Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Alberto
The elevator ride up feels longer than it should.
It’s not even a long ride. It just . . . feels like we’re trapped. Four walls, a ceiling that hums, the soft jerk of movement, and the three of us pretending everything is fucking fine when it’s not.
Vesper stands beside me, shoulders tucked into her coat like she’s trying to fold herself smaller.
She clutches the ultrasound photos so tightly the corners are already starting to bend.
Like if she loosens her grip, the proof evaporates.
Like a heartbeat on a screen can vanish if you don’t hold it hard enough.
Callaway stands on her other side—blocking the world without crowding her.
He’s trying. I can see the effort in the way he keeps his hands to himself unless she reaches first. Cally is built to bulldoze danger until it apologizes.
Right now, he’s forcing himself to be gentle, to be quiet, to be patient.
It’s not natural for him.
It’s a choice I admire. Maybe I should be following his example and also choose to do the right thing. If only I knew exactly what that is. As of right now, I’m what people would like to call fucking confused.
Do I want to take care of Ves and the baby? Fuck yes.
Am I capable of it?
That’s where I choke with this whole thing.
The word “family” sits in my mouth like a foreign object. I’m too broken for it. But not being part of her and the baby’s life doesn’t fit in my future either. It doesn’t settle. It feels wrong, like missing an entire limb.
Contradiction, meet my entire personality.
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
Inside the apartment, she drops her purse on the counter and lets out a long exhale. It’s as if she’s been keeping herself upright on nothing but nerve and sarcasm.
“Okay,” she says, voice too bright, like she’s trying to make this a normal afternoon. “I’m officially done being brave for the day.”
Callaway moves first and goes straight for the fridge like it’s a mission. He pulls out the pitcher Benji left—orange, lemon-ginger sparkling water—to help with hydration and morning sickness.
He pours a glass and hands it to her. “Drink.”
Vesper eyes it like it personally offended her. “If I turn a lemon-y color, I’m haunting all of you.”
“You’d haunt us even if you stayed human,” Callaway says without missing a beat.
A laugh slips out of her, and for half a second it feels like the room has light in it.
Then her smile falls away as she yawns.
I clear my throat. “Go change into something comfortable. You look tired. You need to rest.” The words come out harsher than I intend, almost like a command.
Can anyone blame me? She looks like she’s about to fall asleep standing.
Her brows lift. “That doesn’t sound like a suggestion.”
I press my lips together because she’s right and I hate that she’s right.
“It wasn’t,” I say.
Her mouth curves, but it’s not amused. It’s wary. “Monty . . . you’re being bossy and—”
“Probably,” I cut in, and I hate how the word cracks through me like a warning. “But I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with you pushing yourself until you drop. You’re exhausted.”
Her gaze holds mine, and there’s that familiar push-and-pull in her face—she wants to argue because arguing means she’s in control, but she’s also so tired her eyes look too bright.
Callaway shoots me a look that says easy, but he doesn’t contradict me. He’s protective too, and is concerned about her.
He steps closer to her, voice softer. “Hate to agree with the big guy, but you do need rest. Put something comfy on and we’ll cuddle on your new favorite couch.”
Vesper points at him, accusing. “If we move, there won’t be a comfy couch.” The pouty lips make me want to kiss her. I don’t.
Cally’s grin is immediate, like she just handed him a gift. “Harvey will find you a new one—or buy this one and have it delivered to wherever we end up.”
Fuck, this guy has to stop planning. Seems like he’s already nesting, in his own ridiculous way.
She huffs, but she doesn’t fight it. She turns and walks toward her room. Halfway there she pauses, glances back at us, then looks away like she’s embarrassed by how much she needs this.
“Don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone,” she mutters, and it’s a joke, but her voice is thin.
Callaway salutes. “No promises.”
She disappears into the bedroom.
The door clicks shut.
I stare at the closed door for a beat too long. Callaway stays by the counter, leaning his hip against it, drinking in small sips like he’s trying to keep himself busy.
I break first, because if I don’t, my mind starts building worst-case scenarios like it’s a hobby.
“Harvey will find her one?” I ask, voice low. “We shouldn’t promise her things we can’t guarantee.”
Cally glances at me like I’m being dramatic. Which, fair. “It’s a couch, Monty.”
“It’s not just about the couch,” I snap, and then immediately regret how hard it comes out.
Callaway’s expression softens, that golden-retriever patience sliding into place. He sets his glass down. “I know.”
I swallow. My jaw works. “She’s scared.”
“So are we,” he says quietly.
That word—we—hits me in the same place it did in the tunnel after the shutout. It pulls at something I keep locked down because if I let it open, it changes everything.
I should argue with him about this we he keeps talking about as if it’s a done deal. We couldn’t work the first time. We will be impossible for two hockey players.
But before I can say a word, Callaway clears his throat. “By the way . . . they accepted the offer.”
My head turns, sharp. “What?”
“The house.” He says it like it’s an update on the weather. “Cash. No contingencies. They agreed to a fast close.”
“Are we sure it’s okay?” I ask, because my brain is grasping for something to control. “Are we sure it’s safe?”
Cally nods once. “Like I said, the security company Harvey hired went in and checked it. They dragged an inspector over too. There are a few renovations we’ll need to do, but it’s good.” He taps his phone. “There, I asked Harvey to send you the report.”
My throat tightens around a truth I don’t want to say out loud: We’re building something. Something that’s scary.
I swallow.
“Fine,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend.
Callaway watches me for a beat. “You okay?”
I almost laugh.
Because the answer is fuck no.
I’m a man who can stop a puck traveling ninety miles an hour with my body without flinching, but the idea of being responsible for a woman and a baby makes my hands feel too big and my chest feel too small.
I nod anyway, because that’s what I do. I pretend control is the same thing as calm.
“So, we’re doing this,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Callaway’s smile is small, but it’s there. “Yeah.”
Everything feels shaky. I don’t want to run from it. I want to hold it. I want to keep it.
But I know I’ve never had any of that. Not since my parents died. Not since I had to learn to look after myself because I was alone.
And the fact that I want that feels like the beginning of something that could either save me . . . or ruin me.