I’m not entirely sure whatthisis, but I’m hoping I’ll figure that out at some point.
I was here early in the hope of catching a glimpse of him before he went in. But understandably, the players don’t just walk through the main entrance.
My seat is terrible, although not as awful as the last time I was here. At least I can see the players’ numbers on their backs. As the team progresses through the playoffs, it gets harder and harder to secure tickets. I didn’t think I was going to get one, but I got lucky yesterday and managed to snag it on resale.
Throughout the entire game, my eyes are locked on Everett. It doesn’t matter if he’s on the ice, on the bench, or more oftenthan not, in the penalty box. I spend the whole time he’s down there studying him, trying to get a better idea of who he is. But I don’t learn anything new. He’s still the arrogant player with anger issues I met that night.
I sit there staring at the ice long after the rest of the fans have filed out and the machine thing that cleans up the ice has finished for the night.
It’s peaceful, and when I look at my cell when I’m finally kicked out by a team of cleaners, I can’t believe my eyes.
It’s late—really freaking late—and as I start making my way down the stairs to the exit, my muscles let me know just how tired they are.
I might only be a few weeks into this thing, but I’m already feeling the effects.
As I make my way outside into the warm spring evening, my eyes are everywhere, searching for the man I came here for.
I know it’s pointless. He’s not going to be walking out of the fans’ exits, but it doesn’t stop me from looking.
After calling a rideshare and climbing in the back when it arrives, I pull up social media and hit my most recently searched name.
There hasn’t been anything posted since their last road game. I stare at the image of him with a shot in his hand and a woman on either side of him.
One is blonde and one is brunette, and both of them look like catwalk models. They’re both almost as tall as him, and painfully beautiful.
I sink lower in the seat, feeling wholly inadequate.
Despite having done so numerous times over the last few weeks, I keep scrolling, feeling a little sicker each time I see him pictured with a woman.
Each one feeds into my insecurities, and by the time the driver pulls up outside my building, it takes every bit of self-control I have not to burst into tears.
“Thank you,” I say in a rush as I throw the door open and all but run into the building and, soon after, the elevator.
The second the doors slide closed, I shatter.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t even care about him or those women. I just…I just want what’s best for our baby. And what’s best is having two parents who love them.
We don’t need to be a family, not in the conventional sense, but I never, ever want to have the conversation with my child that their father didn’t want them.
No child should ever have to deal with that.
Just like no child should have to grow up with the constant grief of losing a parent before they even had a chance to know them.
I didn’t have a choice in how my life played out. But right now, I can make a decision for my child, and I will fight for them, even if it turns out I’m the only one who will.
By the time I get into my apartment, my tears have faded and anger over the unfairness of my own childhood has taken hold.
I toe my sneakers off, throw my purse on a pile of boxes in the hallway, and march to my bedroom, pulling my cell from the pocket of my leggings as I go. By the time I’m inside the room, I hit the message option on his Instagram page and begin tapping as I pace back and forth across my bedroom.
Bea Walsh: Hi, you probably don’t remember me. But I met you after your final regular-season game. I was wearing your jersey. You might remember pinning me against a wall in the back area of Club 52.
“Shit,” I hiss, staring at my words.
I can’t send that.
But what’s the alternative?
Bea Walsh: Hi, I’m pregnant, and it’s yours. Reply please.
