Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CHARLOTTE
My phone buzzes before I’m even out of bed.
Kristy: Did you take it yet?
I stare at the screen, half buried under my comforter. It’s barely seven, and I already feel nauseated.
It’s my day off, and it couldn’t have come any quicker.
The team has a lighter day before the Cup Final—recovery skate and media—while the Eastern Conference finishes their series
I still haven’t taken a pregnancy test yet. I keep telling myself it’s stress, hormones, the crash after weeks of running on caffeine and adrenaline. But then another wave of queasiness hits, and I have to sit up and breathe through it.
I finally text her back: Not yet.
Her reply comes instantly. Want company? My morning is free. I’ll bring coffee and moral support.
A weak laugh slips out.
Fine, I type back. But no lecture.
No promises, she replies, followed by a coffee cup emoji.
I drop the phone onto the bed and press my palms to my eyes.
Kristy shows up twenty minutes later, hair in a messy bun, sunglasses pushed up on her head, holding two coffees like she’s delivering life support.
She eyes me carefully. “You look pale.”
“I keep feeling worse, especially in the morning,” I admit, sinking onto the couch. “My head’s foggy, I can’t stop feeling dizzy, and I’m so tired of waking up nauseous that I might actually cry.”
Kristy lifts an eyebrow. “Pretty sure those symptoms come with a commercial.”
I groan. “Don’t start.”
“Before you say anything,” she says, pulling a bag out of her purse, “I brought one. And no, you don’t get to hide it in a drawer for another week.”
I blink at the bag and exhale. “You really think I’m pregnant.”
“I think you already know, but you’re too scared to find out,” she says gently, sitting beside me. “And that’s fair. But stress doesn’t make you turn green every morning.”
She’s right. Part of me already knows the answer, but saying it out means admitting it could be real.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been avoiding it. Because deep down, I’ve known what a positive test would mean. Not just for me, but for him.
Declan married Vanessa because she got pregnant. I know how much that cost him, how long it took to heal from it. The last thing I ever want is for him to feel trapped again.
Because of me.
Kristy squeezes my hand. “Come on. Rip the bandage off. I’ll be right here.”
I nod, though my stomach flips. I take the bag and walk to the bathroom, hands shaking a little as I open the box.
The test is simple enough. It shouldn’t feel like it’s deciding my whole future. But when the timer goes off on my phone, I can’t look right away. I just stand there, palms flat on the counter, heart pounding.
Then I force myself to look.
Two lines.
My breath catches. I keep staring just to be sure, but it doesn’t change.
Kristy’s waiting in the living room, still perched on the edge of the couch. When she sees my face, her smile fades into something softer, steadier.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “It’s positive, isn’t it?”
I nod, and she stands, crossing the room to wrap me up before the tears even start.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’ll figure it out. One thing at a time.”
I want to believe her, but my mind’s already spinning. Every piece of my life just rearranged itself in the span of a heartbeat.
And underneath it all, a colder fear settles in. This will look too familiar. Declan once married because he had to, not because he wanted to. I know he loves me, but what if this feels like déjà vu, history repeating, me becoming the reason he feels cornered again?
Kristy stays for a while. We sit on the couch, the test face down on the coffee table like it might explode if either of us looks at it again.
She finally exhales, rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You know you have to tell him, right?”
“I know.” The words scrape out of me. “I just… I don’t even know how.”
“Start with the truth,” she says gently. “You two already did the hard part—falling for each other when you weren’t supposed to. This is just another curveball.”
I let out a breath that feels too big for my chest. “He’s finally recovered. He’s about to play in the Final. We never talked about kids. This could wreck everything.”
Kristy shakes her head, quiet for a moment. “Or it could just change everything. There’s a difference.”
Her phone lights up with a reminder. “I’ve got clients here in a few, but you call me the second you need anything, okay? Literally anything.”
I nod, trying to smile. “I know. Thanks, Kris.”
She hugs me tight, whispering, “You’ve got this, Char. It’s going to be okay,” before heading out.
When the door closes, the silence feels deafening.
I pick up my mug, trying to drink the coffee she poured earlier, but the smell hits me before I can even take a sip, bitter and heavy. My stomach turns. I set it down fast and grab a glass of water instead, taking slow sips until the nausea eases.
I grab my phone, scrolling through email just to have something to do. Anything to distract myself.
And there it is.
HR Compliance: Relationship Disclosure Review Complete.
I open it, heart pounding as I skim the lines.
The email is short and clinical: review complete, no conflicts found. It confirms what we’d already planned. If Declan ever gets hurt again, Patel or Dan will handle it, not me. And just like that, we’re officially cleared to make our relationship public.
I let out a shaky laugh.
There’s something painfully ironic about it. Declan and I are finally legitimate on paper, yet I’m holding a secret that could change everything.
It should feel like relief. Instead, my mind won’t stop spinning.
What if he doesn’t want more kids?
What if this derails everything: his playoff run, his focus, us?
What if this is too much, too soon?
I set the phone down and press a hand to my stomach. It’s barely real yet, but already feels monumental: fragile and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
My phone buzzes with another text.
When I see it’s from Declan, my stomach flips. For a split second, it steadies me, like maybe everything’s still normal.
But the feeling fades as fast as it comes, swallowed by the weight of what he doesn’t know yet.
Just saw the HR email. Finally official.
Been thinking about you all day. Can I stop by later to celebrate?
My pulse stumbles.
I stare at the words, thumb hovering. I want to see him—God, I do—but I can’t even breathe past the what-ifs.
Still, I type: Sure. And hit send.
I set my phone down beside the test. I rest my head against the back of the couch.
Please let me find the right words before he gets here.