Dad blows a raspberry. “I’m not going to pretend it’ll be easy to keep this news from your mother. She’s going to be a Grammy.” He nudges me with his shoulder, and I let my head drop back against the wooden chair. Dad pats my arm. “You’ll tell me when it’s time, okay, kiddo?”
He heads for the door, then turns back. "Tucker, I think you're going to be a great father. You just have to believe it yourself first."
After Dad goes back inside, I stay on the porch, watching the last light fade from the sky. I pull out my phone and open a new message to Uncle Tim:
Can we talk about parental leave policies for pro hockey players? I need to understand what's possible.
His response comes within seconds, and I crane my neck to see him studying his phone in the kitchen.
Uncle Tim:
Anything I need to know?
Just gathering information
Uncle Tim
Stop by the office tomorrow, and we’ll look over the contracts.
I pocket my phone and head back in, where the family is now arguing about whether Wyatt should have taken a different shot.Gunnar sees me and holds up his beer in a silent question. I shake my head—no alcohol tonight. I need to stay clear-headed.
Alder catches my eye from across the room and nods slightly. He knows something's shifted. He doesn't know what yet, but he knows.
I sink back onto the couch, and this time, when my mom offers me a plate of food, I take it. The pie feels dry in my mouth, but I eat it anyway, forcing myself to be present. To show up for this Sunday dinner with my family, because showing up is what matters.
And tomorrow, I'll start showing up for Sloane and our baby, whether she's ready to let me or not.
CHAPTER 16
SLOANE
The sociology examquestions look like ants on the page. I've read the same multiple-choice question three times now and still can't process what it's asking.
I circle an answer at random and move on. Twenty minutes left. Twelve questions to go. I can do this.
Except I can't stop checking the clock on the wall. The doctor's appointment is at two. It's one-thirty now. The exam ends at one-forty-five. If I leave immediately, I'll have exactly fifteen minutes to get down to the women’s hospital a mile away.
And Tucker will be there.
I told him the appointment time, thinking maybe he'd have practice, a workout, or some other hockey obligation. Instead, he'd texted back within minutes:I'll be there.
Just like that. No negotiation, no excuses.
My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach. Still flat. Still no visible evidence of the tiny cluster of cells that's turned my entire life upside down.
Focus, Sloane. Finish the exam.
I force myself to read the next question. Something about Durkheim and social solidarity: I know this. Dr. Khan covered it extensively in lecture. But my brain feels like it's wading through fog, every thought taking twice as long as it should.
The exhaustion is constant now. I fall asleep on the couch, at my desk, sometimes mid-sentence while talking to Mel. And thenausea—God, the nausea. I've learned to keep pretzels in my bag, to avoid strong smells, never to let my stomach get completely empty.
Mel still doesn't know. She's been so consumed with bar prep and her upcoming move to the new accessible apartment that Stag Law helped her find. Every time I think about telling her, she launches into another excited monologue about her future, and I can't bring myself to interrupt with my mess.
Five more questions. Ten minutes left.
I speed through them, not caring if my answers are correct, just needing to be done. The teaching assistant collects my exam with a smile that I can't return. Then I'm out the door, practically running to the bus.
The OB-GYN office is inside the hospital where people deliver their babies. I’ve never actually been in here before. And why would I, when Josh took the family option away from us?
