It should feel like relief. Instead, my mind won’t stop spinning.
What if he doesn’t want more kids?
What if this derails everything: his playoff run, his focus, us?
What if this is too much, too soon?
I set the phone down and press a hand to my stomach. It’s barely real yet, but already feels monumental: fragile and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
My phone buzzes with another text.
When I see it’s from Declan, my stomach flips. For a split second, it steadies me, like maybe everything’s still normal.
But the feeling fades as fast as it comes, swallowed by the weight of what he doesn’t know yet.
Just saw the HR email. Finally official.
Been thinking about you all day. Can I stop by later to celebrate?
My pulse stumbles.
I stare at the words, thumb hovering. I want to see him—God, I do—but I can’t even breathe past the what-ifs.
Still, I type:Sure.And hit send.
I set my phone down beside the test. I rest my head against the back of the couch.
Please let me find the right words before he gets here.
Chapter Forty
DECLAN
The day’s a blur of prep: morning skate, video meetings, media. Everyone’s already talking about the Final, about rest versus rhythm, but my head’s not in it. Not really. I keep thinking about Charlotte. She’s been quiet all day, no texts since this morning, and the last several times I’ve seen her, she looked pale, tired. Off.
As soon as we wrap the last meeting, I swing by her favorite takeout place. It gives me something to do with my hands, something that feels normal. The drive over is short, but it feels like forever.
When I get to her place, I sit in the truck for a second, palms on the steering wheel, heart beating harder than it should. I don’t even know what’s waiting on the other side of that door.
Just that something’s wrong, and I need to be here for her.
I knock once. She takes a few seconds to answer.
When the latch clicks, I catch the faint sound of her breath—a shaky exhale, like she had to pull herself together before opening the door.
The door opens, and my chest tightens. Her eyes are red, her voice small. She looks like she’s been crying.
My gut twists hard, the way it does before a hit you don’t see coming. I don’t even realize I’m gripping the takeout bag too hard until it crinkles in my hand.
“Hey,” I say quietly, every word careful. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitates, fingers tightening on the doorframe, then glances at the takeout bag in my hand. “You brought dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say, stepping inside. “Wanted to make sure you ate.”
“Not much of an appetite lately,” she murmurs, closing the door behind me.
Something in her voice cracks, and I know whatever’s going on, it’s big.
