“Deal,” Fletcher says, heading into the living room.
I swallow harshly, pointing a thumb to my room. “I’ll be out in a bit.”
Rushing inside, I dig in my closet for my jersey and a pair of distressed jeans. Once I’ve found them, I rip open the bag of pregnancy tests and grab two. I take one stick from each and wrap them in the jersey along with the instructions.
I dash across the hall into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, thankful Fletcher didn’t stop me this time.
I read the instructions, and within a minute, I’m peeing on the sticks and putting the caps on. My hands shake as I set the timer on my phone. One of them is digital, so at least that will give me a sure answer.
While I wait, I change into my jersey and jeans, fluffing my just-above-shoulder-length curly hair and throwing it into a half-up bun.
My mind is racing. Can I afford a baby? The only reason I can live in this apartment is thanks to Fletcher. When we moved in together, he told me I wouldn’t have to pay rent, but I insisted. I don’t need a handout, even if my best friend is a millionaire.
Fletcher isn’t going to want a baby living here, that’s for sure. He needs peace and quiet to make sure he’s ready for games, physically and mentally. I can’t be interrupting his sleep with a screaming baby at three in the morning.
I suppose I could move out, but can I afford anapartment on my own? I make enough to live with my job as an office administrator for a local non-profit, but it’s not enough to support an infant and me. I could ask for a raise or a promotion. I’ve been offered one before but turned it down. I’m happy with where I’m at. Now, I might need to reconsider it. And the cost of childcare? How can I even think of affording that?
If I’m pregnant, will Jude want to be a part of it? Do Iwanthim to? He was nice enough, but you can’t tell if you are ready to parent with someone for eighteen years based on three dates and a sub-par hookup you didn’t even get an orgasm out of.
“Lydia, are you ready? We gotta go if we want to beat traffic!”
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, grabbing my makeup bag and phone off the counter. There’s still a minute and a half left on the timer, and I don’t think Fletcher will be patient enough to wait for me to have an existential crisis if it’s positive.
That’s not true, though. If I told him what’s going on, he’d have all the patience in the world, and he’d even help me come up with a plan. Only, I can’t lean on him right now. This is something I have to do on my own.
“Coming!” I call, shoving the flipped over tests into the top drawer and leaving the bathroom.
2
GOOD LUCK CHARM
FLETCHER
“Let’s go, boys,” I shout as I stride into the locker room.
Everyone cheers, pumping my adrenaline even higher. We’ve got a good group of guys this year, and based on how practices have been going, it could be a great year for us.
Trigg Aadland sits at his locker in his full gear, headphones in, as he stares at the floor. At the first practice, he explained one of his superstitions to us. He has a playlist he listens to before each game, and he can’t be interrupted; if he is, his focus will be off.
I get it. We all have our superstitions, myself included. Some of the guys have to use a certain type of tape or put their gear on in a certain order.
For me, I have to talk to Lydia before a game. It started in college, and I realized that on the game days when I talked to her, I played ten times better and usually scored.
Then, I started theorizing. I’d talk to her and not say goodbye, and we’d win. The days I talked to her and said goodbye, we’d lose. And so it began. I have to talk to her, whether in person or over the phone, for no less than threeminutes, and I can’t say goodbye. I can say ‘see you later’ or ‘talk after,’ but if I slip up and say goodbye, we lose.
Of course, there are games we still lose even if I stick to my superstition, but then I at least know it’s not my fault.
Lydia Ward is my good luck charm, and I don’t think she knows it.
“Feeling ready?” Calvin Miller, our center on the team and my other best friend, approaches, still dressed in his suit and tie.
“Think so.” I clap him on the shoulder before taking off my suit jacket and hanging it in my locker. “I’m always optimistic for the first game of the season, you know that.”
Cal and I were drafted to the Blue Herons the same year. We had a killer rookie year, and since then, we’ve been steady, but I want this to be the year we make it past the finish line. I’m gunning for that championship.
“You’ve always been quite the optimist.” He winks.
“And you’re not?”
