Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Hailey
Penalty Shot: You can Never Dodge This One
I stare at him.
Not a blink-and-look-away stare. Not a quick-flick-of-my-eyes, trying-to-figure-out-if-I-misheard-him stare. No, this is a full-body shutdown, brain short-circuiting, what-the-actual-fuck-did-you-just-say kind of stare.
Because I wasn’t expecting that. Not even a little. Out of all the worst-case scenarios my brain has obsessed over in the past few days—how this will implode my career, derail my future, redefine my entire existence—I never stopped to ask myself the most basic, most fundamental question of all:
Am I keeping the baby?
And the answer crashes into me immediately. Like it’s been there all along, waiting for me to notice.
Yes. Of course, I am.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t plan for this. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a five-year roadmap, or even a five-minute one. It doesn’t matter that I’m a walking disaster who can barely keep a houseplant alive, let alone a human being.
It’s already decided.
And maybe that should scare me, but weirdly, it doesn’t. Not really. The fear is there, sure. Pressing against the edges, whispering all the ways I could mess this up—but it doesn’t change anything. Because this is mine. A part of me.
Which is why it takes a second—too long—to register exactly how he phrased it.
Are we keeping the baby?
He said, We.
Not you, Hailey. No, there was definitely a we implied there. We as in us.
My lungs seize.
I rewind the conversation, sure I misheard, but no—there it is, clear as day. Are we keeping the baby?
I barely breathe.
Leif is watching me, his expression calm. Too calm. Like he just asked if I want Thai or Italian for dinner. Like this is normal. Like this is his, too.
And—I panic.
Because he can’t mean that. He can’t. This isn’t his responsibility. This isn’t his life imploding in real time. He has his own world, his own career, his own future that doesn’t involve getting tangled up in my mistakes.
I swallow hard, my brain screaming at me to fix this before it spirals out of control.
I shake my head, words scraping out of my throat. “Leif?—”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Just waits.
And that’s worse.
Because I know how to handle anger. I know how to handle judgment, disappointment, the awkward who’s-the-dad questions I’ll inevitably get from every nosy stranger. But this? This version of Leif—calm, my constant—looking at me like I’m not unraveling, like I’m not a disaster waiting to happen?
I don’t know what to do with that.
I shove up from the bed, moving like I can outrun this conversation, pacing toward the window. My fingers press against my forehead like I can physically shove the spiraling thoughts back inside.
“This isn’t—” I exhale, sharp, uneven. “You can leave, okay? It’s too complicated.”
A beat of silence.
Then he asks, “What’s complicated?”
I spin, exasperated. “This.” I wave a hand around my belly, the gesture as useless as I feel. “You don’t have to—step in. Fix things. Rearrange your life because the pill and a condom didn’t do their job. I’m the one who fucked up.”
He blinks, slow. “Who said anything about fucking up?”
I bark out a laugh—sharp, brittle. “Leif, come on.”
His jaw flexes, something shifting behind his expression. Something I don’t want to name.
“You really think that’s what I see when I look at you?”
The question slams into me, cracking something deep inside my chest.
I open my mouth—but nothing comes out.
Because I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know how to explain the war happening inside my head.
So I do what I do best. I deflect.
I drag my hands through my hair, let out a breathy, forced laugh. “I mean, I knew you had a hero complex, but this is next-level,” I say, pushing lightness into my voice. “Do you ever just sit back and let people handle their own disasters?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
And when I turn, he’s not smiling. Not even a little.
Something tightens in my stomach.
He exhales, slow. “You really think I’m here because I feel obligated?”
I hesitate. “Aren’t you?”
His eyes flick over my face, searching for something I don’t want him to find.
Then, finally, he stands.
Slow. Careful. Measured in a way that makes me want to back up—but I hold my ground.
“I’m here,” he says, voice calm, certain, “because you matter to me. You’re my best friend. And when I need you, you’re there—no matter the time, no matter the reason.”
His gaze locks onto mine, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Because I want to believe him.
God, I want to.
But I don’t know how.
Leif just watches me, completely steady, completely him, like this is normal. Like I’m not a woman on the verge of an existential crisis, grasping at frayed edges while my whole life comes apart in my hands. This is too much. He should leave. Maybe another day we can pick up the conversation. Probably in eighteen years when his friend is no longer in need of help. When I’ve kicked ass as a mother, then, I’ll be able to look at him and say, See, I could do it on my own. I don’t need anyone.
I swallow hard. “Leif . . .”
“You should move in with me.” The words land like a physical thing, knocking the breath from my lungs.
My laugh bursts out, startled and disbelieving. “What?”
“You should move in with me,” he says again, steady, certain like he’s not suggesting something completely deranged.
Okay, he’s the one who’s out of his mind. You don’t just offer someone to move in with you, more so when that would destroy his routine. A baby wakes up every minute at night. I’ve only dealt with little ones during the day. I think they become goblins at night—at least that’s what I’ve heard from friends and acquaintances.
Though as lovely as his offer is, I have to say, “No.”
Leif doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t roll his eyes or push back immediately. He just watches me, waiting. Like he expected that response. Like he’s already thought this through a thousand different ways and he’s going to convince me.
“Why not?” he asks, voice low.
I gape at him. “Why not? Leif.”
He lifts a brow. “That’s not an answer.”
I sputter, throwing my arms out. “I don’t have a place to move from, Leif. My place is wherever my suitcase lands. My ‘home’ is a hotel room or a temporary rental or—God, an airport terminal if the flights are bad enough.”
“Exactly,” he says. Like I just proved his point.
I scowl. “That’s not—” I stop, shaking my head. “That’s not a reason to move in with you.”
“It’s the perfect reason.” He shifts, crossing his arms, tone frustratingly logical. “You need stability. Comfort. A place that actually feels like yours.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. And that place should be your house? I should just rent somewhere.”
“No, you should move in with me,” he insists.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because—” I make a vague, frantic gesture. “Because that’s not my life. I don’t have a home, Leif. I don’t do homes. That’s permanent and for people who . . . are not me, okay?”
His gaze flickers, but he doesn’t look away. “Maybe it’s time you did.”
“Well, yeah. I have to be responsible now,” I agree with him. “I’m supposed to lease an apartment I can afford and you know when I’ll be able to work again?”
“When the baby is old enough,” he states. “You can go back to study your Ph.D., or . . . the possibilities are endless.”
I hate how easily he says it, how effortless he makes it sound. Like it’s simple. Like I can just decide to belong somewhere. I can just start a new life. And how does he remember about the Ph.D.? I do want to become a teacher at some point, because I know traveling places isn’t forever.
I exhale hard, turning away from him, pressing my fingers against my forehead like I can physically push the panic back inside. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice quieter now. “You don’t have to—take care of me.”
Leif doesn’t hesitate. “I know.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, exasperated. “Then why are you doing it?”
His voice is soft, steady. “Because I want to.”
I shake my head. “You can’t want this.”
“I do.”
I spin, glaring at him. “Leif, you have a life. You have your routines, your schedule, your team. You don’t have time to play babysitter to a woman who doesn’t know how to sit still and is about to have a baby.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. “I think I can handle you.”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“No, I’m persistent.”
I huff, dragging my hands through my hair. “Leif, I crash on couches and live out of a suitcase. I don’t do things like settle down or—” I make another helpless gesture, repeat what I just said a few minutes ago hoping it’ll sink in this time. “Have a permanent address.”
“Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to sign a lease,” he says easily. “You just have to move your stuff in.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “My stuff is exactly one suitcase and a duffel bag.”
“Great. That’ll make moving day really easy.” He then arches an eyebrow. “You might want to take your shit out of storage though.”
I groan, tipping my head back, glaring at the ceiling like it holds the answers. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I drop my head, meeting his gaze again. “Because you know I don’t deserve it,” I blurt.
Leif stills.
The air shifts, like something heavy just landed between us.
I wish I could take it back, shove the words back inside where they belong, but they’re out now. Hanging there. Stupid and raw and so embarrassingly true that I want to claw my skin off.
I force a laugh, light and brittle. “I mean, come on, Leif. I’m a disaster. You know that. I’ve spent my entire life running. Always the next country, the next assignment, the next thing to keep me moving forward so I don’t have to stop and look at how much of a mess I actually am. And now—” I gesture vaguely to my stomach. “Now I’ve gone and made it permanent.”
Leif doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me, his jaw tight, his eyes too damn knowing.
Then, finally, he exhales. “Okay.”
I frown. “Okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
I blink. “You’re—agreeing with me?”
“Not exactly.” His lips twitch. “I’m just acknowledging that you’re an idiot.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“Look, I get it.” He leans against the wall, arms still crossed. “You think you don’t deserve good things. Your father made that perfectly clear after your mother died. I’ve told you not once, not twice, but several times that you need fucking therapy and to stay away from him. Right now, you believe you’re not worthy of love, or a home, or . . . I bet that you don’t even think you deserve a family.” His voice softens. “But let me tell you that you deserve that and more.”
Cue waterworks. I’m sobbing desperately—what is wrong with me? Usually I would fight him for bringing up things that I told him in confidence, not to use them against me. I can’t today.
“You’re my best friend, Hailey. And that means I’ll always be in your corner, whether you want me there or not.” He pauses. “Especially when you don’t.”
Something in my chest cracks, threatening to split wide open.
I force another laugh. “Ugh, why do you have to be so . . . like this? I can’t with you.”
He grins. “That’s the spirit.”
I roll my eyes. “You really think moving into your house is going to fix all my problems?”
He lifts a brow. “No. But I think it’ll make it easier to figure them out.”
I hesitate.
Because the truth is . . . I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a place and searching for one has been difficult.
I chew my lip. “You sure you can handle me as a roommate?”
He smirks. “Hailey, I’ve been handling you for years.”
I groan. “Wow. And I was almost starting to be convinced.”
“I’d be worried if you weren’t giving me a hard time.” He tilts his head. “So, what do you say?”
As I’m about to say nope, he adds something that can only be described as a low blow. “Think about the baby, Hailey Bean. You can’t be jumping through hotels or rentals during your pregnancy.”
“That’s low even for you, Crawford.” I glare at him.
He grins. “I know. Let’s pack your shit and leave. I’ll even let you choose what we’re eating today.”
“Ooh, we’re ordering takeout?” I clap, excited.
“Nope. I got a chef—Scottie’s idea. She thinks it’ll help me keep a more nutritious diet during the season when I don’t have time to cook.”
“Your family is not going to be happy with this,” I say, not sure if it’s just a comment or my last chance to push him out.
“My family is the total opposite from yours—they’re going to be thrilled that we’re having a baby.”
Well, at least someone is thrilled. Me? I don’t know how to be.