Page 36 of Breakaway Daddies

Plump steaks, red potatoes with earthy skins, a bag of mixed greens, and two six-packs.

Reaching the checkout, I pause, an invisible weight pressing on my chest. I veer toward the pharmacy aisle, my footsteps slowing as I approach the shelves.

My hand hovers, fingers brushing the cardboard boxes before I snatch up a three-pack of pregnancy tests, tucking them beneath the steaks in my cart.

Before heading back to the house with the boys, I take a detour to a cozy coffee shop nestled between a bookstore and a florist. The moment I step inside, the rich aroma of freshly roasted espresso mingles with a hint of vanilla, envelops me, making my mouth water.

Although the line snakes only slightly around the counter, I bypass it, opting instead to pluck a chilled bottle of water from the glass-fronted fridge. After a quick transaction at the counter, I make a beeline for the bathroom at the back.

Inside, the stall door closes behind me with a quiet click, a thin barrier between me and the bustling café outside. My hands are unsteady, and I fumble slightly as I tear open the first pregnancy test package.

The crinkling of the wrapper seems deafening in the small, tile-lined space. I can’t stop myself; I take all three tests, placing them carefully on the floor in front of me.

Seated on the closed toilet lid, I stare at the trio of small, white sticks. These tiny objects hold the answers to a question I’m not ready to confront.

My breath escapes in a slow, measured sigh as I rub my temples, trying to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind.

What if they’re positive?

I imagine Rowan, his brow furrowed but his demeanor steady, rolling up his sleeves as if ready to tackle any challenge head-on. Bruno comes to mind next, his face a mask of internal conflict, the heavy burden of his own expectations pressing down on him.

And then there’s Thomas, a bundle of frantic energy, his words spilling out in a rapid stream as he talks himself through the news.

Would they want this?

Would I?

My fingers trace the delicate band of the ring on my middle finger, hoping to ground myself as I swallow the lump rising in my throat. This isn’t how I envisioned it happening.

But maybe life isn’t meant to be meticulously planned.

The small, rectangular display on the first pregnancy test flickers to life with a beep. The word “pregnant” appears in bold, unyielding letters, confirming what I’ve been trying to ignore.

My breath holds as I glance at the second test on the counter. It echoes the first with a resolute affirmation. I don’t even need to look at the third one, but I do anyway.

There it is again: Pregnant. Three clear, undeniable results lie on the cool, white tiles of the bathroom floor.

My throat constricts, and before I can stop it, my vision blurs with tears. The curse slips out under my breath, and I press trembling fingers to my lips, trying to swallow the growing lump that threatens to choke me.

My heart races like a runaway train, and my stomach feels like it’s tying itself into knots. I sit on the closed toilet lid, pulling my knees to my chest as the chill from the tiled restroom seeps into my bones.

Muffled sounds from the café seep through the door—the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, the gentle murmur of customers’ conversations, and the sporadic clinking of spoons against ceramic cups.

Yet in this tiny bathroom, a heavy silence envelops me, broken only by the relentless thud of my pulse in my ears.

I think about telling them. I should tell them.

But the words stick in my throat, refusing to come out. I’m Jinx Anderson, and I’ve always managed my own messes.

This… thisthinggrowing inside me, it’s bigger than chaos. It’s a future.

And I don’t even know if I want it.

What if I’m not ready? What if we’re not? I don’t even know if we’re really a we. Not in the way that makes sense on paper.

Who gets to be the dad? All of them? None of them? Am I supposed to pick one? Raise a baby in a group project dynamic, and hope no one drops the ball?

Three dads. Threehockeydads.

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