Chapter 49 Tish
TISH
The morning light filters through the thin curtains of my small apartment, casting pale shadows across the cramped living room.
It’s been exactly one month since everything fell apart, since Mica’s threatening presence forced me into hiding like some kind of criminal.
One month since I’ve seen the inside of the Thunderwolves clubhouse, felt the energy of the rink, or watched my men glide across the ice with that powerful grace that never fails to make my pulse quicken.
One month since I’ve been held in their arms.
I pull my robe tighter around myself and pad quietly to the kitchen, careful not to wake Becky.
She’s been asking more questions lately about why we moved again, why Uncle Trent visits so much, and why the “hockey guys” don’t come around anymore.
Each innocent inquiry feels like a knife twisting in my chest because I don’t have answers that won’t terrify a five-year-old.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I lean against the counter, staring out the small window at the gray February morning.
Snow dusts the fire escape, and I can’t help but remember that snowy Christmas Eve when everything changed between us.
When Carl’s rough hands mapped every inch of my skin, when Jake’s playful mouth whispered wicked promises against my throat, when Ash’s protective embrace made me feel safer than I’d ever felt in my life.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and my heart leaps before I even look at the screen.
It’s become a Pavlovian response.
Every notification sends hope surging through me that it might be one of them, followed immediately by the crushing fear that it might be Mica.
It’s Trent. Again.
Just checking in. You okay? Need anything?
I type back quickly. We’re fine. Thanks for checking.
He’s been incredible this past month, my big brother stepping up in ways that remind me why I’ve always looked up to him despite our recent fights.
After that horrible confrontation where he received those intimate photographs of me and Jake and me and Ash, we had a long overdue heart-to-heart.
He apologized, I apologized, and somehow we found our way back to each other. Now he stops by almost daily, bringing groceries, checking the locks, making sure Becky and I have everything we need.
But what I need most, he can’t give me.
I miss Carl’s gruff morning voice, the way he’d call me “Trisha” in that authoritative tone that made my knees weak.
I miss Jake’s easy laughter, his dimpled grin that could chase away any dark mood.
I miss Ash’s quiet strength, the way his brown eyes would darken when he looked at me like I was something precious he needed to protect.
God, I miss them so much it physically hurts.
My laptop chimes with an email notification, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
Working from home has been a blessing and a curse.
It keeps me hidden and safe, but it also means I’m isolated from the team, from the energy and chaos that I’d grown to love.
I’ve been managing their PR remotely, spinning the media narrative away from the “cursed team” angle they were so eager to run with.
It took some creative maneuvering, but I managed to shift the focus to potential sabotage instead.
The press loves a good mystery, and the idea of someone deliberately targeting the Thunderwolves has given them something to sink their teeth into that doesn’t involve supernatural nonsense.
The negative coverage has been dying down, thank god, though I know it’s a fragile peace.
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I grip the counter, breathing deeply through my nose.
This has been happening for over a week now, random bouts of queasiness that leave me feeling drained and shaky.
I initially blamed it on stress, on the constant anxiety of looking over my shoulder, but it’s getting worse instead of better.
The coffee smell, usually so comforting, suddenly makes my stomach lurch violently.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m retching into the toilet, my body convulsing as I bring up what little I managed to eat for dinner last night.
When the worst of it passes, I slump against the cool tile wall, wiping my mouth with a shaky hand.
This is the third time this week I’ve been sick like this, and a terrible suspicion is beginning to form in the back of my mind.
No. It can’t be.
But even as I try to dismiss the thought, my eyes drift to the small pharmacy bag sitting on the bathroom counter.
I bought it yesterday during a moment of paranoid clarity, telling myself I was being ridiculous even as I handed over the money.
My hands tremble as I reach for the bag, pulling out the pregnancy test with fingers that feel numb and clumsy.
The instructions blur before my eyes as another wave of nausea threatens, but I force myself to focus, to follow the simple steps that might change everything.
Three minutes. I have to wait three minutes.
I set the test on the counter and sink onto the closed toilet seat, my head in my hands.
This can’t be happening.
Not now, not when everything is already so complicated and dangerous. Not when I’m hiding from a violent ex.
And if I’m pregnant…
The timer on my phone goes off, three sharp beeps that sound like a death knell in the small bathroom.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the pregnancy test, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t wake Becky.
Two pink lines stare back at me, clear and unmistakable.
I’m pregnant.