Chapter 26 Rowyn
Rowyn
“I think I’m going to be sick.” The words scrape out of me as I clutch my roiling stomach, half convinced the organ is trying to climb up my throat.
Gina slips an arm around my shoulders. “Playoff jitters,” she says knowingly. “People say you get used to it, but that’s a lie. I’ve spent years waiting to feel normal.” She presses her own hand to her belly, wincing. “Honestly? I might be sick too.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant,” Josie teases, rubbing the tiny swell of her already-adorable bump.
Gina whips a finger at her. “Don’t even joke about it,” she warns, but her laugh is bright, genuine. Then she folds Josie into a soft hug. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
I watch them, this easy, intimate moment that comes with shared dreams and hard-won happiness. From what I know, Josie and Jesse tried for years. And now she glows—radiant and grateful and terrified all at once. It’s beautiful.
“I can’t wait to feel the kicks,” she says, her eyes sparkling like a woman who’s already imagining tiny feet pressing from the inside. “The morning sickness I could do without, however.” A groan escapes her, and the women around us echo with sympathetic noises.
I don’t add mine. I stay quiet, because I don’t know what morning sickness feels like. And part of me…well, part of me thinks I never will. The thought brings on an ache of loneliness. I rub my stomach again, almost absent-mindedly.
When I lift my head, Josie is watching me with a too-curious expression. I bark out a laugh—high, weird, chipmunk-on-energy-drinks weird. “No, I am not pregnant,” I insist.
Everyone laughs with me, but Melanie…she watches me with that therapist gaze. Soft, patient, knowing. Like she can sense the things I don’t say out loud. God, I hope she can’t.
“If you ever decide to have kids,” Gina says, nudging me, “You’ll be amazing. I think my kids like you more than they like me.”
“That’s not true.”
Her raised brow says otherwise.
“I adore your kids,” I admit. “They’re sweet. And tiny. And sticky.”
A ripple of laughter goes around the group, but my stomach flips again as the commentator’s voice booms through the arena.
The air vibrates and the crowd surges with noise.
I press my palm firmer to my abdomen. Logically, I know what these flutters are.
Nerves, adrenaline, fear, excitement, all tangled into one disastrous emotional cocktail.
But for a split second, my brain betrays me and wonders…is this what Josie feels? That first spark of life reminding her she’s no longer alone in her own body?
The idea sends an unexpected thrill dancing under my skin, lighting something up deep inside me—a something I’ve spent years ignoring. It’s like my biological clock suddenly woke up, stretched its arms, and chose not to let me ignore it any longer.
Not that I want to be pregnant right now. I have a career. Plans. A life. And good God, if anything like that ever happened by accident, Jaxon would—
Well. He’d freak out.
And not in the let’s-go-shopping-for-cribs way.
“How do they do it?” I murmur, leaning forward as the guys pour from the tunnel, the crowd erupting around us. “They look so composed. Meanwhile, we’re up here unraveling.”
“They’re professionals.” Melanie lifts her chin, watching them with clinical appreciation. “Game faces on. World off. It’s what they’re trained for.”
“You’ve never watched playoffs?” Brighton asks, amused.
“I have,” I say, briefly glancing around the box. “Just… not from this close.”
And then I see him.
Jaxon.
My heart misfires, an uneven, reckless stutter. He skates toward the bench, glove raised, and—God help me—he looks up. Right at me. That grin, that stupid, warm, devastating grin, cuts straight through the noise and the nerves and the crowd, lighting me up from the inside.
He shouldn’t be looking. He should be focused. Dialed in. Locked down.
But he looked. At me.
And I’m ridiculously, pathetically happy about it.
I watch the other players do the same thing—seeking out the women they love like a quiet ritual before battle. Like it’s the last deep breath they need before giving everything they have on the ice.
Women they love.
If only.
But the flutter in my stomach doesn't feel like nerves anymore. It feels like hope—dangerous, impossible hope—that maybe he looks up because he needs me too.
My stomach knots. Oh my God. Is that what I really wish for?
I take a shaky breath, trying to center myself, but my legs feel like jelly beneath me.
Talk about a girl craving what she can’t have.
Jaxon isn’t the type looking for forever.
He’s made that painfully clear, ignoring my attempts to talk about what he deserves: a wife, a family, a picket fence.
In a twist I still can’t forget, he flipped it back on me, claiming it’s my dream, not his.
But maybe… just maybe… he does want it too. And maybe he’s scared. Scared of getting hurt again. Scared of letting someone in. He’d been burned, and those scars haven’t healed.
“Are you okay?” Melanie’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I turn to her, forcing my focus outward. I plaster on a smile, but my legs threaten rebellion. Her gaze sharpens. “I’m fine,” I lie.
“You look a little pale,” she says carefully. “Maybe those flutters aren’t from nerves.”
My chest tightens. I’m about to explain I’m not pregnant, when she continues, “You might be coming down with something.”
“Maybe,” I say, grabbing onto the excuse like a life raft. “I think I should sit.”
“I’ll grab you some water.”
The women settle as the game roars on, but my attention is fractured. When Melanie returns, I take the glass, murmuring thanks as I sip. I focus on the game—no, I force myself to focus—letting the clang of sticks and the crowd’s roar drown out my racing thoughts.
By the end of the first period, scoreless, the chatter turns to Vegas, and I join in. I’ve made the decision to go. This trip—this pretense with Jaxon—it has a purpose. I need this, even if it’s tangled with all the wrong emotions.
The second period starts with the same intensity. Edmonton storms the ice, puck skating like a blur across the rink. My hands curl into fists as they slip past Ash. “Oh no,” I whisper, voice tight. A slap shot finds its mark past Brady. We groan and boo, Edmonton fans erupting around us.
Jaxon looks up, scanning the crowd, and my heart flutters like a trapped bird.
I step forward, pressing my palm to the glass, feeling the cold transfer its chill to my fingers.
He glances my way, frustration flickering across his face.
He’s playing hard, giving everything, and luck isn’t on his side.
I bite my lip, torn between cheering him on and wanting to sweep across the ice and hug him.
The period ends, score still one-nothing for Edmonton, and I make my way to the bathroom.
Splashing water on my face, I pinch my cheeks to force some color.
Maybe I am coming down with something. A few days off work would be…
nice. I laugh, bitter and self-aware. Hoping for an illness to escape life’s responsibilities. What has become of me?
I leave the bathroom and stand at the bar. I put my order in with the bartender as Gina sidles in beside me. I turn and offer a small smile.
“Not having wine?” she asks, eyebrow arched when I ask for water.
“No,” I say, cracking the lid on the bottle the server hands me. “I think I might be getting sick.”
Her hand rises to my forehead, and her eyes go wide. “Oh sorry about that,” she says, laughing as she quickly pulls her hand away. “Motherly instinct.”
Something stirs in me—a pang, a memory of my own mother’s absence of instinct—and my stomach clenches. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I think it’s…sweet.”
She goes quiet, thoughtful. Then, carefully begins, “I hope when I said you’d be a great mother if you had kids, it didn’t bother you. I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t have kids. I just see how you are with mine. Not everyone wants kids, and that’s okay.”
Something inside me snaps, like a frayed rope finally giving way. Before I can stop it, words tumble out, raw and unguarded. “I think I do want kids.”
The admission hangs between us, fragile yet undeniable, like a secret too long kept and finally out in the open. My chest tightens, my heartbeat drumming in my ears. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe…maybe I’m finally admitting what I’ve wanted all along.
She nods slowly. “Okay.” She doesn’t realize how big of a statement that was, how I had to push through, and overcome years of lectures before I could finally come to it—admit it out loud.
“No, you don’t understand,” I start, panic and hesitation twisting my stomach into knots. “My career…”
“You can have a family and a career if that’s what’s worrying you,” she says gently, her hand brushing against my arm, warm and supportive. Her gaze studies my face, patient but probing, as if she’s trying to read the storm behind my eyes.
“I know that,” I whisper, my voice almost swallowed by the noise of the rink. “But…” I bite my bottom lip and shift from one foot to the other. How do I even say this without sounding…ridiculous? “I… I’m not sure I want the career.”
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity and caution, but not judgment. “I always thought you were defined by your career and the hard-hitting stories you pour your life into.”
“Probably because I put that out there, but…I’m not sure if it’s what I really want.”
Her eyes are warm and understanding. “That’s…a big thing to admit,” she says softly.
I let out a laugh, bitter and self-aware. “I know it sounds strange. And as women, we’re judged for everything. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say. If we have kids and work, society frowns. If we have kids and don’t work…they still frown.”
“That’s it exactly.” Relief bursts through me that she understands, that someone finally does. I let out a breath, feeling a measure of relief to finally admit that to myself.
“I worked so hard to get where I am,” I continue, voice trembling, “I could go so much further. My mother…she gave up everything for me so I could have this. She wanted me to succeed, to be happy. To have the life she couldn’t.”
“Your mother?” she asks quietly, genuinely curious. “The life she couldn’t have?”
Of course she’s confused. I’m telling her things in pieces. “Dad left when I was young. She had to put her career aside to raise me. She…she wanted me to have the world, and she still does. All she wants is for me to find success, to be happy.”
“Ah.” Her eyes soften. She nods slightly to the bartender, who arrives with her drink. She asks for another, then slides the first one across the bar toward me. “I think you might need this,” she says with a small, knowing smile.
I snatch it up, laughing, though it comes out garbled. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Rowyn, I’m not Melanie, and you can talk to her if you want, but it sounds to me like she’s projecting. Wanting you to live the life she never got to live, even if it’s not the life you want.”
I take the glass of wine and sip it. The cool alcohol slides over my tongue, smooth and sharp at once, and something inside me loosens. My lungs expand a little easier. My thoughts stop ricocheting off the walls of my skull.
For the first time in a long while, I feel…space.
Space to breathe.
Space to admit what I want.
Space to wonder who I’d be if I chose something for me instead of who I’m supposed to be for everyone else.
Maybe I could find balance.
Or maybe—I swallow, the wine warming my throat—I could choose something entirely different. Something that terrifies me in all the ways that matter.
“Jaxon,” Gina murmurs, voice careful, like she’s testing thin ice. “Does Jaxon want this too? Or is that the other reason you look so shaken by the idea?”
A groan slips out before I can strangle it, caught somewhere between frustration and longing. I lift the glass to my lips again, desperate to bury the sound, but it’s too late. Gina hears everything.
Her lips curve in quiet understanding. “So that’s it. You’re afraid he’s not in the same place as you.”
“You see…” I stop, my mind scrambling. I have to tread carefully. One wrong word and the entire fake-dating facade will crumble. And suddenly it feels absurd, childish even, this whole elaborate ruse when my emotions are clearly sprinting miles ahead of the plan.
I try again, choosing my words carefully. “You see…it’s not quite like that between us.”
Gina pats my hand, but something shifts in her expression—a tiny grin that doesn’t match the seriousness of our conversation. Mischievous. Knowing. Like she’s been watching much more closely than I realized.
“Ah,” she says softly. “Then I guess we’re seeing different things.”
My brows knit. “What does that—”
Cheers explode across the lounge, cutting me off. The sound thunders through the walls, vibrating the floor. Josie waves from across the room, half-shouting over the noise, “They’re back!”
The crowd surges toward the seats, excitement buzzing like electricity, and Gina gives my hand one last squeeze before we join them, her cryptic words echoing in my head louder than the fans, louder than the announcer, louder even than the pounding in my chest.
What exactly does she think she sees?