Page 65 of Mile High Coach

Surely, this is going to cause a big problem for that department. But as much as the online spaces felt like torches and pitchforks, the energy around us right now is much more happy, buoyant—exactly the way it’s felt every time I’ve been with Lovie since the first time I met her.

“Harrison,” she says, and I realize there’s a tremor in her voice as she reaches down, picking something up from the bench. I stare at it, the tiny box, mind racing as I try to figure out what, exactly, it is. “This is for you,” she says, handing it to me.

When I open it, it’s a tiny replica of the jersey she’s wearing right now. That signature two-toned blue of the Blue Crabs, my number and name.

I look up at her, trying to puzzle it out. Her saying she wants to be with me? Doesn’t her being here do that enough?

Then, when her eyes find mine, it clicks.

Lovie is pregnant. With my baby.

Chapter 29

Lovie

Harrison once told me about a moment in hockey that feels like it defies time.

“After the ref skates to the middle, and everyone lines up,” he’d said, his voice rumbling through me as I laid on his chest, “and before he drops the puck, there’s this moment that just stretches, and stretches. Sometimes it feels like that moment is longer than the entire game.”

This moment feels like that—standing here in the stands, watching the recognition flicker over his face. Watching the dimple in his cheek pop and recede, the smile come and go, still feeling the press of his lips against mine, the gentle touch of his fingers on my lower back.

It feels like the moment of truth. Because even if I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me, if what he said is true, and he still doesn’t want kids, it’s not going to work.

All around us, fans are torn. Some of them have gone back to watching the game, while others are still staring at us, cameras up, trying to make sense of what’s going on, trying to capture it to post it to social media.

A few months ago, the thought of that would have made me sick. Now, I don’t care.

I don’t care what they capture. What they post. My life belongs to me, and I can’t help it if people are so interested in Harrison that they feel the need to record me, take photos, post them on the internet.

Once this dies down—if this happens—people will stop caring so much. Harrison and I will become old news, and they’ll move on to berating the next couple, the next two people who just want to be with each other, despite their differences.

Harrison glances down at the jersey in his hand, then back up to me, and in the next second, my feet are coming out from under my body and I’m swinging up, letting out a little yelp as he scoops me into his arms and starts to climb, effortlessly, up the stairs.

There’s still a few seconds left on the clock. The game isn’t over yet, but Coach Clark walks right out on it, getting to the top of the stands and walking right out into the concourse, not looking back as people make noises of confusion.

He carries me straight to his office, not halting or slowing for a second until I’m set on his desk, the heels of my sneakers hitting against the wood, looking up at him.

His expression is undecipherable.

“What is this?” he whispers, holding up the jersey, his eyes darting back and forth between mine.

“I—it’s a jersey for a baby, Harrison.”

He lets out a frustrated laugh, moves closer, bracketing his arms on either side of me so there’s nowhere for me to go. I’d known that this was going to be a lot, coming here to surprise him, telling him about the baby, asking him to be there. To be a dad.

I didn’t know it was going to feel like this. Like undoing my seatbelt on a roller coaster and trusting gravity to keep me inside.

“You kissed me,” he says, clearing his throat. I decide not to correct him—he kissed me, but I basically asked him to.

“I did,” I say, nodding, “because I want you.”

“Aren’t you…worried about your job?” His eyes are intense, locked on my face, and I realize that the last time I saw him, I left because of the risk. So, it only makes sense that he would think about that, about how us being together publicly might really be an issue for HR.

For Maya. I let out a shaky laugh, thinking about how I’d apologized to her earlier, explained what was going on. Asked her for forgiveness without expecting it. When I told her my plan, she’d laughed and thrown her arms around me.

“Girl,” she’d said, throwing popcorn in her mouth. “You just saved me a mountain of paperwork.”

Now, I clear my throat and look back to Harrison, saying, “No, I’m not worried about it. I’ve loved working with the Blue Crabs, but it’s not my passion. I took this job because I needed the money, and as much as I’ve loved getting to know hockey, and being a part of this world, there are other things I want to work on.”

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