40. Mallory
Mallory
There’s something about Ava’s house that always smells like luxury.
Not just the money kind, though there’s definitely that—glass walls, plush rugs, wine fridge built into the kitchen island—but also the emotional kind.
The kind of space built by two people who chose each other on purpose, with room for both chaos and comfort.
Tonight, it smells like expensive candles, takeout, and playoff tension.
Ava throws open the door the second I buzz, already holding a mimosa in one hand. “You made it! The baby made it! My hormones made it!”
I l augh, stepping in with Lola tucked snug against my chest in her wrap. “We survived the car ride. Barely.”
“You brave, brave woman,” she says, mock solemn, before peering down at Lola. “Oh my god, she’s wearing a HellBlades onesie. I’m gonna cry.”
“She’s contractually obligated to support her almost-stepdad,” I joke.
The house is already buzzing. Flat screen on the wall streaming pre-game coverage. Music low, glasses clinking. The WAGs—wives and girlfriends—are gathered in the open living room, perched on couches and curled up in armchairs with blankets and charcuterie boards.
Lola and I are instantly engulfed.
“Oh my god, this is her?”
“She’s so small! Look at her cheeks!”
“Is that real hair?!”
“She looks like Jaymie.”
“She’s prettier than Jaymie.”
I smile through it all, shifting the wrap slightly so Lola stays asleep. “She’s been practicing her media game. Sleeps through everything.”
“Just like her dad,” one of the women laughs.
Another one nudges me gently. “So, what’s the deal? You and Jaymie getting married soon? Baby first, ring second?”
I blink. “Oh—we haven’t really talked about that yet. I mean… we’re figuring things o ut.”
Ava swoops in with a glass of sparkling water for me. “Translation: mind your business. Let them live.”
The women laugh, mostly good-natured, and the attention drifts toward the TV again as the game clock counts down toward puck drop. I find a spot on the end of the couch, Lola still snoozing contentedly against me, and take a deep breath.
I haven’t watched a full game without Jaymie beside me since the Lola came into the picture. There’s a nervous energy in the room—buzzing, sparking, electric. The kind of tension only Game Seven can produce. Win, and they head to the finals. Lose, and it’s over.
I clutch Lola a little tighter, whispering, “No pressure, right?”
The game starts fast. First period, two goals each. Second period, tighter. Physical. I wince as Jaymie takes a check into the boards but watch him bounce back like it’s nothing.
“He’s skating like a man possessed,” Ava mutters beside me.
“That’s because he is,” I say, my voice low. “He’s got everything to play for now.”
Third period.
Five minutes left.
Tie game.
Lola stirs against my chest. I sway gently, shushing under my breath, eyes never leaving the screen. Then—chaos. A brea kaway. Connor steals, passes to Jaymie. He cuts through center ice like he’s got rockets in his skates, fakes a defender, and buries the puck top shelf.
The room explodes.
Screaming. Jumping. Wine splashing. Someone’s dog barks from the hallway.
Ava grabs me and yells, “HE DID IT! YOUR MAN DID IT!”
I’m laughing and crying and bouncing Lola all at once. She squawks, offended by the volume, but quiets again when I press a kiss to her temple.
Another goal, thirty seconds later—HellBlades again.
Final score: 5-3.
They’re going to the Stanley Cup.
Everyone is yelling, hugging, texting their players, half-drunk and totally euphoric. I sit on the couch with Lola curled in my arms, heart pounding, and smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
***
The apartment is dark when I unlock the door, save for the amber glow of the hallway light and the blinking red of the stove clock. I toe off my shoes and carry Lola inside, her breath soft and steady against my chest as she dozes in the wrap.
I d on’t bother turning on the lights.
I walk through the familiar space—the apartment I moved into when my body couldn’t carry me any further on its own. Bedrest. The baby. Jaymie. It had all happened here, between these walls. Somehow, this place became home. Became ours.
I settle onto the couch, slipping Lola out of the wrap and into the bassinet beside it. She stretches slightly, one arm flinging out like she’s reaching for something in her dreams, and then sighs.
Jaymie’s hoodie is still draped over the armrest. I pull it on, the fabric soft and comforting, and tuck my knees under me.
The game plays silently in my memory—his goal, the way he grinned through the camera lens like he could feel me watching. The team’s celebration. The sheer magnitude of it all.
I pick up my phone and tap out a quick message.
Congrats, superstar. That goal was insane. She and I screamed our faces off. We love you.
I hit send before I can overthink the we. Before I can wonder what Jaymie will think about being lumped in with me and a baby that shares zero of his DNA.
But as I sit in the quiet, I can’t stop my mind from wandering.
What would she call him?
“Jaymie” feels too formal. Too distant. “Jay”?
“Dad”?
I blink, surprised at how warm that thought feels. Like a coat pulled over cold shoulders.
It’s kind of cool, actually.
She’s already his in every way that matters.
Who cares about biology? He’s the one who held her first, who stayed up rocking her through that second night while I sobbed into a pillow.
He’s the one who carries her like she’s precious cargo, who talks to her like she understands every word, who looks at her like she hung the moon.
He’s already the best dad I could’ve imagined for her.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s everything.
I lean back into the cushions, listening to the soft night sounds of the apartment—traffic below, the hum of the fridge, Lola’s sleepy breathing—and wonder where we’re going from here.
Because something tells me… it’s somewhere good.
Somewhere real.