Page 61 of Mile High Coach

“Yeah,” I clear my throat, let out a breath. “You were. And it’s not okay, but it doesn’t really…bother me. Not for a few years, at least. So maybe that’s the closest we can get to forgiveness.”

“That’s okay with me,” Brad says, and his shoulders decompress, falling a bit. I wonder if he’s been carrying that tension with him from the first time he put his hands on Eliza.

For a long time, after the divorce, I wondered about the first time they crossed the line. The first time it happened. If I was at practice, or driving to work, or at an away game.

If it was a hand on her back or a kiss or a lot more than that. I used to fantasize about catching them, beating the shit out of him for daring to put his hands on her.

But now, none of that anger is there. I’m just curious about his relief—if me just saying that we’re close to forgiveness is enough to help him release that weight he’s been carrying. It was his to carry, sure, but maybe it’s been long enough.

“So, what are you doing here?” Brad asks, turning to me, raising one eyebrow in the way that he used to when he thought I was doing something stupid.

“Wallowing. Thought that was obvious.”

“Sure—but why aren’t you going after her?”

“Doesn’t want me to.”

“She said that?”

“Wrote it in a contract.” Technically, that might be against our NDA, but maybe the two whiskeys were stronger than I thought. Or maybe I just need someone to talk to about this whole thing.

“Well, shit,” Brad says. He picks up his drink again, shaking his head as he takes a drink.

I stare at my empty glass, then reach into my pocket for some bills, throwing them down on the bar and standing.

“Goodbye, Brad. Go home to Eliza, alright? Don’t make this all for nothing.”

He nods, presses his lips together, and pushes away the rest of his glass. “You’re right. And, for what it’s worth, I never thought you were the kind of man to let a little red tape stop you.”

I’m already walking away when the words hit me. When I push through the door, out of the bar’s warmth and into the frigid Baltimore night, I think about all the times he and I hyped one another up before a game. The pep talks, how we’d set each other straight, get our heads in the right place to come home with the championship.

Now, I wonder how in the hell it is that Brad Greene still knows exactly the right thing to say to me, even after a decade of me hating him.

Chapter 27

Lovie

It’s halfway through my run that I have a sudden, gut-wrenching realization, and it sends me careening off the normal path, down an alley, and toward the drugstore on the corner of the street.

The CVS is quiet and bright this early in the morning. Just one other woman is inside, pushing a cart wearily down the paper towel aisle, her eyes bleary, her heart-dappled scrubs looking a little less cheery under this light. My heart thunders in my chest as I step past her, mentally apologizing for the slush I’ve dragged in on my sneakers.

When I get to the right aisle, I grab one of each test.

From the cooler at the front, I grab two large bottles of water, popping the lid on the first and drinking half of it down as I scan the tests, then the waters, thankful for self-checkout as I drop each little box into the plastic bag.

Then, I run the rest of the way home, stopping occasionally to chug more water, knowing that maybe I shouldn’t, that running might not be the best thing if my hunch is right.

I step inside as quietly as I can. Dad and Chrys are never up as early as me, and this morning is mercifully not any different. I don’t bother to take my shoes off as I squeak through the kitchenand into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and taking out test after test.

With the precision of a surgeon, I line them up on the counter. Then, I alternate peeing and washing my hands, dropping each test in a plastic bag after using it. I wipe the counter with a disinfecting wipe, line them back up, pace back and forth, and finish the second bottle of water.

It’s only after I’m finished with the process that I remember the roll of test strips in my materials from the IVF office, the cheaper, more accurate tests they’d provided me with, for when I got to that point in the process. I could have avoided the trip to CVS, used those instead.

But my brain isn’t working right. My hands are shaking, my mind replaying the moment during my run that I’d realized I missed my period. That the first week of the month came and went without blood or cramps or PMS-ing at all.

Even though it had felt that way. All the crying. The cravings, the weird, swooping feeling in my body that I’d attributed to everything with Harrison, moving back home, being away from him and wondering why in the world I’d let myself fall in love.

And, as though ready to prove my hypothesis for me, I watch as the various tests start to line up. Two little lines, a little pink cross, the word pregnant written in the little white box. Every single one of them comes back to tell me the same thing.

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