That might be the pep talk I’m giving myself, but it’s been hard as hell to keep those thoughts at bay. When I had the first thought that she was pregnant, I was happy as hell. Then I saw her face. Her concern. How she was nothing but terrified at the possibility. I’m not sure where she stands on what the next steps would be, but that’s a problem for the future. Nothing can happen until we know.
And until then, I’m going to do what I can for her. Before it was someone to hold her. Now it’s someone to get her a pregnancy test. I can freak out about my thoughts at a later time.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, standing in front of what is no less then ten-thousand pregnancy tests. I look up and down the shelves, wondering where I even begin because I’m so far out of my depth it isn’t even funny.
Do I call someone for help? No. I can’t tell anyone about this yet. Honestly, Ainsley would be my first call since she’s a labor and delivery nurse, but that means she’d tell Linc, who’d tell Wyatt, and next thing I know the team is planning a gender reveal. I can’t call my mom or sister because they’ll freak out more than I am.
I pick one off the shelf and read it, this one saying that it’s for pre-detection. Which makes no sense. If it can detect it, doesn’t that push it past the “pre” phase?
But we could be in that territory, so I put it in the basket.
As I go down the line of tests, I realize that they’re all kind of the same, but all a little different. Why are there so many? There shouldn’t be this many. Some tell you that they’re detecting two weeks earlier than others. Some have lines. Some have words.There's a thing called an ovulation test. What is that? Do I need to get that?
Fuck it. They’re all going in the basket.
What am I doing? I have no clue. A fact I’m sure is evident to any stranger walking by as they see my basket overflowing with tests. Or… is this smart of me? You can’t fuck it up if you buy them all.
I’m a fucking freaked out genius.
I do one last glance over the shelves, grabbing one more just in case, when I feel a slight tap on my leg. When I look down, because it basically feels like a little stick poking me in my thigh, I see the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Candy?”
I look around to see if there’s an adult anywhere in the vicinity, but nope, I’m alone in the “oh shit I’m about to be a parent” aisle.
“No sweetie, there’s no candy here,” I say, crouching down to her eye level. “Is your mommy or daddy here? Maybe they’re shopping for candy?”
She seems to think about it for a second when I hear a booming voice from an aisle over.
“Adalyn Marie! I’m not playing! Quit hiding!”
I smile, because this girl’s face morphed into the most mischievous thing I’ve ever seen. Little giggle and all. “Is your name Adalyn?”
She nods but puts her finger up to her lip like I need to keep the secret.
“I don’t think I can do that kiddo,” I say. “Sounds like your dad is pretty?—”
“Adalyn! Thank fuck! You can’t run off like that.”
I stand up to step out of the way as he scoops Adalyn in his arms.
“Bad word!” she says, her lips going into a pout that I think is supposed to be her mean face. To me though it’s adorable and I want to still get her the candy she asked for.
“Fine. I’ll put money in the jar when I get home, but you need to put a quarter in it too,” he says. “What did I tell you about running off?”
I lean back down to pick up my overflowing basket when the dad turns to me. “Thanks for… wait, Maddox?”
I didn’t see the dad’s face until now because of our angles and the ballcap he’s wearing, which is how I didn’t realize that this little girl belongs to Music City Rockers’ defenseman Asher Reed.
“Hey Asher,” I say, trying to subtly hold the basket behind my legs. You know, like he’s not going to realize what aisle we’re in. “How’ve you been?”
“Good now that I’m done having my heart attack because of this one,” he says, giving her a little boost in his hold. “Thanks for finding her.”
“She found me,” I say, giving my new little bestie a smile. “She was looking for candy.”
He laughs and half rolls his eyes. “Sounds about right. I swear I took my eye off her for a second.”
“I get it,” I say, even though I don’t, but it feels like the right thing to say. I also feel like I need to change the topic of conversation away from kids, which might deflect from my basket. “I was at your game the other night. Amazing fucking game man.”
