Page 23 of Goal Line
EVA
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, glancing over at Luke as we reach the top of the second flight of stairs. I better love this doctor after climbing this many stairs, while pregnant, to see her. And that elevator better be in working order by the next time I’m here, because my poor back is barely handling this, and if my current level of stamina is any indication, I’m tiring more easily every single day.
I need to start training again. A week off, and I’m already feeling weak.
“I’m fine,” Luke says with a shrug. And while he sounds fine, he’s been unusually quiet since he got back from his meeting with AJ.
He didn’t say it, but I know he was nervous about the outcome of that meeting. I can always tell when he’s worried—his eyebrows flatten into nearly straight lines, and he gets afar-off look in his eyes. I saw both of those expressions a few times yesterday.
But according to him, everything went well. AJ wants him to do some skills work with his goalie coach throughout the summer, which he was planning to do anyway, and it doesn’t sound like there was any other fallout from Game 7. It all sounded positive, but something’s still...off. I wish he’d open up and tell me what it is. Even if there’s nothing I can do to fix it, I can listen and be supportive.
“Just glad you let me come with you for this,” he says, his voice light but sounding a little strained.
“You can come inonlyif we do an ultrasound,” I remind him. The thought of Luke sitting next to me while I’m draped in a gown with my feet up in stirrups...I shudder to think about how absolutely unsexy that would be. Not that Luke sees me like that, but I also don’t need him to see me getting a pelvic exam.
“I hope we get to see that little squash,” he says, glancing down at my stomach.
The laugh erupts from the back of my throat right as Luke reaches for the door to the doctor’s office. “Do you mean little squish?” I’ve heard people call babiessquishbefore, but neversquash.
“No. Right now the baby is as big as a squash.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s this app...” He stops speaking when it registers that I’ve stopped walking and am staring at him with my lips parted but unable to form words.
“You . . .?”
Putting his hand on my lower back, his thumb pressing across my tightened muscles there, he guides me toward thereception desk and whispers, “A couple days ago, you said you were twenty-four weeks along, so I downloaded an app to see what that meant for the baby’s development. It’s pretty cool. It showed me everything that’s happened so far. Like, did you know he or she is eleven inches long and over a pound at this point? And the app will show me updates every week.”
I don’t know why my eyes are watering like this . . . again.
Maybe it’s because there’s one, and only one, perfect man in this world, and he’s standing right next to me—but he’s only ever wanted to be my best friend.
Missing out on the last Olympics because Christopher was injured, our coach’s tragic death, internet shippers getting into my psyche and convincing me I felt things I didn’t feel, getting pregnant and not even knowing the name of the baby’s father—I’ve had my share of recent disappointments.
Butnothingis as heartbreaking as this single fact:Luke Hartmann will never be anything more than my best friend.
Even after living with that knowledge since I first fell for him in high school...time has not dulled the ache. Because he’s only gotten better—in every single way—with age.
Still, I’d rather have him as a best friend than not have him in my life at all. So, I’ll just have to keep setting up boundaries to prevent myself from getting my hopes up and imagining us as more than friends.
Taking care of people he loves is just what Luke does. And I know he loves me, just not in the way I wish he did.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the reception desk asks as she slides the glass panel open.
Swallowing the lump in my throat and blinking away mywatery eyes, I turn toward her. “Hi. I’m Evangeline Wilcott. I have an appointment with Dr. Lowery.”
“Of course. Can I get a copy of your insurance card?”
I fish it out of my wallet, remembering that I need to look into what happens if I stop skating. Currently, my insurance is provided by the national skating organization, but if Christopher and I have to take a break for something other than a skating-related injury, I don’t know what happens to my insurance.
“Hey.” Luke’s voice is quiet as he steps in next to me, cradling me against his side as he places his hand on my lower back and rubs circles along my spine with his thumb. “You good?”
I release my lower lip, which I’d been holding tightly between my teeth. “Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” I don’t think I can say more than that. I don’t know why this visit feels more intense than the first, and only, visit I had with my obstetrician in LA just over a month ago. Maybe because I was still holding out hope that I wasn’t pregnant when I showed up for that appointment? And now that I know for certain, it feels more real? I was able to compartmentalize this entire situation while we were still training and competing. It was something I didn’t have to deal with until “later.”
