19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Kevin
I wake up to an empty bed and a closed guest room door.
Sarah's here. Down the hall. Just not with me.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying last night on a loop I can't shut off.
Wing Wednesday. Her face going white across the table.
Practically running me over to get out of the corner where we all sit every week.
Racing to the bathroom. Coming back different — shoulders tight, smile forced, eyes drowning.
The walk back to her apartment where the wing smell hit her before the door even closed.
Her on her knees on that cold tile while I held her hair back.
The pregnancy test shaking in her hands as she unwrapped the paper towel, then handed it to me.
Two pink lines.
I didn’t lie to you. Maybe I’m defective.
The fact that she even thought I might have thought that still makes my heart want to bleed out.
And then I'd packed her bag. Brought her here, because she couldn't stay there — not with the unavoidable smell of wings and grease making her sick.
Then I watched her walk straight past my bedroom — past the bed we'd agreed to share when we were making up rules and boundaries that can’t possibly mean anything anymore.
And then she walked into the guest room like we were strangers who just happen to share a dog.
And a baby.
I should get up. Shower. Eat. Do the routine that's kept me grounded for years. Get to morning skate.
Instead, I'm lying here thinking about how Sarah's pregnant with my baby and I can't tell her I love her. Can't say the words that have been clawing at my throat for twelve — no, closer to the full eighteen — months I’ve known her.
Because if I tell her now — after she's told me she’s pregnant — she'll think it's obligation. A debt that's owed. Something I'm saying because I have to.
What if you don't tell her and you lose her anyway?
The memory of Aiden's voice comes through loud and clear in my head. From weeks ago, at the bar in Calgary, when I thought I had plenty of time to get what I wanted to say right.
Tell her… Before she builds a wall you can't get through.
Liam in a text after Vancouver, after I'd slept with her… but kept my mouth shut.
I'd had chances. After Vancouver, when it all changed.
After the Wing Wednesday, at her place, when we'd said there were boundaries — then immediately crossed them.
When I came home after Dallas to find her in bed, in my jersey, and she looked at me like maybe we could be more.
Any of the nights we slept together, when I could've said it, whispered it, then used the darkness around us for a defense.
Didn't take any of the chances that were right there in front of me.
Now I'm trapped in a penalty box I built myself.
I throw off the covers. The air's cold — I keep my place at 68 degrees year-round because I spend half my life on actual ice — and my feet hit the hardwood.
In the kitchen, I walk toward the coffee maker out of habit. My hand's on the pot when I stop.
Sarah can't have this. Or not much of it.
I grab my phone. Google "caffeine in pregnancy." Limited amounts. Ginger helps with nausea. Stay hydrated.
I find the ginger tea Mom left here last visit. It’s some fancy organic herbal brand she swears by. I start water boiling. The kettle hums to life.
I make oatmeal while I wait. Plain, no sugar, the kind that my mom always said settles stomachs. I add a slice of toast with just a light swipe of butter, because anything else might be too much.
The water boils. I pour it over the tea bag, watch the steam rise. Add a tiny bit of honey.
I'm making breakfast as though it's going to fix anything.
It won't.
But I don't know what else to do.
The oatmeal's done by 7:20. I portion it into one of the ceramic bowls she got me for Christmas — she said my mismatched collection was "embarrassing even by bachelor standards.
" I pour the tea into a mug and let the honey-sweet ginger smell fill the kitchen.
Arrange everything on the counter near a barstool.
Tuck a triangle of the toast next to the oatmeal bowl.
Then, I go stand outside the guest room door.
My hand comes up to knock, but instead, it just hovers there.
Through the door, silence. Is she sleeping? Awake? Staring at the ceiling like I was?
I lower my hand.
She needs rest. She needs whatever recovery looks like when your whole world shifts sideways.
Back in the kitchen, I stare at my phone. Could text her. But that feels wrong when she's twenty feet away.
I find a notepad — of course there’s an Austin Stampede logo at the top because basically everything I own has one — and I grab a pen.
I stare at the blank page.
I love you. I've loved you since month six of our friendship. Probably before, if I’m honest. I’ve turned down every other woman in every other city for over a year. The boys think I’m crazy. But I’m just crazy about you. This isn't about the baby. Please believe me.
Can't write that.
We need to talk.
Too harsh.
I'm here.
Too vague.
Finally I settle on: Had to leave for morning skate. Made you breakfast — ginger tea is supposed to help. I'll be home around 1. Call if you need anything. —K
I read it three times. Not enough. Not even close.
But it's what I can give her right now.
I fold the note, set it on the tray next to the mug, grab my gear bag, and leave before I do something stupid.
The drive to the arena is automatic. A couple of turns downtown punctuated by a handful of red lights. My truck knows the way.
My brain's still in my condo. In that guest room. With Sarah, who is sleeping in later than I've ever seen her do.
Will she eat? Is she okay? Is the baby okay?
The baby.
Her baby.
Our baby.
It hits me again. This overwhelming surge of something I can't name. I’m surrounded by fear and hope and this bone-deep need to protect both of them.
And I can't even tell her.
I pull into the players' lot at 9:50, then just sit in my truck.
My phone buzzes.
Ranger’s Mom
Thank you for breakfast. That was really sweet.
Sweet. Like I'm just some nice guy doing a nice thing.
Ranger’s Mom
I'm heading to the rescue for a bit. Need to get out of the house.
I overthink every word. Begin to convince myself that she's leaving. Running.
You feeling okay?
Three dots. Stop. Start. Each pause makes my chest tighter.
Ranger’s Mom
Yeah. Just need to do normal things. Lots of applications to review.
She’s trying to make things normal, but nothing's ever going to be normal again.
Text me if you need anything.
Ranger’s Mom
I will. Good luck at skate.
I pocket my phone. Grab my bag. Head inside.
I’ve spent most of my life in an arena. There's always a bit of a chill in the air. Usually it's calming. Second nature. Home.
Today it just reminds me of how cold my place felt this morning.
In the locker room, guys are filtering in. Music's playing — Tyler's singing along off-key, trying to film a reel while he tapes the socks over his shin pads. Graham's on his phone. Aiden's at his stall, eyes closed, doing his pre-skate mental prep.
I drop my bag. Start my routine. Right skate first. Always right. Lace it up. Tie the knot. Double knot. Tap it on the floor. Left skate. This is my routine.
It’s the same routine since I was practically a baby, myself.
"Sunshine, you good?" Liam drops onto the bench next to me. His hair's wet from a shower. He hit the gym before coming here. He always does.
"Yeah."
"You sure? You should have come to Whistling Pig with us last night after Overtime."
"Had to make sure Sarah got home safe."
He watches me while he starts taping his stick. "Yeah, up that flight of stairs. Got it."
The tape tears. I've heard it a million times. Today it's noise that's getting on my last nerve.
On the ice, Coach runs basic drills. Nothing intense. Game day skate's about feel, not work.
But too late for that. Today I'm feeling everything, and none of it has to do with hockey.
I miss an easy pass to Tyler. Tape to tape should be automatic, but I send it three feet wide. I take too long making a decision at the blue line. During a three-on-two, I'm so far out of position that Aiden has to cover.
"Kev." Aiden skates up during the next stoppage. His breath comes out in clouds between us. "Where's your head?"
"Here." I spit out the one syllable on a short breath.
He stares me down. "Liar."
The whistle blows. Our assistant coach’s voice cuts across the ice.
"St. Clair! You playing tonight or you want me to tell Gagnon to scratch you?"
Everyone's looking. Twenty pairs of eyes.
"Playing, Coach."
"Then fucking act like it."
I try to focus. Lock in.
Can't.
Because every time I touch the puck, I'm not in the game, I’m in my head.
Remembering. We’re playing Vancouver tonight.
The last Vancouver game — on the road at the beginning of October — I remember it all.
Getting destroyed. That hit into the boards that separated my shoulder.
The cross-check to my ribs. Coming home exhausted with nothing left to give.
Sarah was waiting. She had bourbon poured in crystal glasses. Pizza in the oven. Heating wrap plugged in. Her hands on me were gentle, helping me out of my jacket because I couldn't lift my arm.
They're supposed to use the Zamboni to clean the ice, not your face.
Her joke covered her worry. Then bourbon covered things I wanted to say but couldn’t. Bad decisions seemed worth the risk that night. The night that started everything.
Created this.
Created us.
Created a baby.
Now she's pregnant and I can't tell her I love her because the timing makes it sound like a lie.
By the time skate ends, I'm sweating and frustrated. And definitely no closer to knowing what to do.
In the locker room, I check my phone immediately.
Nothing.
How are you feeling?
Three dots appear fast.
Ranger’s Mom
Fine. Keeping busy.
Good. That's good.
I put the phone away.