“I know.”
Did you hear me? I’m going to have your baby!
“You’re healthy. You’re—” I stop myself, studying his face. He doesn’t look reckless or dramatic. He looks…grounded. Hell, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks confident. Like he’s put a great deal of thought into this idea and suddenly the thought fills me with anxiety. “I’m sorry, this…this is just coming out of nowhere.”
“It’s not,” he says quietly. “It’s just new to you.”
That lands.
Oh my God, he’s been thinking about this for a while?
I lean back against the counter across from him. “Okay. Uh, talk to me. Why are you…what’s bringing this on?”
His eyes flick to Connor.
“I missed ten years, Harp,” he says. There’s no anger in his words. No bitterness. Just fact. “Ten birthdays. What, like five or six first days of school. The first time he learned to skate. The first time he fell and got back up again.” His jaw tightens. “I can’t get any of that back.”
No but you can experience a first time with the next kid…
My chest aches.
“And I know I can’t just quit hockey and magically fix that,” he continues. “But I also know if I stay in the league until I’m forty like I always planned, I’ll miss another chunk of his life too. The travel, the games, the road trips.” He shrugs. “Rehab, late nights, early mornings.” He exhales. “I don’t want to look up one day and realize I was present in name only.”
Connor looks up then. “Harrison, can you help me find the red piece?”
Harrison steps into the living room, dropping immediately to his knees. “Of course, bud.”
I watch him help Connor for a moment, the way his big hands move carefully, like Connor is something precious instead of something fragile. My hands instinctively fall to my stomach.
Retirement?
I can’t believe he’s really thinking about this.
He comes back to me and I swallow when he asks me what I’m thinking.
“As someone who loves you,” I say slowly, “that’s…incredibly beautiful.”
His mouth twitches. “But?”
But I’m pregnant!
I’m having a baby!
And this is a lot to take in!
“But,” I continue, slipping into work mode without even meaning to, “as someone who negotiates contracts for a living—even if I’m not your agent—you need to think this through carefully.”
He nods. “I expected that.”
“You’ve got at least one more major contract in you,” I say. “Possibly two if you stay healthy. You’re talking about generational money. Security for Connor. For us. For the rest of your life.”
“I know,” he says again, softer this time.
“And retirement isn’t just stopping,” I add. “It’s losing structure and identity. The thing you’ve done since you were a kid. The thing you’ve done practically you’re whole life. That can mess with people.”
“I know,” he repeats, but his eyes don’t waver. “But you know what messes with me more?”
I wait.
