Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Leif
When You’re Facing the Shot Alone
Hailey’s asleep.
She crashed hard after dinner, curled up into the smallest possible version of herself on my oversized couch, like she’s trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. Which is ridiculous because Hailey doesn’t know how to be small.
She fills rooms, fills conversations, fills every second of silence with some random fact she picked up while filming in a place I have to search on the internet just to confirm it’s real. Half the time, she swears we need to go there in the off-season, and sometimes we do. Other times, we end up in a place she’s never seen but insists we should explore because it’s “for the experience, Leif.”
But tonight? She’s quiet.
The walk through Central Park left her subdued, a rarity for someone whose brain usually fires off like a never-ending game of pinball. I’d bet anything she’s still chewing on everything the doctor threw at us. The appointment was a blur of sonograms, pamphlets, questions she didn’t ask but probably wanted to, and a handful of suggested books that—let’s be honest—she’s never going to read.
She’ll watch YouTube videos and ask her friends because it’s better to learn from experience. I glance at my e-reader, where I’ve spent the past ten minutes debating between Pregnancy for the Modern Parent and The What-to-Expect-When-You’d-Rather-Not Manual. Not exactly thrilling material. I could go with the classic—the book that every parent, grandparent, and overly-involved mother-in-law has probably read cover to cover—but something tells me Hailey would haunt me in my sleep if she caught me taking advice from a book written before Wi-Fi existed. They don’t know what’s happening now. I could debate with her that children have been born way before . . . Stop, Crawford, why are you arguing with your imaginary Hailey? Let her sleep and focus on the task at hand.
I rub my jaw. I shouldn’t be doing this. Not technically. This isn’t my baby.
Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?
She’s always been mine, in some way or another, and the baby . . .
I sigh and tap the screen. The book opens.
Week 8: The Early Stages
Your baby is now about the size of a kidney bean.
I pause, looking over at Hailey. Huh. She’s carrying a kidney bean. An actual bean. That’s—it’s tiny.
I shake my head and keep reading.
At this stage, many mothers experience nausea, exhaustion, and heightened sensitivity to smell. That explains why she gagged earlier when we passed a pretzel cart. A pretzel cart. She loves pretzels. It’s a personal offense to her entire being that she couldn’t eat one. And yet, she barely reacted, just turned a little green and walked faster, like maybe if she moved quickly enough, she could outrun whatever was happening inside her.
Foods that were once favorites may become intolerable, and certain smells can trigger strong nausea.
I frown, thinking back to dinner. The chef had already prepped something when we got back—a meal that would’ve made any other human consider proposing to him on the spot. Hailey? She barely touched hers. Just picked at the pasta, eating the plainest bites, avoiding anything with too much sauce, too much seasoning, like she was performing a low-effort excavation. She never said a word about it, never complained, but I saw how she nudged her plate around like it had personally wronged her.
I glance back at the e-reader. Maybe there’s something useful in here.
I skim past the nausea section and vomiting—she hasn’t actually thrown up yet—and land on a list of foods that are supposedly easier to keep everything she consumes down. Bland stuff, mostly. Rice, crackers, some fruits, a weirdly passionate endorsement for ginger.
Still, I shoot a text to George with new instructions for our meals. No garlic. No strong flavors. Maybe stock up on the things in the “you might survive eating this” section.
My phone buzzes immediately.
George: Bland food? Are we punishing someone?
Me: Hailey is pregnant.
George: Ah, that explains why she barely ate my food. Fine, I’ll deal with your guest. How long did you say she’ll stay?
That’s a great question and the answer should be something like “forever,” but I go with a simple response. At least until the baby is born.
I glance over at Hailey who shifts in her sleep, her fingers curling into the fabric of my couch like she’s holding onto something—even in her dreams. She burrows deeper, her breathing slow and even, the faintest crease between her brows, like she’s still thinking even as she rests.
I should probably stop watching her like some lovesick Victorian gentleman waiting for his unrequited love to awaken. Instead, I glance back at my screen and continue reading.
Emotional Changes and Mental Health.
I really had no idea how pregnancies worked. When my parents had my younger siblings—Lucian, Scottie, and Greyson—they just mentioned we would have an addition each time and brought the baby right after they were born. We never met the surrogate mothers or . . . were a part of said pregnancy.
Now I need to know everything without ever witnessing it. And it seems like pregnancy can bring significant emotional changes due to hormonal shifts. Mothers experience heightened anxiety, mood swings, and moments of doubt about their readiness for parenthood.
I stop, staring at the words.
Hailey would rather sprint through a field of Legos barefoot than admit she’s scared. She covers it with sarcasm, jokes, the kind of self-deprecation that makes other people laugh—but sometimes, when no one’s paying close enough attention, there’s this flicker of something else. A hesitation. A doubt she shoves down so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it.
Today at the sonogram, she acted like it was no big deal to see the tiny life growing inside her. But she didn’t fool me. Yesterday, she came close to crying. Almost. But Hailey doesn’t do almost when it comes to vulnerability. She is strong. Independent. Unshakable on the outside.
I tap on the next section and I’m not sure if I want to read it: How Partners Can Be Supportive During Pregnancy.
I’m not her partner. I’m just the friend who waited and waited and . . . well, is now out of time, isn’t he? So this is probably how I can get the girl—well, woman. Be Present: Attend appointments, listen to her concerns, and reassure her that she is not alone.
Check. I’m already doing that. Probably a little too well, considering she gave me that side-eye today when I answered the doctor’s question before she did.
Encourage Rest: Fatigue is common in pregnancy. Offer to take on daily tasks and ensure she has time to relax. Okay. This is doable. If she lets me. If she doesn’t throw a Hailey-sized tantrum about being perfectly capable of carrying her own groceries, thank you very much.
Help with Nutrition: Make sure healthy foods are accessible, and respect any aversions or cravings she may have. The chef has that covered. Check.
Emotional Support: Validate her feelings, listen without judgment, and remind her that she is capable, even when she has doubts. I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. That last part feels like the hardest one. Not because I don’t want to do it. But because Hailey is Hailey. She’s spent her entire life proving she doesn’t need anyone to carry things for her.
I sigh and set the e-reader down on the table beside me.
The couch creaks slightly as Hailey shifts. Her breathing changes just enough for me to know she’s waking up.
She peeks one eye open, blinking slow and groggy. “You’re still awake?”
I raise a brow, glancing at the time on my watch. “At nine at night? Yeah, I like to live on the edge.”
She huffs a sleepy laugh, stretching one arm overhead, her shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. “You’re usually in bed by now, Grandpa.”
I close the e-reader with a click. “You’ve got jokes, huh? Didn’t realize growing a human made you this bold.”
“Pregnancy has unlocked my full potential,” she says, voice still thick with sleep. “I have no filter now. Prepare thyself.”
“Oh, I’m shaking.” I roll my eyes. “A tiny human is going to . . . how are you planning on making me pay?”
She shrugs. “I won’t give away my secrets.” She smirks, rolling onto her back, but the movement makes her wince slightly. I know she won’t admit it, but she’s probably sore. Between the stress of today and the fact that she fell asleep in a position that should be illegal, it’s a miracle she hasn’t fully turned into a pretzel.
“Let me guess,” she says, shifting onto her side to face me. “You spent the last two hours going over some boring hockey game you thought was important to watch since you have to go back to training soon?”
I lean back, tilting my head. “Close. Pregnancy for the Modern Parent.”
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“Oh, yeah.” I tap the screen of my e-reader. “I now know everything there is to know about morning sickness, mood swings, and how your uterus is currently doubling in size. Fascinating stuff.”
She groans, covering her face with both hands. “I hate that you know that.”
“You should be thanking me. I’ll be fully prepared for when you go full exorcist and projectile vomit across the penthouse.”
She peeks out between her fingers, scowling. “That’s not going to happen.”
I shrug. “That’s not what the literature says.”
“The literature is wrong.”
“You say that, but deep down, you’re comforted knowing I’ll be able to identify all your pregnancy symptoms before you even experience them.”
“Absolutely not.” She sits up, rubbing her face. “I refuse to let you be the person who tells me what’s happening to my body before I even realize it.”
“Tough luck, babe. I’m already three chapters in.”
Her mouth falls open. “Did you just call me babe?”
I smirk. “I figured I should get used to it since pregnant women love pet names. It says so in the book,” I lie. “Babe, honeybun, little incubator, my radiant mother-to-be?—”
She bolts upright, horrified. “Little incubator?”
I nod solemnly. “It also says you’ll respond better to affection if I call you ‘mama bear,’ ‘snuggle womb,’ or my personal favorite—‘gestation station.’”
“Oh my God, shut up.” She grabs the throw pillow and chucks it at my face. I catch it easily, tossing it onto the chair next to me, laughing.
“Careful, snuggle womb. Sudden movements aren’t recommended at this stage.”
“I will throw up on you.”
“Statistically, that is becoming more likely by the second.”
“I’m going to maim you, Leif Crawford,” she threatens.
“You’re feisty when you wake up,” I muse. “Should I be concerned?”
“I should be feisty. I just woke up to find out my best friend is treating my pregnancy like a science project.”
I lift my hands, all innocence. “It’s called being prepared, Hailey Jean. No, now it’s actually fitting to call you Hailey Bean, you know, you have a bean inside you?” I gesture vaguely at her stomach.
She squints at me, pure exhaustion and judgment written all over her face. “Did you just turn my name into a bad dad joke?”
“Would you prefer Hailey Be-two? Since you’re technically two people now?”
She groans, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut up?—”
“—you’ll throw up on me, I know, I know.” I lean back in my chair, smug. “But as your designated pregnancy guru, I feel like it’s my duty to make sure you experience all the joys of this special time too, including my top-tier wordplay.”
She glares, pointing a finger at me. “If you call me Hailey Be-three next, I’m ending you.”
She yawns, stretching again, but this time, the movement is slower. Like it takes more effort than it should. I narrow my eyes, watching her closely.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she mumbles, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly. “Just hungry, I think.”
I nod toward the kitchen. “George left some snacks and leftovers. I can heat something up.”
She nods, pushing herself up, but the second she shifts, I see it. The slight change in her face, the way her expression falters for just a fraction of a second.
And then, she freezes.
“Hailey—”
She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.
Oh, fuck.
Before I can even process it, she’s scrambling off the couch, making a break for the bathroom. I’m on my feet in an instant, but she’s already halfway there, nearly tripping over the stupidly expensive rug in her rush.
The sound of retching echoes through the penthouse, and I grimace, following after her. I stop in the doorway, watching her hunch over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall.
“Well,” I say, arms crossed. “That escalated quickly.”
She groans, flipping me off without looking.
I sigh, stepping inside, grabbing a hair tie from the counter. Without a word, I crouch behind her and gently gather her hair, twisting it into a loose ponytail. She leans forward again, heaving, and I rub slow circles on her back.
“This is not good. I hate puking,” she mumbles between breaths.
“I know.” I keep my voice low, soothing. “But it’ll pass in a few weeks.”
She lets out another miserable sound, resting her forehead against her arm. “I take back everything I said. You can read the pregnancy books.”
I smirk. “Damn right I can.”
She groans again, reaching blindly for me, and I let her grip my wrist, her fingers tight.
I watch her, the way her body shakes slightly, the way she leans into me like I’m the only solid thing in the room. I don’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean for us—what lines it blurs, what boundaries it shatters—but I know one thing for sure.
I’m not going anywhere.
Even when the smell is . . . I grimace, inhaling through my mouth as the stench of whatever she ate earlier threatens to make me the next victim. “Okay, maybe I should head to my parents’ or something.”
She groans, forehead still against her arm. “Shut up and suffer with me.”
I smirk, rubbing slow circles on her back. “I already am, Hailey Bean. I already am.”