Page 126 of What if It's Us

The team insisted I show up at the arena early today. They claimed it was for “film review,” which is the universal code for surprise nonsense incoming.

I walk into the players’ lounge, already suspicious, and freeze.

“What the fuck?”

The room has been transformed.

Sort of.

Streamers in team colors hang crookedly from the ceiling. Balloons are tied to sticks shoved in puck buckets. Someone has taped a sign to the wall that reads:

CONGRATS ON THE BABIES, LEDGER! HOPE THEY DON’T HATE HOCKEY!

There’s a pile of oddly wrapped gifts in the corner, including one in a hockey bag.

Griffin appears wearing a party hat. “Welcome to the Bro Shower, Daddy!”

Bro shower?

Oh, my God.

“I…have questions,” I say very slowly.

Harrison appears holding a tray of cupcakes with tiny plastic hockey players stuck in them. “You like vanilla, right? They were out of blue frosting, so we just used icing tape.”

My brows furrow. “What the hell is icing tape?”

“Don’t ask,” August mutters.

“Is that?—”

The fuck?

I point to the odd-looking structure in the far corner of the room. “Is that a baby stroller made out of goalie pads?”

“Yep!” Barrett grins proudly. “It rolls and everything. Slight risk of tipping though, but super protective!”

I toss my head back in laughter already overwhelmed with gratitude that these guys would even try to do something like this. I quickly glance around the room assuming Ella or Layken or Scarlett or even Blakely Rivers might be around helping the guys, but nope. Not one of them is here. These dumb fucks did this all on their own.

“You guys are insane.”

Griffin puffs out his chest. “Thank you for noticing.”

Bodhi forces me into a folding chair by the makeshift gift pile. Guys keep filtering in. A few of the staff are already shot-gunning cans of Sprite, burping loud enough to rattle the drywall. Harrison starts a playlist that is ninety percent pump-up tracks and ten percent children’s cartoon themes, the same ones that play in the background behind my nightmares.

I look around the circle. “Who planned this?”

There’s a simultaneous silence and cacophony of finger-pointing which makes me belt out a laugh.

Oliver says, “Technically, it was my idea. Harrison bought the cupcakes, we all brought the presents, Griffin—for whatever reason—was in charge of decorations, and Pickle Pants over there,” he says pointing to Bodhi, “brought the drinks.”

Griffin beams, standing proudly in a pair of pajama pants with pink and blue footprints all over them, streamers in his hair, “Pretty fucking great team effort if you ask me.”

Barrett wheels over the goalie-pad stroller. It’s balanced precariously on four mismatched skate wheels. “Want to try it? We can strap you in, see how it handles the corners.”

“Pass,” I say with a chuckle, but Barrett’s already yanking out one of the seats to show the shock-absorption system. “It has a cupholder,” he announces reverently. “And a…what’s this?” He pokes dramatically into a mesh pouch. “Emergency binky compartment?” His jaw drops and his eyes bulge like he didn’t plan this whole thing himself.

“That’s for when one of the babies loses their shit,” August says, looking a little pale at the thought.

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