27. Mallory
Mallory
The last whistle had blown an hour ago, but I was still in the trainer’s room, sitting on a rolling stool, staring blankly at the stack of ankle wraps that weren’t going to fold themselves.
But I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.
I shifted forward, wincing as my belly pushed against the edge of the counter.
Thirty-one weeks, and I could feel every single day of it tonight.
My lower back throbbed. My feet were screaming.
The baby had been doing cartwheels during the second period, and now my whole abdomen ached like a stretched-out rubber band.
“You’re still here?”
Jaymie’s voice carried through the door as he stepped into the room. His curls were damp under a knit cap, cheeks red from the cold, Hellblades duffle slung over his shoulder. He looked showered, changed, and ten times more human than I felt.
“Just finishing up,” I said, even though I hadn’t touched a damn thing in fifteen minutes.
He eyed me like he could see straight through that lie. “You look dead on your feet.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
He didn’t laugh. Just walked over and crouched in front of me, his eyes scanning my face. “You okay?”
I nodded. Too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Jaymie wasn’t buying it. “You’ve been pale since warmups. And you barely touched your dinner in the lounge.”
“I wasn’t that hungry.”
He frowned, then stood. “Come on. Let me drive you home.”
“I’ve got my car.”
“ And I’m offering to save you the trouble,” he said. “Don’t make this about pride.”
“It’s not,” I lied. “I just… need a little quiet. The drive will help.”
He exhaled hard, clearly debating whether to push. I could see it on his face—he wanted to argue, to insist—but in the end, he just nodded.
“Text me the second you walk in the door.”
“I will.”
“Mallory.”
“I promise.”
He lingered another beat, then turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. I didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind him. Then I groaned, pushed off the stool, and forced myself upright.
Every muscle in my body rebelled.
The baby shifted low, heavy, and I had to press a hand to my belly just to catch my breath. Not contractions. Just pressure. Unrelenting, aching, exhausting pressure.
I gathered my bag and coat, moving slow.
By the time I made it to the car, I was sweating under my hoodie, even with the freezing wind cutting through.
The drive home was a blur. I cranked the heat and cracked the window, trying to balance the nausea that had started to roll through me like waves.
My fingers clenched the steering wheel tight, knuckles white, the city lights blurring as I blinked harder than I should’ve.
The apartment garage was bl essedly empty when I pulled in.
I sat there for a full minute, engine off, forehead resting on the steering wheel.
My heart was racing. My body was pulsing with fatigue.
I finally climbed out, every step from the car to the elevator a test in endurance.
I had to hold the railing inside the lift, leaning against it like someone twice my age.
I just had to make it to the eighth floor.
I didn’t even remember unlocking the door to my apartment.
Just the cool whoosh of air against my face, the dark living room swallowing me up.
I dropped my bag by the wall, kicked off my shoes, and sank into the couch like a stone.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t even sigh.
I just… deflated.
It had been building all day—this tight, hot ball of discomfort in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just the awful, guilty awareness that I was nearing my limit and still pretending I wasn’t.
I rested one hand over my belly, feeling a gentle roll beneath my palm. The baby was still active, still stretching, still reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this body. That I was responsible for more than just my own exhaustion. I reached for my phone with my free hand.
Don’t feel great. Just wanted you to know.
I d idn’t expect a fast reply. It was almost midnight in Vermont. Dakota was probably asleep. But the typing dots appeared almost instantly.
Dakota
Define “don’t feel great.” Are you bleeding? Is it the baby?
No bleeding. Just wiped out. Lightheaded. Crampy like just worked out. But not labor-y?
Have you eaten? Drank water? You need to lie down with your feet up. You’re overdoing it again.
I swallowed hard.
I know. I’m just… tired. It was a late game. I didn’t want to make a thing out of it.
MAL.
I didn’t want to be dramatic.
You’re 31 weeks pregnant and working a double shift on your feet during a professional hockey game. You are allowed to be tired. That’s not dramatic.
I didn’t want to be a burden.
The screen stayed blank for a long time. I could picture her—sitting up in her bed, hoodie wrapped around her knees, her laptop forgotten as her brain spun into panic mode.
Dakota had always been the feeler. The empath.
She wore her worry like a second skin, always one heartbeat away from checking in, from overcompensating.
And I had taught her that—whether I meant to or not.
By never flinching. By always being fine.
By playing the role of the big sister so hard it became my whole identity.
It started when we were kids, when Mom was working double shifts and I was the one heating frozen pizza, packing lunches, braiding Dakota’s hair in crooked plaits before the bus came. There was no other option. If I didn’t step up, things didn’t get done.
So I did. I always did.
And that became who I was.
The one who could handle things. The one who didn’t complain. The one who fixed shit and swallowed her own messes because no one had time for them.
And maybe that worked when I was fifteen. Maybe even when I was twenty. But now I was thirty-one weeks pregnant and so tired I could barely keep my eyes open—and I still couldn’t say “I need help” without choking on it.
The guilt crept in hot and fast. Because Dakota had her own life now. School. Friends. Plans. And here I was, still tugging on her sleeve with problems I hadn’t earned permission to share.
But the thing was… she was mine . My baby sister. The one I’d held when she cried, the one I’d picked up from sleepovers early because someone was mean, the one I made pancakes for on birthdays even when we barely had milk in the fridge.
I raised her as much as Mom did.
And some part of me still didn’t know how to stop.
That’s what made it feel like a burden—not the situation, not the exhaustion, not even the pregnancy.
Just the deep, unshakable fear that needing her flipped the script in a way I didn’t know how to survive.
That maybe if I stopped being the strong one, there’d be nothing left of me worth showing.
So I didn’t text again.
I just held the phone in my hand and waited for her to remind me that I didn’t have to hold the whole world alone anymore.
Dakota
You’re not a burden. You’re my sister. You’re literally growing a human. You’ve done everything alone for months and haven’t asked for a single ounce of help. You’re not a burden. You’re the strongest person I know. And you’re allowed to need someone.
The tears came quietly, like they always did when I finally let myself believe her.
I’m okay. I just needed to say it out loud.
Or in text, I guess.
Thank you for saying it. But you should text Jaymie too. Or Eliza. Just let someone there know you’re not at 100%. Please.
I stared at the message. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want anyone else to know how close to the edge I felt. But she was right. I had people. I just didn’t know how to lean on them without feeling like I was failing.
I’ll tex t Eliza in the morning if I still feel off.
You promise?
Yes. I promise.
The baby shifted again, a low roll under my ribs, and I winced. The couch was suddenly too narrow, too flat. I adjusted sideways, curling around a pillow, phone still clutched in my hand.
You don’t have to do everything by yourself anymore. Let people take care of you for once.
You’ve earned it.
I didn’t reply. I just stared at the ceiling and let the warmth of her words settle over me like a blanket.