34. Brayden
brAYDEN
Ihad never known that gender reveals were even a thing until Karla told me that we had to have one.
Personally, I always thought babies were just born and then someone checked a chart or whatever.
But apparently, there were color-coded parties now—complete with cake, confetti, hats, balloons, and a soundtrack playlist titled Baby Beats that Myla put together.
But honestly? As long as Karla was smiling… I'd have set off fireworks spelling out HER NAME across the entire damn neighborhood if she asked me to. Anything to keep that glow on her face, the one that had been getting brighter every week since she'd moved in.
Our house.
Even after a couple weeks, I still wasn’t totally used to saying that in my head.
A part of me kept expecting to wake up alone and realize this was some dream cooked up by my concussed brain after a hard check.
But every morning, there she was—messy bun, big T-shirt, hand on her belly like she was guarding treasure.
I was screwed. Happily, stupidly screwed.
Our place was packed now—teammates, friends, neighbors who were basically extended family at this point.
It was loud. Too many shoes at the door.
Someone brought a diaper cake that Myla kept pretending to eat like a Viking.
Gavin was outside grilling, and I swear he was threatening the burgers like they were opposing forwards—“Light on fire again, and I’ll bodycheck you into next week. "
The smell of barbecue, frosting, and half a dozen perfumes clung to the air. Pink and blue streamers dripped from the ceiling fan. The dining table was drowning in presents—tiny onesies, napkins shaped like pacifiers, and a baby book Karla had already cried over twice.
This house felt alive. Full in a way it hadn’t been in years.
I was leaning against the wall like it could hold me up emotionally when Crosby lifted his beer to me from across the room and headed over.
“Karla is glowing,” he remarked, admiration softening the usually hard lines of his face.
“Thanks, man,” I nodded. “Where’s the wife?”
His whole posture deflated like a bad tire. “Off in Florida with her parents. Things have been rough for a while.”
I set my beer down and clapped a hand on his shoulder. He had that look—the kind of quiet devastation athletes mastered because crying in the locker room wasn’t exactly encouraged.
“What happened?” I asked gently. The dude was trying not to let it swallow him whole.
Crosby rubbed his face, exhausted. “I found a paternity test hidden in her desk drawer. Watson isn’t mine.”
I blinked. “What the hell?”
My brain stuttered, searching for something comforting to say. Nothing seemed big enough.
Crosby shrugged, the movement defeated. “I’m just glad I found out sooner than later. She can rot in hell for all I care. The divorce papers are already drafted.”
I lifted my beer and tapped it against his. “Good luck. Let us know if you need anything.”
“I appreciate it.” He exhaled hard, shaking off the heaviness. “But enough of the boohoo shit. I am dying to know what you guys are having.”
I chuckled. “You’re just going to have to wait until we cut the cake.”
He groaned dramatically like I’d told him he wasn’t allowed to play hockey anymore.
I took a sip of my beer and scanned the room. Karla was curled into the couch, talking with Myla. She was glowing for real—cheeks rosy, hair styled in that wavy, “I tried but also I’m pregnant so leave me alone” way. Her laugh bounced across the room and hit me square in the chest.
How the hell did I get this lucky?
I walked over. “Is it time?” I asked her, vibrating like a kid waiting to open Christmas presents.
“I think so,” she smiled, rubbing her belly. “Myla?”
Myla jumped up and saluted for no reason. “On it. I’ll gather everyone into the dining room.”
Half the room followed her like she’d announced free alcohol at the finish line of a marathon. Simon was making balloon hats out of pink and blue long balloons, and he put one on Karla shaped like a unicorn horn. Karla was delighted. I had never been more in love.
The bakery had knocked the cake out of the damn park. It looked like a gender-reveal Super Bowl ad exploded in fondant. Blue and pink question marks covered every inch of it, and Myla had stuck glittery confetti wands around the base like we were summoning a baby-themed Hogwarts.
We brought the cake in, prompting the gaggle of guests to cheered like idiots. Half the guys were wearing pointy pink or blue hats. Gavin had a glittery sash that read Team BABY! He wore it proudly like he was about to be crowned Miss America.
Karla grinned. “So, who wants it to be a boy?” she asked.
Several people cheered. Simon did a cartwheel for some reason.
“Who wants it to be a girl?” I yelled, matching her energy—and yeah, I was decked out in head-to-toe pink. No shame. I’d put on a damn tutu if asked.
More cheers. Much louder. One person blew an airhorn that absolutely did not belong in our house.
Karla cut into the cake slowly, teasing everyone mercilessly. She lifted the first slice, and time slowed down. I swear even Seven next door paused mid-bark.
She put the piece on a plate and held it up.
Pink.
Bright, unmistakably pink.
Everyone cheered. Loud. Emotional. It was like a hockey win combined with a holiday parade combined with Myla discovering free samples.
And before my brain even caught up, I grabbed Karla around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss—soft, breathless, full of all the love I didn't know how to say out loud yet.
The room erupted around us. Pink confetti shot into the air. Gavin yelled, “I CALLED IT!” even though he absolutely had not. Someone—probably Simon—was crying.
Myla jumped and clapped. “This is the best! I am going to spoil her rotten.”