30. Chapter Thirty #2
Lindy changes the subject to nursery colors, bless her.
The moment passes. We finish lunch. Hug goodbye.
Quinn heads back to the facility with a quick "good luck this afternoon" and a light kiss on my cheek.
Paige has a meeting at her office and leans in for a hug before the valet pulls up with her car.
Lindy waves, walking to where she parked her Jeep down the street, saying she's got editing to do and she'll send me pics from today's event by tomorrow morning and pass a few to her social team for posting.
I drive home thinking about Quinn and Liam. About how people can hurt each other so badly that even mentioning party planning becomes loaded. About how one of Kevin's best friends is Quinn's biggest regret.
About how complicated everything is when you mix love and hockey and history.
My phone buzzes.
??Sunshine
Leaving now. Pick you up at the condo in 15?
I'll be ready.
The ultrasound. Our baby.
In less than an hour, we'll see the heartbeat of the tiny person we created together.
I heard Quinn's pain today, could clearly see what love and hockey can destroy. But then I think about Kevin: steady, certain Kevin who smiles and says this is really fucking good. Who's fighting to stay in Austin. Who loves me and this baby we didn't plan but both can’t wait to meet.
Maybe love and hockey don’t have to be complicated. Maybe sometimes a hockey player loves you and then you stop being scared of the fact that you love your best friend, and along the way, you make a whole person together.
Maybe that's enough. I want to let myself believe it is.
Kevin's quiet on the drive to the appointment, but he's holding my hand across the console, and that's somehow more comforting than words.
"You okay?" he asks as we exit toward Mopac.
"Nervous. Did you know Quinn and Liam used to date?"
His eyebrows go up slightly. "Yeah, everyone who's been around here for a few years knows. No one talks about it anymore. No one wanted to take sides. They moved on, so did we."
"I'm not sure she's moved on as far as you think. She said something at lunch today that made me wonder. She seems..." I search for the word. "Hurt. Still. Even though she says she's not."
"Crash lives up to the name, in a lot of ways. It's a great quality on the ice, less so in other aspects of life." He squeezes my hand. "You worried about it?"
"No. Um, just... Just thinking about how messy everything gets when you mix personal and professional. When you care about someone who's also your teammate or your colleague or—"
His eyes remain focused on Austin traffic, but I can see a hint of a smile. "Or the guy on your rescue's board who you're having a baby with?"
I look at him. "Yeah. Like that."
"Sarah, we aren't the first people to work together who fall in love, and we won't be the last," he says with a squeeze of my hand. "Although I think we might be the best."
"Always competitive, aren't you?"
"Sure. Where's the fun in losing?" He backs the truck into a parking space near the front door. He turns off the engine and comes around to open the door for me.
We head up to the office on the second floor and check in. I fill out approximately eight thousand forms while Kevin sits beside me, reading them over my shoulder and pointing out questions I missed.
"Emergency contact?" he asks.
I write his name like it's habit. His phone number. His address that's become mine since it's not located above a giant order of buffalo wing sauce.
We're called back after fifteen minutes that feel like hours.
The nurse — who seems young, efficient, and kind — takes my vitals and asks questions about symptoms and medications.
Then: "Dr. Conner will be in shortly. Go ahead and change into the gown — opening in the front — and have a seat on the table and cover the rest with the paper blanket. "
She leaves. I look at the paper gown with all the enthusiasm of picking up after Ranger on a walk through the park. These things are so stupid.
"You want me to step out?" Kevin asks.
"No. Stay." I start fiddling with the waistband of my jeans, which are currently held together by a hair tie looped around the button and knotted through the hole. "Just... Um, turn around for a second?"
He turns immediately. Faces the wall. Gives me privacy even though if he hadn't seen me naked at least once, we wouldn't be sitting in here today.
It's sweet. Very Kevin.
I change quickly. This shitty, flapping-open, half-of-a-dress crinkles every time I breathe. "Okay."
He turns back. His right eyebrow quirks up ever so slightly when he sees me sitting on the exam table in a paper gown thing with my legs dangling, girl bits and thighs covered by another giant paper rectangle.
He leans in and kisses my cheek. "You make that thing look hot."
"You're such a liar." Man, I love that he can make me laugh right now. Especially when I'm sitting on a weird metal and vinyl table in a paper napkin having a practically existential fashion crisis.
There's a knock. Dr. Conner enters. I've been a patient of hers for years. Always just the single girl annual exam special. I wonder if she's surprised to see me here with a positive pregnancy test and the reason for it standing next to me.
Then again, she probably sees this every day. I mean, honestly, the person most surprised by this pregnancy is probably me. Well, and Kevin.
Actually, judging by the reactions on Saturday — probably Tyler. Poor clueless Tyler.
"Sarah! Good to see you again. And you must be Dad."
Kevin reaches his hand out to shake hers, then realizes she's got a glove on and he gets this slightly sheepish look on his face. "Yes ma'am. Kevin St. Clair. Nice to meet you."
"Why do I know that name?" She stops flipping switches on a piece of equipment and looks right at Kevin's face.
He handles it smoothly, like he's been asked this question a million times before. "Do you like hockey?"
"That's it! My son plays for Westlake Hills Prep. You did a clinic with Coach Campbell over the summer."
Kevin nods. "Brett's my best friend. We played in college together at Denver. I love getting to do the clinics with the kids. We're trying to see if my schedule will work to do something after winter break."
"I love hearing that — and nice to actually meet you.
Well, let's take a look at this baby, shall we?
" She's already pulling some very official looking equipment into position.
"At eight weeks, we'll be doing a transvaginal ultrasound — gives us the best view at this stage.
You'll feel some pressure, Sarah, but it shouldn't hurt.
We're looking for the gestational sac, we'll do some measurements and of course, we're listening for that heartbeat.
We should even be able to see a little wiggle or two. "
My hand finds Kevin's. Grips tight. I'm not going to be able to breathe until we hear the thump-thump of a heart. I look up at Kevin. His skin has gone several shades lighter. He's just as nervous as I am.
"You're going to want to lie back and scoot down to the end of the table," Dr. Conner continues. "Kevin, you can stand right here beside her, over toward her shoulder."
I do as instructed, using my one free hand to try and keep the flimsy paper garments all positioned where they're supposed to be. I'm not very good at this game.
Kevin moves to my side, his hand never leaving mine. The lights dim. Dr. Conner slides the ultrasound wand in, and I feel pressure. It’s not painful, just weird and uncomfortable.
The screen flickers to life. Gray and white and completely incomprehensible.
But Dr. Conner knows what she's looking for. "There's the gestational sac. Looking good, nice and round. And there—" She points to a small white blob in the center. "That's your baby."
The room goes quiet except for the hum of the machine. My hand is crushing Kevin's. I can feel tears already threatening, which is ridiculous because I can barely make out any detail.
Then—
A sound. Fast and rhythmic. Like a tiny galloping horse echoing through the exam room.
"There it is," Dr. Conner says, smiling. "Strong heartbeat. About 160 beats per minute, which is perfect for this stage."
I'm crying. Full-on crying, tears streaming down my face while I stare at the screen. At that flickering white blob. At the visual representation of the heartbeat we can hear.
Kevin makes this sound — half laugh, half something else. His voice comes out almost like sandpaper when he speaks. "That's our baby. That's really our baby."
"That's really your baby," Dr. Conner confirms. She's taking measurements now, clicking and typing, explaining things about crown-rump length and gestational age that I'm trying to absorb. But mostly I'm just listening to that sound, trying to memorize it.
I never want to forget that crazy fast heartbeat. 160 beats per minute. Our baby's heart.
My heart.
I look at Kevin. His heart too. It's written all over his face. He's blinking rapidly, using his free hand to wipe at the corners of his eyes.
"Look at it move," he says, voice full of wonder. "Already working on those dekes."
"Kevin, the baby is the size of a raspberry."
"An athletic raspberry." He squeezes my hand. "Did you see that little jerk to the left? Natural skill."
"Definitely a tiny hockey player already, Dad. Everything looks wonderful," Dr. Conner says. "Baby's measuring right on track for eight weeks. Due date looks like early June. I'm going to print some pictures for you."
The printer whirs. Dr. Conner hands me several images — grainy black and white photos on slick paper of what looks like a blob to anyone else but is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
As she's making a last series of clicks and notes, she's rattling off information about prenatal vitamins, genetic testing options, hospital pre-registration, childbirth classes.