Page 23 of Mile High Coach

Eliza, lit up from inside when we first talked about both wanting kids.

We were sitting on an outdoor patio, and I remember the sun lighting her up, dancing through her flyaways and drenching her yellow sundress.

“I mean,” she’d said, picking at the napkin at her place, her eyes eventually wandering up to meet mine, “obviously it doesn’t have to happen right away. But I’ve always wanted to be a mother.”

Then, later, her careful patience when my career needed to come first. The years going on, eventually talking about hormone treatments and IVF. The doctors talking to her about “geriatric pregnancy risks”.

How a baby just never panned out for Eliza and me. Maybe if it had, we could have stopped everything from imploding. Maybe if Eliza had done more than picked at her napkin, told me what she wanted?—

I stop myself before I go back down that rabbit hole. Another lost Stanley Cup that I can’t stop replaying in my head, no matter how much the sting of the loss has numbed over the years.

It’s not like I’m pining for Eliza. In fact, when I think of her, the most I feel is a dull ache. My hate is for losing something.

Lovie Waters is nothing like Eliza. Bold, headstrong. And right now, she’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Like I’m not sure if she’s going to take me by the hand or punch me in the face.

Would Lovie’s pregnancy be considered a geriatric pregnancy as well?

She opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, there’s the gentle creaking of a cleaning cart coming around the corner. Before it can reach us, Lovie pulls out her keys, unlocks her office, and gestures for me to come in.

This entire exchange is already going so much differently than I thought it would.

Inside, her office is plain, nothing aside from a single picture on the desk to indicate it belongs to any one person. Some files sit in the corner, and the blinds are lowered, so the city is just a hazy idea behind them.

When she closes the door behind her, she doesn’t bother to turn on the light, leaving us in the gentle, diffused glow of the setting sun.

The look on her face when she faces me again is familiar—brow wrinkled, eyes slightly unfocused. It means she’s hard at work, thinking.

“I’ll have to call Dr. Cohen,” she says, “and see how much it might be if I come in with my own sperm sample. But the savings could be enough for it to make sense. For us to go through the hassle.”

I blink at her, my mind working back through the conversation, to figure out where the disconnect was. Lovie needs to save money, and I’m willing to bet every interaction with that clinic is going on a bill somewhere.

Plenty of people get to make a baby for free. Eliza and I were trying at one point—so why should Lovie have to pay, just because she’s having the baby on her own?

Besides, I can’t lie—I want to help her. It's the process of making a baby that first caught my attention. Especially when it comes to Lovie.

“Well, if the point is to save money,” I ask, “why deal with Dr. Cohen at all?”

“What?” Lovie asks, crossing her arms and taking a step back from me, tipping her chin up in that defiant way that drives me fucking insane. “Because Dr. Cohen is my fertility doctor? And I’ll have to ask her about the process if I’m providing my own donor.”

Gently, I nod and prod, “But what if you don’t have to pay Dr. Cohen at all?”

“I’ve already paid her—I’m on fertility enhancing drugs. That’s the first step.”

“Okay,” I lower my voice, leaning in closer to her. Her eyelids lower, her pupils locking on mine and blowing wide.

This is what I love about Lovie Waters—the look she gets on her face when I’m near her. Like she just can’t help herself. It’s intoxicating.

After a beat passes, I go on, “So, let’s put those fertility drugs to the test. See if we can’t do things…naturally, first.”

“Harrison,” she hisses, something breaking in that lusty look as she takes a step back, the backs of her thighs hitting her desk as she shakes her head. “I can’t believe you—we agreed that you wouldn’t—that would be so unprofessional. It’s not happening.”

I tilt my head at her. Lust is written on her face in the way her lips are parted and the way her lashes flutter. This is the same woman I met at the Portland Jetport, waiting for her flight. Uptight, and just begging someone to give her permission to relax. It’s like all she’s waiting for now is another invitation to first class. “As much as you want to?”

“Ha,” she breathes, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears again. “No. I definitely don’t want to.”

“Are you lying to me, Lovie?”

“No.” It’s another breath, and she’s already unraveling for me, her chest falling and rising. My chest fills with a giddy feeling, like the uphill climb of a roller coaster. It’s due to the knowledge that I’m about to do something very fun.

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