Page 40 of Your Sharpest Edge
“I’ll be there. Tell her. I’ll be there. Where is she?” My voice shook with urgency.
I wished I’d given her my number so she wouldn’t have had to call Coach. The thought of her needing me and not being able to reach me tore at my heart.
Fuck. I should’ve kept the door open for her, but I was too weak to hold my boundaries. Instead, I shut her out. I stopped staying home, hooking up with random girls to distract myselffrom the reality that she was carrying his child. The thought of her with him was unbearable, so I numbed myself to avoid facing it. Meanwhile, Dimitri paraded around the locker room, acting like he was father of the year, and it enraged me. His charade made me sick, knowing how he truly treated her.
“I need her number,” I said to Coach as I threw on my gym shoes by the door and locked the door behind me, running toward the elevator bank.
“She’s at St. Michael’s Hospital, and I’ll text you her information.”
“Thank you.” I breathed out a small sigh of relief knowing I was going to be there soon. “Call Dirks. He might know where Dimitri is.”
I wanted to throw up. How could he be so fucking selfish to be out and not have his phone on him when his wife was severely pregnant? Anything could’ve happened at any point.
“I will. Thank you, Popov.”
“No problem,” I said as the elevator doors finally opened.
I frantically pressed the button for the basement, my heart racing. I was going to be there for her. Despite the mess I had made of the past few months, trying to put space between us, I was going to be there for her now. She deserved someone who truly cared, someone who would stand by her side, and I was determined to be that person. My mind was a whirlwind of regret. As the elevator descended, I swore I wouldn’t let her down again.
I reached the hospital within twenty minutes. After demanding security tell me where she was, I raced up to her room.
It was sterile and stark, the cold fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the white walls and linoleum floor. It smelled faintly of antiseptic. The room was dominated by intimidating machines that beeped and hummed, their displays flickering with vital signs. It was a sad and scary place, devoid of any warmth or comfort.
“Anastasia?” I called.
She was lying in the hospital bed, looking frail and vulnerable in a thin pale-blue gown that hung loosely around her small frame. Her cheeks were hollow, and her hair was splayed out beneath her on the pillow. The gown did little to conceal her slightly rounded belly, a small but poignant reminder of the life growing inside her and the reason I was here.
“Alex?” she responded weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.
She looked so alone, surrounded by the impersonal machinery and the sterile environment.
A deep, relentless ache settled in my chest, as if my heart was caught in a vise, tightening with every breath. It felt like a thousand tiny cracks spreading through my ribs, each one pulsing in time with my racing heartbeat. This ache was a heavy, hollow pain that echoed through me. Every glance at her fragile form made it worse, a mix of protection and worry that I couldn’t shake.
“I’m here.” I ran over toward her and grabbed her hand, littered with hospital bracelets.
“Dimitri?” she asked.
“Coach is working on trying to find him. Tell me what happened.”
Her blue eyes, usually bright and radiant, were dull and lifeless. Her eyes rimmed red. “I was at the game earlier and wasn’t feeling great, so I left early. He came home and...”
If my heart could have sunk lower, it did. I was choking on my own lack of oxygen. “He did this to you?”
She shook her head. “He was upset that I left. It was my fault. The stress.”
If he walked in here, I was going to fucking murder him. I tried so desperately to stay in my own lane. I had failed to keep her safe.
“It’s fine,” she quickly said. “It’s my fault.”
I squeezed her hand. “It’s not your fault.”
She looked at me. “My water broke, and he’s so early. I’m so scared,” she whispered.
“He’ll be safe. You’re here, and the doctors look like they’re taking good care of you.” I looked over to the machines and made a mental note to ask the nurse how she was. “I’m sorry.” I was trying to keep my voice from shaking. I coughed a few times.
“Why?” she asked, her lips chapped. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I haven’t been there. I’ve been a shitty friend?—”
