned down the baby links, mostly because I told him if he sent me one more article with the words “must-have registry item,” I was changing my number. But the effort is still there. Softer now. Less frantic on the surface.
Maybe that should make me feel better. Mostly, it makes me nervous. Which is why, when Finn tells me he planned something low-key for New Year’s Eve, my first thought is sweet.
My second thought is, how hard is he working to make it perfect?
***
He picks me up at seven.
When I open the door, he’s standing on my porch in dark jeans, a black sweater, and a wool coat, holding a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet in the other.
Not roses.
Tulips.
Soft pink and white, wrapped in brown paper.
“Before you say anything,” he says, “I did not Google best pregnancy-safe flowers.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why would flowers be unsafe?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I didn’t Google it.”
I stare at him.
He shifts the bouquet slightly. “Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. “It’s not too much. They’re beautiful.”
His shoulders ease, but not all the way, and that’s what I keep noticing now.