“What if I’m not ready? What if I don’t want a baby in me?”
“You don’t want children?” I asked, confused.
She places her hand on her belly, “I always wanted to adopt.”
“Okay, see,” I point to her and back to me. “Now we are discussing a future plan. Not just making one. Negotiating our future.”
She was flustered when she said, “We haven’t even said those three words yet and?—”
“Not true, I have several times.” She tries to interrupt, and I place a finger over her lips. “You may not have heard me over your orgasms, but…”
She bats my finger away and laughs. “I would have heard that.”
I lean in and press my forehead to hers, “Tsaritsa moya,” I whisper, “Ya tebya lyublyu.” I brushed my lips across hers, “My queen, I love you.”
“When?’ she breathed against my lips.
“The first time I sank into you.”
“That tracks.” She sighs. “I was waiting until you said it. I’m sorry if?—”
“I already knew.”
“Aleks? What if I get sick like him, or worse, what if I have a child who does and they don’t have me to take care of them?”
It struck me then why a woman like her, who loved holding Savannah, would worry. “Get tested.”
“Would you, like,” she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Not want to be with me?”
“Love doesn’t work that way, and I know this because of you.”
“What if I don’t want to know? What if your child were affected by my genetics? Would you resent me?”
I repeat, “Love doesn’t work that way.”
She hugs me and whispers, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Or a very cute version of it anyway.
Seattle went sideways fast.
Not the game. The game was already ugly, penalties stacking, pace turning mean. It was the third period when it broke open, when one of their guys went hunting after the whistle and stayed there a beat too long. A cheap shot at Evans, disguised as frustration.
I stepped in like I always do, a body between them, a stick down, words first. That should’ve been it.
But he leaned in close, mouth running, saying something meant to land deeper than a hit. Something personal. Something calculated. Something about ‘my people’. The kind of thing you say when you want a reaction you can later pretend you didn’t ask for.
I felt the snap before I decided anything.
My gloves hit the ice clean. Too clean. Muscle memory. The ref was already moving, but not fast enough. Two punches, controlled but unmistakable. Enough to end it. Enough to make the point.
The crowd loved it. The benches exploded. The broadcast zoomed in.
And the context didn’t make the cut.
By morning, it wasn’t about the late hit or the chirp or the fact that I’d been protecting a teammate. It was about a “pattern”, my temper, me being undisciplined and cold. About a Russian enforcer stereotype, people like to dust off when it suits them.
I didn’t read the comments; I didn’t need to. I know how it looks when everything that matters gets stripped away.
