“I like him too,” I say, laughing. “And hi.” I reach out to wrap my arms around Zaan.
“I brought Chinese,” he says, since he knows that’s my favorite.
“It smells great.” We walk toward the lounge, and the guys start opening all the containers.
“General Tso’s Chicken!” Tate Jeffries, the band’s rhythm guitarist, looks happy.
“And shrimp fried rice,” Mick Lips, the bass player, says as he scoops some on a plate.
The guys dig in, and I nestle close to Zaan on the sofa.
“What are you really doing here?” I ask softly.
“Just want to spend time with you,” he says. “I feel like we’ve barely seen each other all week.”
“It’s the playoffs,” I remind him gently. “You need to focus on hockey. You don’t have to worry about me right now.”
“I always worry about you.”
Our eyes meet and I see the concern in his eyes.
The worry that he doesn’t want to vocalize.
I love that he cares about me, but I also don’t want him to start hovering. That’s never been our dynamic, and I don’t want it to start now.
“I’m fine.” I reach for a spring roll and take a bite.
“You ready for tonight?” Jonny asks Zaan.
“As ready as I can be,” he says. “You comin’ to the game?”
“Hell yeah. We all are.”
“Great.”
They start talking hockey, and I focus on eating since I’m suddenly starving.
“I won’t be there,” Sam says. “I’ve got a date.”
“Kirsten?” I ask.
He nods.
“Isn’t she underage?” Tate asks him.
Sam rolls his eyes. “No, dipshit. She’s eighteen.”
“You didn’t waste any time, did you, bro?” Jonny cackles, and Sam flips him the bird.
They go off on a tangent about something else, and I get the strangest feeling in my chest.
This is my life.
Not my band, but this is the life I’m supposed to be leading, minus groupies.
And now it’s all going to come to a screeching halt.
Because I’m pregnant.
