15. Mallory
Mallory
The knock came at a criminal hour. Okay, maybe not criminal-criminal. But the kind of hour where the sky was still that uncertain shade of gray, neither night nor morning, and the building was wrapped in that eerie hush before the day started breathing.
My pillow was warm against my cheek, and the sheets tangled around my legs like soft restraints I had no interest in escaping.
I’d barely slept—tossing and turning, heart skipping back to that brutal moment in the arena bathroom.
The toilet. The bile. The sting of tears I didn’t want anyone to see .
And him.
Jaymie Prescott’s hand rubbing soft circles between my shoulder blades.
That was the part I couldn’t get out of my head.
Another knock. Not loud. Not rushed. But consistent, like whoever was on the other side was just patient enough to outlast my stubbornness.
I groaned into the pillow, dragging a hand over my face. My eyes burned from sleep I hadn’t really gotten, my mouth dry and sour.
Still, I kicked off the covers and padded toward the door, my steps muffled by the worn hardwood.
The hem of my T-shirt brushed my thighs, and my sleep shorts were twisted from sleep, clinging to one hip.
I didn’t check my reflection. Didn’t smooth my hair.
The only thought in my head was: if it’s a package, I’m grabbing it and ghosting back to bed before a neighbor catches sight of me in this disaster state.
I pulled the door open, blinking against the hallway light.
But it wasn’t a package.
It was Jaymie.
With coffee. And orange juice. And a white paper bag that smelled suspiciously like heaven.
“Morning,” he said, like this was something we did all the time. Like it was perfectly normal to show up at your sick neighbor’s door looking like a caffeinated lumberjack. Beanie shoved back on his curls, hoodie pulled tight around his neck, glasses fogging in the morning air.
I blinked at him, more stunned than anything.
“You—what?”
He held up the drinks. “Didn’t know if you were a coffee person or a juice person. Figured I’d cover both bases.”
I opened the door wider, too touched (and too groggy) to find anything clever to say.
He stepped inside, heading straight for the kitchen like he’d done it a dozen times. Like we did this every Sunday.
I ran to the bathroom, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
By the time I emerged—teeth brushed, hair twisted into a semi-respectable bun, cheeks pinched to fake a little color—Jaymie had set the table.
And I mean actually set the table.
Plates out, mugs steaming, pastries arranged like we were on the cover of a lifestyle blog.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, voice still hoarse from sleep.
Jaymie just smiled and poured me a mug. “You needed something warm. And you didn’t look like you ate much yesterday.”
He pushed the mug toward me, nudging the plate of pastries closer. There were croissants, flaky and buttery, and something glazed and sticky and likely a thousand calories. I didn’t care .
I took a bite, closed my eyes, and moaned. “Okay. You’re officially forgiven for waking me up.”
“Figured that might do the trick.”
I sipped the coffee slowly, letting the warmth settle into my chest, then glanced at him across the table. He was watching me again. Not staring in a weird way. Just... focused. Like I was something he was trying to figure out.
“I meant what I said last night,” I murmured. “About thanking you.”
He looked down at his croissant, peeling a corner off. “You don’t have to thank me, Mal.”
“I do. Because I haven’t told anyone yet. Not really. Not even Dakota.”
His gaze flicked up. “You want to talk about it?”
I nodded, more to myself than him.
Took another sip.
Set the mug down and stared at my hands. “It’s kind of a miracle. The whole thing.”
He didn’t say anything. Just waited.
I loved that about him.
“I have endometriosis,” I said finally. “I was diagnosed in college, but growing up that whole portion of womanhood was brutal for me. The cramps were rentlessly and the pain almost unbearable. It messes everything up. Periods, digestion, pain... fertility.”
Jaymie nodded, but didn’t interrupt .
“I was on the pill,” I added. “Not even for birth control, really. Just to manage the pain. But sometimes I forgot to take it. Especially on days where I was swamped or traveling. And the risk always felt... low. Like I wasn’t one of those people who needed to worry about getting pregnant.”
He was still quiet. Still watching me.
“And yet,” I said, gesturing to myself, “here we are.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he said, “You’re right. It is a miracle.”
I blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone.
“It’s also terrifying,” I admitted. “I mean, Jackson is….well…gone. And I’m just... me.
Alone.
Pregnant.
Living in a new city with a demanding job and no clue how the hell I’m going to make this work.”
“You’re not alone,” Jaymie said, voice low and certain.
I looked at him.
He reached across the table, covered my hand with his. His palm was warm and steady. “You’ve got people. Me included. Just two floors away, remember?”
My throat tightened.
I didn’t cry. But it was close.
We sat like that for a while, hands linked across a table scattered with croissant flakes and coffee rings .
And for the first time since that little plus sign appeared, I didn’t feel quite so scared.
Jaymie eventually leaned back, his coffee in hand, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just stepped into a life-changing confession. He didn’t fidget or shrink away. Just took a long sip and said, “You know, I’ve never met anyone like you.”
My brow furrowed. “Is that a compliment or...?”
“Definitely a compliment,” he said quickly. “I mean, you’re carrying all this stuff, alone, and still showing up to work, still managing a bunch of grumpy hockey players—myself included. And you’re doing it with strength and sarcasm. That’s impressive as hell.”
His sincerity made my chest ache.
“You don’t have to butter me up,” I said softly.
“I’m not,” he said, then added with a grin, “Okay, maybe a little. But seriously, Mal. You’re kind of a badass.”
I bit back a smile and took another bite of my pastry, grateful for the way his words eased some of the pressure inside me.
“What about you?” I asked, changing the subject. “Ever had a surprise baby scare?”
Jaymie laughed, low and warm. “No surprise babies. Just a couple of bad breakups and one girl who wanted to name our future dog ‘Sir Puggleton.’”
I choked on my coffee. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. She had a whole Pinterest board for him. ”
I was still laughing when he reached for another almond croissant, the tension in the room finally breaking like sun through fog.
And that’s when I realized—I wanted more mornings like this. Mornings with laughter and flaky pastries and Jaymie Prescott looking at me like I mattered.
Even if I didn’t deserve it.
Even if I had no idea what came next.