A badass for a mom
Carina
The engine’s off, but I haven’t moved.
Ivy’s asleep in her car seat behind me, her cheeks flushed and tiny fists curled under her chin. Her breathing is steady, so soft and rhythmic in the quiet, and I know I should be grateful for the timing.
A full feed, a fresh diaper, a clean wrap already clipped and ready. I’ve done everything right. And still, my palms are damp against the steering wheel.
I’ve spent my life proving I belong in rooms like this. And now, I’m walking in as a liability.
I exhale slowly through my nose and force my hands to move. I twist in my seat, unbuckle her carefully. She doesn’t stir, juststretches, then scrunches a little as I pull her against my chest and tuck her into the wrap. One palm rises instinctively to the back of her head, the other smooths over my blouse—creased, but passable.
My phone buzzes in the center console of the car just as I’m reaching for the door.
Reid
I hesitate, then answer, keeping my voice low. “Hey.”
He’s already mid-breath. “Havoc. Fuck, I hate that I’m not there.”
His voice is hoarse, controlled only by a thread. I can hear noise in the background—arena chatter, or maybe the team bus. He’s in Toronto tonight.
“I’ll be fine,” I murmur, shifting Ivy a little higher.
“I should be there.”
“I know.” My hand tightens around the phone. “But you can’t reschedule hockey, and they couldn’t push this any further.”
He doesn’t argue, just exhales. “I’m gonna check my phone every fucking whistle.”
The absurdity of that almost makes me smile. “I’ll text as soon as I’m out.”
“Carina—” He hesitates, and I hear him audibly swallow down the line. “Go in there and burn it down, alright? You don’t owe them an ounce of shame.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
“You owe Ivy proof that her mother’s a goddamn weapon.”
I look down at her as my eyes sting. So small, so soft.
“Tell her I said hi,” he says.
“I will.” My voice is quiet now.
“I love you,” he adds with a fierce breath. “No matter what they say, no matter what comes next. I love you so fucking much.”
“Love you too.” I breathe once, then hang up. Not because I don’t want to talk, but because I need to keep it together. He knows it, too. He always knows.
Opening the door, I walk slowly toward the clinic, my arms wrapped around Ivy.
The lobby’s half full of patients, reps, and admin staff. Some glance up as I walk through—most look away or don’t seem to care.
Jenny’s at the front desk, her spine straight and reading glasses perched on her nose like she thinks they make her smarter.
“Dr. Park,” she says coolly. “You’re expected.”
Her eyes flick to the baby wrapped against my chest, then back to me, thinly veiled disdain in every glance.
