Page 3 of Goal Line
“Define taking it easy,” I say, annoyance ringing out in my tone.
I’m fine.I don’t know why they even brought me to the hospital. I’d slept on the plane from Paris to New York, which meant I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, and when I stood up too quickly after landing, I passed out. Christopher caught me, it’s not like I even hit my head or anything. But despite assuring everyone I was okay, I was taken off the plane by EMTs.
I couldn’t tell them, in front of our coach, Jessie, that I was pregnant. As of right now, the only two people who know are my skating partner, Christopher, and my best friend, Luke. And I’d like to keep it that way until I’m ready to start sharing the news.
So, here we are—wasting time at the hospital, havingmissed my connecting flight to Boston, and Christopher missing his flight back to LA.
“You’re pregnant,” the young female resident says with a sigh, as if I don’t understand this fact or that she somehow knows my body better than I do. “You shouldn’t even be skating when you’re this far along.”
I’ve been incredibly proud of myself to have continued at this level despite battling queasiness and fatigue for months on end. My coach and some of the other skaters we train with have noticed a difference in my energy levels, but only Christopher knows why. Pretty soon, though, I’m going to start showing. And from what I understand, that’s the point at which I’ll need to slow down in order to avoid injuring the baby.
But we’re not there yet.
I needed to finish this season strong, and I did the best I could. Now, we’re headed into our month-long summer break, which is the only time of year that I’m in Boston to see my parents. Then, in the late summer, we normally start our hardcore training in preparation for the competitions in the fall.
Even though I won’t be able to go all out this summer, I’ll still need to push myself. I have to be in the best physical condition possible during this pregnancy or I won’t be in good enough shape afterward to pick up where I left off with my training.
After I have this baby, there will be one more chance to qualify for the Olympics—a goal that was handed down to me at birth, by virtue of being the child of two Olympians. There’s no way I’m going to be the only person in my family not to achieve that.
I know it’ll be that much harder with a newborn. But I’m determined to qualify for the Games,andto be the best mom humanly possible.
“I’ll talk to my OB about it when I’m back in Boston,” I say, hoping that ends this conversation so I don’t have to mention that I don’t actually have an obstetrician in Boston. Mine is in LA, and I won’t be back there for a month, which means I probably need to find someone to see in the interim.
“We’ll give you some discharge paperwork to share with your doctor,” the resident says. “You’ll be out of here later tonight.”
Next to me, Christopher slides his phone out of his pocket, and when I glance over at him, I can’t read his expression. This is a recent phenomenon. After years of being completely in tune with one another, recognizing and experiencing every emotion together, there have been a few moments lately when he’s felt a bit distant, almost like a stranger.
I exchange pleasantries with the care team as they leave, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do my whole life. Performance Eva knows how to put on the “everything is great” front, no matter what I’m actually feeling.
When they’re gone, I turn to Christopher. “What’s wrong?”
He hands his phone to me. A single text from Luke. The only one he’s ever sent to Christopher, apparently.
I quickly scan through the message.Oh, shit.
My eyes lock with Christopher’s and, finally, I can tell exactly what he’s thinking. My mom showing up isbad.But Luke showing up here would beworse.
“Where’s my phone?” I ask, trying, but failing, to quell the panic.
He walks to the end of my bed and fishes through my belongings that were placed in a blue plastic bag when I was brought to the ER. My phone is in the pocket of my jacket, silenced like it always is.
And on the screen is a series of text messages from my mom, starting hours ago, telling me that Jessie called her and she’s catching a flight from Boston to New York.Fucking Jessie.
And then there are messages from Luke, asking if I’m okay and warning me that my mom is on her way. Thank god he also texted Christopher, or I might not have gotten the news before she arrives.
“You have to go tell the doctors not to say anything in front of my mom,” I plead, looking over at him. With his dark hair and nearly black eyes, we could be siblings. Instead, the whole world is convinced we’re lovers. And for too long, I let myself hope for that as well.
“Eva,” he sighs. “You’re going to have to tell your parents eventually.”
“Yes. Onmyterms, andmytimeline. And that time isn’t now.”
Another sigh. “Fine,” he says, all six feet of him rising from his chair. Wearing broken-in jeans and a tight black T-shirt beneath his trademark leather jacket, I can already envision the way heads will turn as he walks through the hallway. He’s got a classically refined bone structure, with smooth skin and smoldering eyes, plus acool indifference that makes women, and occasionally men, swoon.
“Thank you,” I say, clicking back to my text thread with Luke as Christopher heads out the door.
I’m about to respond to my best friend’s text when I hear my mother’s voice, her faint British accent that lingers even after decades of living in the States.“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were in the hospital.”
She sweeps into the small ER room. Her Hermès sunglasses sit atop her head, holding back her dark hair with her trademark silver streak that starts at her side part and sweeps across her forehead.God, she’s beautiful.Severe, but beautiful. “You didn’t even answer my calls or respond to my texts...”
