Scottie-girl
I don’t tell people this part of me.
Not because I’m mysterious or guarded in a sexy way—which, to be clear, I am—but because this particular fear feels too big to joke my way around.
Every time I try to drag it into the light, it feels stupid. Or dramatic. Or dangerous.
It’s too sharp to dull with sarcasm, too fragile to exist in the open air without breaking something vital inside my chest.
Usually, our apartment is loud.
It’s been five weeks since we moved in together, and our daily routine is basically a competitive sport of seeing who can leave the most junk on the floor before the other one snaps.
I’ve had to learn how to navigate a living room littered with size-twelve goalie pads by the front door, empty protein shake bottles on the kitchen counter, and a blanket permanently tangled at one end of the couch because Finny falls asleep ten minutes into every movie and refuses to admit it.
It’s messy, it’s chaotic, and I love it.
But tonight, the air feels heavy.
Cash is sprawled on the couch, his long legs stretched across the cushions, wearing only one sock. He’s half-watching a nature documentary about penguins while scrolling through hockey trade rumors on his phone. His arm is slung over the back of the sofa, just waiting for me to sit down.
Instead, I pace.
I’ve walked from the kitchen island to the front door fifteen times. I’ve straightened the books on the coffee table three times. I even started organizing his box of flannels by color, which is basically the psychological equivalent of a five-alarm fire.
Cash tracks me with that lazy, hooded gaze.
He’s learned my tells. It’s deeply unfair that a man who gets hit in the face with frozen rubber for a living has developed the intuition of a seasoned therapist.
He knows exactly when I’m strategizing, and he knows when I’m spiraling.
“Scottie.”
I keep walking. “I’m busy.”
“Scottie.”
“What?”
“You’re pacing.”
“I’m moving,” I correct, adjusting a throw pillow for the fourth time. “There’s a difference. It’s called burning off excess energy. You should try.”
“Are you going to keep haunting the perimeter,” he asks, his voice dropping into that low, amused register, “or do you want to sit down before you wear a literal path into the floor?”
I stop by the window and glare at a streetlamp. “I’m thinking, Cash. It’s a complex process. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Right, because that doesn’t sound ominous at all,” he says, tossing his phone onto the cushion and sitting up straight. “Come here, you menace. Stop dragging your feet.”
He makes a sharp, teasing whistling sound through his teeth, the kind you’d use to call a dog.
I stop in my tracks and glare at him. The look on his face immediately makes me annoyed. It’s that soft, steady look—the one that means he’s completely dialed in on me.
Concerned Finny is impossible to deflect, and that only adds to my frustration.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Hey,” he says softly.
I stare at the floor, then at the window, then back at the television screen where a penguin is apparently having a very productive evening.
Anything to avoid meeting his eyes.
“I want kids,” I blurt out.
Cash freezes. The playful tension vanishes from his posture instantly.
“Okay,” he says.
I blink, my chest tightening.
I had prepared for at least six different scenarios, wrote out a mental script, anticipated objections, and calculated logistical timelines. I expected a joke, a sudden question about a spreadsheet, or at least a tactical retreat.
I didn’t expect a single, unbothered word.
“Okay?” I repeat, my voice rising a fraction of an octave.
“Yeah.”
“That’s your entire response? Just… okay?”
He shrugs, shifting his weight against the cushions. “You want kids. I heard you.”
“You don’t have anything else to say? No follow-up questions? No analysis of the current economic climate or the fact that my schedule is a literal nightmare?”
“I mean…” He sits up straight, his expression turning serious. “Eventually, I’ll have questions. But right now? Mostly I’m just wondering why you look like you’re about to throw up.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he interrupts, holding up a hand as he stands up from the couch. “No ‘buts’ yet. Keep going. You’ve been pacing for twenty minutes. You have more than three words to say, Scottie.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
“I want them,” I repeat, the truth feeling heavy on my tongue. “I think about it all the time. What they’d look like—probably huge and clumsy with your ridiculous smile and my inability to ever admit I’m wrong.”
Cash’s expression softens, a small, lopsided smile appearing on his face.
“But I’m terrified,” I whisper, and the first tear leaks out, hot against my cheek.
I wipe it away with a jagged motion. “I’m terrified I’m going to ruin them.
I’m not built for the soft parts of life, Finny.
What if I wake up one day and hear my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth?
What if I just freeze up and disappear emotionally when things get hard, because that’s the only blueprint I have?
What if the Shark can’t be a mother without drowning the thing she’s trying to protect? ”
The tears come faster now, irritating and humiliating. I hate feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, but once the dam has cracked, there’s no stopping the flood.
“I don’t trust myself,” I admit, my voice cracking. “And that feels unforgivable. To bring someone into the world when you aren’t sure you’re whole.”
Cash stands up and crosses the room. He doesn’t rush, taking steady steps until he’s standing right in front of me.
“Scottie,” he says, his hands reaching out to gently frame my face. “Look at me.”
I do, and his eyes are clear and steady.
“You are not your mother,” he says firmly.
“You’re already doing the hardest part. You’re scared because you actually give a damn about the outcome before it even exists.
That alone puts you light-years ahead of her.
She didn’t care enough to be afraid, Scottie.
You’re terrified because you already love them. ”
I shake my head, trying to step back, but he reaches out and catches both of my hands, pulling them against his chest.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that,” he says, squeezing my fingers tight.
“Because bad parents don’t lose sleep over being bad parents.
They don’t pace the floor at ten o’clock at night worrying about hypothetical trauma ten years down the line.
Look at what you did for my dad. Look at how you handled that hospital room.
You didn’t just ‘manage’ that, Scottie. You protected us. ”
He pulls me a step closer, his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, drawing me into his body heat.
“You show up for Ivy when she’s drowning. You handle the team’s disasters like they’re your own family. And you apologize when you’re a brat—eventually, and usually with an expensive bottle of scotch. You grow, Scottie-girl. You’re the most intentional person I’ve ever met.”
My ribs ache with a sudden pressure, like my heart is trying to smash through the lock I’ve kept it behind my whole life.
“You would be an incredible mom,” he says, leaning down so we’re eye-to-eye. “Not a perfect one. You’d probably try to negotiate their bedtime like a corporate merger, and you’d definitely lose your mind when they draw on the walls with markers. But you’d be real. You’d be safe.”
Safe.
The word hits me like a physical blow. It’s the one thing I never felt growing up, and the one thing I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to buy with professional success.
“I’m scared I won’t know how to just… be,” I whisper, leaning my forehead against his chest.
“You don’t have to know everything,” he says, his voice a steady hum against my skin. “We’ll learn. It’ll be a total disaster. I’ll probably drop the first one—don’t look at me like that, I have giant hands, things happen. We’ll fix it together. That’s how a family works, Scottie.”
“What if I fail anyway?” I ask, my voice muffled. “What if I try my hardest and I still ruin them?”
He smiles, a low rumble in his chest that I can feel vibrate through me. “Then we’ll fail together. We’ll be an absolute disaster as a team.”
I let out a watery laugh into his shoulder. “That is literally not reassuring at all, Cash. You’re terrible at pep talks.”
“It’s reassuring to me,” he says, wrapping his large arm around my shoulders and pulling me fully against his side.
“Besides,” he continues, and I can hear the grin returning, “if our kid ends up with your stubborn attitude and my total lack of impulse control, we’re doomed from the start anyway. It won’t even be your fault.”
I snort, hitting his chest weakly with my fist. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The stupid joke. I knew it was coming.”
“I was worried you missed it,” he chuckles, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me tight against him. “I have to keep my brand consistent.”
I let out a shaky, wet laugh into his shirt. “You really want this? With the screaming and the mess and the high probability of them being as difficult as I am?”
He pulls back to look at me, his expression earnest and devoid of any teasing. “Scottie, I’ve wanted this since I was a child. I want kids who steal my fries and think you’re the coolest person on earth. I want the noise.”
He kisses the top of my head, holding me tight. “And I want it with you. Only you. I’m already prepared to be the fun parent while you make them do homework and cite the sub-sections of the household rules.”
The tightness in my chest finally dissolves. I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face into the crook of his collarbone, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he might disappear if I let go.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter against his skin, feeling my tears soaking into his cotton shirt.
“For what?”
“For being a mess. For dragging you through a mental crisis while you were just trying to watch a documentary about penguins.”
He laughs out loud. “Sweetheart, you can drag me anywhere. Being scared just means you know how much this matters. You’re the Shark, Scottie. You don’t do anything halfway. Why would this be any different?”
We stand there in the middle of our living room for a long time.
The fear doesn’t completely disappear—I don’t think it ever will—but it feels smaller now, blocked out by the man holding me.
“Okay,” I say, pulling back just enough to wipe my face with the back of my hand. “But if they have my hair, I’m choosing all their outfits. No flannels until they’re at least ten. And they aren’t allowed to date until they’ve passed the bar exam.”
Cash grins, his eyes dancing. “Deal. But they’re definitely getting skates before they can walk. It’s in the O’Connell bylaws.”
“We’ll see about that, Finny. I’ll have my legal team look into the legality of toddler-enforced athletics.”
***
11:09 PM
Me: I used to think you were being dramatic.
Ivy: About what?
Me: About how good being loved feels.