Page 38 of The Game Plan

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She lets out a sigh, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Unfortunately. Ridge made me watch it with him over Christmas break. I swear I watched half of it with my hand on my face.”

I chuckle, tipping my head back against the couch as the energy between us simmers just below the surface. It’s nothing but everything at the same time. The later we get into the night, the closer she moves, until her body is curled against my side. Her signature scent of peach and vanilla is all-consuming.

And we’re just supposed to be roommates.

God help me.

Amonth has passed by in the blink of an eye, and now I’m sweating my way across campus, cursing every single step that led me to be thirty-six weeks pregnant in the middle of the dog days of summer…in Texas, of all places. Mid-August is a bitch.

The sun beats down like a personal vendetta against me, baking the sidewalk and radiating heat through the soles of my tennis shoes. I’ve had to resort to arch-supporting tennis shoes this past week due to swelling in my ankles, especially when I walk long distances. I miss flip-flops. My dress clings to my skin in all the wrong places, and I’m positive sweat is collecting between my boobs and forming a personal kiddie pool.

With my car’s alternator replaced and a few electrical systems repaired, I finally have my car back. As much as I appreciated Grant letting me drive his truck when I needed it, I was getting tired of hauling my large body into the cab. Speaking of Grant; things between us have been great. Since finding out I’m having a girl, we’ve settled into a routine. He’s sprinkled in moments of care between our opposite schedules. We’re like planets orbitingthe same star, never quite colliding but always passing close enough to exchange gravity. Or at least I like to think he’s feeling the same charge as I am.

When we’re in the same place, it’s…light. Comfortable, even. We fall into easy banter, the kind of laughter that leaves your cheeks sore and your mind replaying the interaction all day. He surprises me with lemon treats next to the coffeemaker on days he isn’t able to make me breakfast. When he meal preps his food for the week, he makes enough for me to have some too.

Throughout the day, he’s texting me to check in. To ask about my day. To tell me something that happened at practice. It’s these little things that keep the spark between us ignited.

We never talked about the kiss in the doctor’s office, but I find myself wanting to kiss him again. The way I’ll catch his gaze lingering on me when he thinks I’m not paying attention tells me he’s feeling the same.

But there’s something else. Something shadowed behind his eyes, like he’s carrying a weight he hasn’t admitted to yet.

In my paranoid, pregnant brain, I convince myself I’m the problem. Maybe he regrets offering me his spare room. I make sure never to leave a mess—always doing my dishes, putting my makeup away, wiping down every hard surface I use. My bedroom still has its moments of clutter, but I’m working on organizing the baby’s things as best I can.

A part of me wonders if he’s ready to date, to find a woman to bring home, and here I am, taking up space in his life, in his apartment. I notice it more on the weekends. He never lets himself fully relax, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m home too, and it’s the only time we’re in the apartment together. Even still, I’ll disappear into my room to watch TV so he has space to unwind without feeling the need to entertain.

I shift my tote higher on my shoulders and feel the fabric of my dress cling to my shoulders. As I walk purposefully towardthe campus bookstore, I’m annoyed that I had to order a new textbook when the used website sold out while waiting for my paycheck. Instead of the hundred-dollar used book, I was forced to purchase the two-hundred-dollar new one.

A group of girls spills out of the Union, giggling and stumbling as their hands grasp onto each other. The corner of my mouth twitches as I remember being that girl. The carefree version of myself surrounded by my sorority sisters. It feels like another lifetime ago. I took for granted the lack of responsibility I had. And the girls who were supposed to be my sisters for life? They bailed when I moved out. Something about not wanting me to tarnish the Delta Zeta image.

The buildings around me are a mix of old and new—brick facades with ivy climbing sun-worn columns, nestled beside modern lecture halls that gleam in the sunlight. Pristine landscaping pops against dark green grass and black mulch. I’ve always loved this place. It’s where I found pieces of myself as a scared eighteen-year-old searching for purpose. And now? Now, it’s where I’m rebuilding that vision.

Deferring my final semester last spring felt like failure when I hit submit. I’d just found out I was pregnant a few weeks into classes. Everything was a challenge—I was nauseous, hungry, and constantly trying to wrap my head around becoming a mom. And reaching the guy I’d hooked up with? No one prepares you for telling a man he’s about to become a father. The movies make it look easy, but it’s far from it.

Back then, it was survival mode. I needed time to breathe, to figure out what I was doing, to make space for the idea that this baby was real. Living in the sorority house wasn’t an option—it was against the rules—so I stayed a month with my aunt to plan my next steps. Much to her and Ridge’s dismay, I wanted to come back to Texas and graduate.

Finishing now—resuming fall semester—it feels like something I can hold on to. A thread of normalcy after taking the spring semester off. I’m grateful Central Texas University believes in women’s health by offering daycare for students with families. It’s a relief knowing I’ll have a trusted place for my child. I’m determined to finish these last three classes to get my degree and graduate in December, even if that means writing papers at all hours of the night…with a newborn strapped to my chest.

Inside the bookstore, I’m met with a blast of cool air. My shoulders sag in relief. The fluorescent lighting hums overhead, mixing with the soft murmur of students chatting in line to collect their textbooks. I take my time getting in line, knowing it’s going to be a while before it’s my turn.

On the way, I pause at a display of CTU apparel—rows of t-shirts, sweatshirts and sweatpants, hats, and… Oh my gosh, is that a onesie?

I reach toward the tiniest one, a powder-blue onesie with CTU’s littlest fan written across the chest in bold red lettering. I grab one in size 0-3 months and press it against my bump. My mind drifts to a future Saturday: game day, my little girl squirming in my lap as we watch from the couch while Grant paces the sidelines, headset on, in his element.

Could the three of us ever be a family? The thought hits hard, nearly sucking the breath from my lungs.

Then comes the voice I haven’t heard in almost a year…and I instantly wish I hadn’t, even though running into people is inevitable.

“So it’s true…”

I turn, and there she is. Tierney Turner. Blonde bombshell, eternal gossip, queen of passive-aggressive comments, and my former sorority sister.

Tierney’s hair is pulled into a tight, high ponytail that bounces with her movements. It’s unfair that humidity never seems to affect her hair and makeup. She’s wearing a sports bra and tight biker shorts. Her eyes drop pointedly to my belly.

“I wasn’t sure if the rumors were real, but…” She smiles too widely. “Guess they are.”

I straighten my spine, refusing to cower to her mean-girl energy. “Hey, Tierney.”

“You look…wow,” she says, blinking dramatically. “I mean, pregnancy really changes a person, doesn’t it?”