Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Leif
What to Do When You Have a Defensive Breakdown
My dads are in town.
They’re never in town at the same time. One of them is usually flying somewhere for a foundation event, while the other is either teaching a hockey seminar or giving some kind of motivational talk about teamwork and perseverance. They’re both Hall of Famers, which means their schedules are about as manageable as a wild animal on espresso.
Yet somehow, they’re here. Sitting across from me at a café, sipping coffee like two perfectly normal retirees who haven’t spent most of their lives in ice rinks, football fields, and press conferences.
Dad stirs his espresso, which is the most Italian thing he does, despite not being Italian. “You’re being suspiciously quiet.”
I blink at him, because I’m not the chattiest of the bunch. Six children and they should know who’s the one who’ll be talking their ears off—and that’s not me. “There’s nothing new. I’m still adapting to the change. I have a few more weeks before I have to start training with the team—though I’ve met with some of the guys at an ice rink a few times.”
That’s good, right? It should be good. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell them about my house guest. And our little . . . ours? My stomach flips. Mine? Theirs? Ours? The word lingers, pressing at the edges of my thoughts. The truth is that the baby isn’t mine, and what if she decides to just pack her shit and leave once she doesn’t need me? And there I am, having my own doubts.
She doesn’t need me. Hailey stays with me because we choose each other—but she only sees me as her friend. And how the fuck do I change that?
Papa, who is the observant one, narrows his eyes. “Leif, are you in trouble?”
I sigh. “No.”
They look at each other and then at me.
Dad sets his cup down. “Are you regretting moving to New York?”
“What? No.”
“Did you start a bar fight and Jacob fired you?” Papa guesses now.
“Have I ever started a bar fight?”
Papa lifts a brow. “There was that one time?—”
“That was not my fault.” I glare at him. “Kaden started it and I had to finish it.”
They exchange a look, which is their silent way of saying they don’t believe me right now. I rub my temples and exhale, already regretting this. I should change the conversation for something . . . different.
“I have a question,” I say, finally getting to the point. “About me. About when I was born.”
Dad leans back, blinking at me. “You want to talk about your birth?”
Papa shifts, straightening in his chair. “Leif, if this is a weird way to ask if you were adopted, you need to sit down and rethink your strategy.”
“I know I wasn’t adopted.” I shoot them a look. “I also know I didn’t just magically appear one day. I know you had a surrogate.”
They both nod, waiting.
I clear my throat. “I was just wondering . . . when did it happen?”
Papa tilts his head. “When did what happen?”
“When did you—” I hesitate, trying to find the right words. “When did you know I was your kid? Yours to love, to protect . . .” I trail my words because maybe this isn’t distracting them from my current issues.
Can anyone blame me though? Hailey and the baby are all I can think of lately. Thank fuck the season hasn’t started yet, or I’d be in a lot of trouble.
Papa gives me a worried look. It’s like I’m speaking in another language—probably Klingon.
“Yeah, like when did you love me and know, ‘This one is ours,’” I explain further.
Dad furrows his brow, like I just asked what color the sky is. “From the second we decided to have you.”
“That doesn’t count,” I say. “That’s just logistics.”
Papa studies me. “You’re not asking about the process.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m asking about the feeling. When did you stop thinking about it as having a third baby and start thinking of me as your baby? ”
Dad looks at Papa, and they exchange one of those silent married couple conversations that means they already know something I don’t.
Papa speaks first, “We knew from the beginning, Leif.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, but that’s what you’re supposed to say.”
Dad huffs, shaking his head. “No, what we’re supposed to say is that we had it all figured out, that we were ready and completely confident. But that would be a lie.”
I frown. “So you weren’t ready?”
Papa snorts. “No one is ever ready to have a child—or six. We were overwhelmed with the twins, but we knew we wanted a big family.”
Dad leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We planned for years. We had meetings. We read books. We took every possible class. We wanted you and your siblings before we ever knew you existed. The moment the eggs were ready, we already loved you. It was just a matter of when and . . .”
Papa nods. “But wanting something and feeling it happen are different. It’s the latter what you want to know, isn’t it?”
I nod. “So when did it feel real?”
Papa exhales, tipping his head like he’s reaching back for the memory. “For me? The first time I saw you in the sonogram. That grainy little blob. But being deeply in love happened during the delivery. You were small, wrinkled, making this angry little noise like you were already fed up with the way they squeezed you.” He grins at the thought. “The doctor handed you to me and that was it. You were mine.”
I swallow. “That’s it?”
Papa chuckles. “You say that like it’s not a big moment.” Then he shrugs. “It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t something I had to think about. You existed, and that was enough.”
I glance at Dad. “What about you?”
His expression softens. “When I held you for the first time. Your Papa placed you in my arms, and you looked at me like you were already suspicious of my abilities.”
“That checks out. Hockey players are better.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know what I expected to feel, but what I did feel was . . . ‘Oh. Here you are, we were expecting you.’”
The words settle in my chest in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I look down at my coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with my thumb. “You never worried it wouldn’t feel real?”
“Never,” Papa states.
Dad shakes his head. “Leif, it’s not a switch you flip. It’s not one moment. It’s every moment.”
Papa nods. “Somewhere between the late-night feedings and the first time you got sick and the million tiny things we had to do to keep you alive, we weren’t thinking about when it felt real. We were too busy being your parents. Loving you.”
I nod, absorbing that, letting it take up space in my brain where the uncertainty used to be.
Dad tilts his head. “Why are you asking?”
I hesitate.
They both see it.
They both wait.
I sigh. “Hailey’s pregnant.”
The silence that follows is loud.
Dad blinks. “Hailey?”
Papa raises a brow. “You mean your Hailey?”
“Yes.”
Dad leans forward. “I didn’t know you guys were together.”
I scoff. “We’re not. We weren’t.”
Dad opens his mouth in surprise, and I can see that everything is sinking in. My questions, my anxiety . . . Papa is the one who asks, “So this baby is not yours?”
Silence. Deafening silence because I hate that the baby isn’t mine. They told me. Everyone warned me that keeping her in the friendzone was going to come back and fuck me in the ass—and not in a good way. And here we are with a pregnant best friend and me not knowing where we stand.
Papa sips his coffee. “So Hailey is pregnant, and it’s not yours, but you’re asking us about parenthood?”
I shift. “Yes.”
Dad tilts his head. “And you’re here asking when it felt real because . . .?”
I rub my jaw, sighing. “Because it feels real already and maybe I’m having some weird hallucination.”
They both go quiet.
My stomach twists. “I know it’s not mine, okay? I know I don’t have to do anything. But I can’t just—” I shake my head, frustrated with my own lack of words.
Dad watches me carefully. “You can’t just walk away.”
Papa speaks softly, “You already love them because that baby is hers. That’s how much you love her.”
There it is, I love her so much that this doesn’t hurt. It really doesn’t at all. And, fuck, if I don’t love her more every day. More when she’s puking her guts up and tries to kick me out of her life because she’s afraid I’ll leave.
I sit back, staring at the table, annoyed that they figured it out before I did.
Dad exhales, shaking his head like I’ve exhausted him. “Leif, you’re an idiot.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
He gestures vaguely. “You think this is about whether or not the baby is biologically yours? That’s not what makes a parent. A parent is the one who shows up.”
Papa nods. “And knowing you, you’re already doing that. This is Hailey we’re talking about. The girl you’ve been in love with since you met her, but you refuse to acknowledge it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t ask for a therapy session.”
Dad smirks. “Then you should have gone to literally anyone else.”
I scrub a hand over my face, annoyed and relieved all at once. “So you’re saying it doesn’t matter when it feels real. It is real.”
Papa smiles. “Now you’re getting it.”
I exhale slowly, letting the truth settle around me like an overdue realization I’ve been avoiding for far too long.
Maybe there’s no defining moment. No dramatic revelation. Maybe it’s not something I have to name, not something I have to chase or categorize or even fully understand.
Maybe it’s just happening, whether I’m ready for it or not.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m okay with that.
“So, tell us about our grandchild. How far along is she?” Papa asks, his voice bursting with excitement, because apparently I’ve just told them they’re about to be grandparents.
Which I absolutely did not.
“It’s not?—”
“There he goes, back to the stage of denial,” Dad interjects, shaking his head like I’m some helpless case he’s given up on.
I drag a hand down my face. “I haven’t even told her—” I pause, pressing my lips together before sighing. “That I’m in love with her. That I’ve loved her since forever.”
Dad and Papa exchange a look, one of those silent conversations they have where I’m pretty sure they decide my fate in real time.
“She’s looking for the dad,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “And honestly? I don’t know where I stand in all of this, other than the fact that I’m the best friend.”
Papa nods thoughtfully, then says, completely serious, “Therapy.”
Dad points at him. “Agreed. Maybe even couples therapy, because you two have a lot to sort through.”
I gape at them. “We’re not even a couple.”
Papa waves a dismissive hand. “Technicalities.”
Dad shrugs. “Look, we’re just saying . . . this isn’t a small thing, Leif. You love her. You’re in this, whether or not you want to admit it.” He leans back, giving me a long, knowing look. “I really hope you two can figure out . . . whatever this is. A therapist should help you with all those feelings you’ve been bottling.”
I don’t respond right away. Because, honestly?
They’re right and I really hope that we can figure things out. I don’t have much time left before training starts and I’m going to hate being away from them.