Page 96 of The Final Faceoff
The Ultimate Playmaker
There’s something about doctor’s offices that always makes me feel like a child again. Maybe it’s the crisp paper covering the exam table, crinkling under me like a restless sigh. Or the smell—clean, clinical, laced with that faint bite of antiseptic that sticks to the back of my throat. Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter how old you are, sitting in a too-thin gown with your feet dangling over the edge of an exam table makes you feel ridiculously small.
And exposed.
Which, ironically, isn’t my favorite state of being—yet it seems to be happening a lot lately.
Leif sits beside me in the little plastic chair meant for supportive partners, looking infuriatingly comfortable for someone who was definitely not invited to this appointment. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps stretching the sleeves of his Henley in ways that should be illegal in a room where my legs are bare and cold. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, like he’s got nowhere else in the world to be.
And maybe that’s the part that unnerves me the most.
I told him not to worry, that I could come on my own—or call Jules. That’s when he looked at me like I’d suggested renouncing hockey for the rest of his life, and said missing this appointment wasn’t an option.
Still, while we wait, I throw out one last protest. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”
His gaze lifts from the floor, landing on me like he was waiting for that exact sentence. “Yes, I do.”
It’s not an argument. Not even a rebuttal. Just a fact, like saying the sky is blue or that I have zero self-control when it comes to soft pretzels. But facts are supposed to be comforting, and this one—this one just makes my pulse do something stupid.
Because what the hell am I supposed to do with a man who shows up like this? Who doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t let me shove him to the edges of my life where it would be easier?
The door swings open before I can start spiraling, and Rosie the technician walks in, all smiles, a tablet in her hands. “You ready to see your baby?”
Baby.
The word sticks to my ribs, as if my body is still catching up to what’s happening inside it. The last time I saw this tiny person, they looked like a smudged ink blot, an abstract idea. And now—now they have fingers and toes.
I nod, but my throat feels tight. Not in the sentimental tears kind of way, but theif I acknowledge this too much, I might panic kindof way.
The machine hums to life, and Leif shifts beside me. Then, his hand is there, slipping over mine like it belongs. Like he belongs here, with me, in this moment that I still don’t know how to process. And maybe that’s really why I don’t want him here, because I’m afraid I’ll reject the baby and I don’t want him to see the ugly side of me.
That’s the thing I was discussing with my therapist—what if I can’t love them? I talk to them daily. We discuss life and the documentaries I can do while living in the city. And even though I love when they kick me, I feel like they kick more often when Leif is around. That makes me so insecure . . . I’m working on all that. Even Jules is coming to therapy with me, so we can fix our relationship, because I do love my sister.
I focus on the screen as Rosie squeezes gel onto my stomach. It’s warm, which I appreciate, but my body betrays me anyway, a tiny shiver skating down my spine. If Leif notices, he doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his fingers around mine.
And then—there it is: the baby.
Not a blob. Not a vague maybe that’s a head kind of shape. A real, actual baby, curled up on the screen like they’ve got all the time in the world.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, obviously, I knew it was a baby. But knowing something and seeing it—really seeing it—are two very different things.
Tiny fingers. Tiny toes. A little round head.
“Wow.” I exhale too fast, too hard, like I’ve been sucker-punched by the universe. Like all the air in the room suddenly got snatched up by the moment and left me scrambling to catch up.
Leif doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at the screen like the rest of the world has disappeared, like he’s been rewired in real-time and is still trying to process the new operating system. His jaw flexes, throat bobs, and when his thumb sweeps across my knuckles, I feel it everywhere.
Not just in my hand, everywhere. My stomach? That’s obvious—it’s housing the reason we’re here in the first place. But lower? Yep, traitorous. Even my breath stumbles, caught on something dangerous, something I probably shouldn’t name while I’m lying on an exam table covered in ultrasound goo.
The doctor presses a button, and the room fills with sound.
A fast, rhythmic thump. The heart.
“Her heart sounds pretty healthy,” Rosie states.
Her?
My body goes still. My mind? Not so much.
