“No,” I reply. “I rescheduled it for next week.”
He raises his brows. “Why?”
“Because it was going to interfere with your game schedule. I called and they said moving it out a week was fine, so I changed it.”
He scowls and I put up a hand to stop his inevitable lecture on my health and wellbeing coming before hockey. “Seriously, Ren. The doctor said it was fine. If they’d said otherwise, I wouldn’t have moved it, I promise.”
He closed the distance between us as I was talking, and is now standing beside me, eyeing me. I meet his gaze head-on, barely managing to not squirm under his scrutiny.
A yawn catches me off guard, and I raise my hands over my head, stretching out as a cover for the fact my mouth is wide-open. My shirt lifts, baring my stomach and he reaches out, one had going to my back, the other my stomach, steadying me.
“I think you’re starting to show,” he states, his eyes focused on my bare stomach where his palm rests.
Glaring at him I lower my arms as I respond, “Pretty sure that’s all the late-night snacks you’ve been feeding me. It’s far too early for me to be showing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure,” I snap, then remove his hand from my stomach. “I’m not even eight weeks along yet. Probably closer to six if I’m doing the conception math right.”
“Conception math?”
I smile. “You know, the date of my last period plus fourteen days gives an approximation on conception date.”
“Please, tell me I got it done on the first shot,” he retorts, the expression on his face about ten levels of smug.
“Are you that bad at math?”
“Not at all,” he responds in a playful tone. “Just overflowing with testosterone and dirty thoughts.”
“I’d strategically just gotten done with my period when I allowed you to seduce me.”
“Allowed?”
“That’s right.”
“Pretty sure,” he drawls, his hands moving to my hips. “Iallowedyouto seduceme.”
A low laugh escapes, but when I go to respond I sway slightly, suddenly becoming lightheaded. My bones seem to creak and I swallow a few times, then mutter, “Why don’t they tell you that everything hurts when you’re pregnant.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright,” he asks, pressing his palm against my forehead. “You seem pale.”
“I’m always pale.” He scowls and I laugh then add, “I’m just tired. No one tells you how exhausting the first trimester is. But at least I’m not puking. For now.”
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him. “You don’t have to go to the game.”
“I want to,” I respond as I rub my cheek on his chest. “I love watching you play.”
“Maybe you should sit up in the box.”
Shaking my head, I retort, “Not a fucking chance.”
“Come on, Cass,” he protests. “It may be more comfortable up there for you, and then, if you start feeling unwell, help will be right there.”
“I like where I sit. I have the best view there.”
“Would you at least sit with my parents?” I ask, wishing I could just tell her what she’s going to do, and she’d do it. “Otherwise, I’ll be distracted worrying about you all night.”
“Unfair.”
