Page 94 of The Game Plan

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Am I sure I’m ready? Can I actually do this? What if I’m like my mom?

I want to tell myself I’m nothing like my mother, but what if it’s a shared trait? What if I’m in over my head but I’m too stubborn to see clearly? All I can do is try my best and hope.

The buzz of my phone on the armrest pulls me from my spiral. I glance over at Lennon to make sure the vibration didn’t wake her. When the coast is clear, I look at the screen.

Aunt Bethany: Hi, sweetie! Wanted to check in on my girls… Are you both doing okay?

I smile. She’s been checking in on me a lot more often.

We’re doing good. She’s sleeping next to me while I try to work on a few assignments.

Aunt Bethany: I’m proud of you, kid. I know it’s not easy, but you’ll get through it. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.

I’m trying.

I snap a picture of Lennon and send it off to Aunt Bethany, hoping the picture will distract her from me. I don’t like feeling like I’m under a microscope with all the messages about my well-being. Yes, it’s nice to have someone care, but I’m embarrassed to admit my thoughts.

She hearts the image, and I set my phone face down. I type out a few sentences before resting my head on the back of the couch. I stare at the ceiling. My body still feels weird from labor as it works through the stages of postpartum to get back to normal—whatever that looks like. I can’t remember the last time I showered, which I know I should do more often, but I’m afraid of leaving Lennon alone for a second. Fear creeps into my vision every time I put her in a different room.

What if there’s a fire? What if someone breaks in? What if she rolls over? The what-if scenarios plague me.

I didn’t grow up in a safe environment, and I’m terrified of giving Lennon that experience. Logistically, we’re nowhere near what I endured. My home was a revolving door of strangers. Our cupboards were lined with reduced-priced food while Mom spent her paychecks on the latest diet gimmick and clothes meant to make her look “younger.” There were no lullabies or cuddles. I fell asleep listening to my mom with her latest flavor of the week or arguing with the landlord.

It was toxic, to say the least. And I’m terrified of screwing up.

All I know is she deserves better, and while I don’t know what “better” looks like in practice, I’m desperate to give it to her.

The apartment door clicks open, followed by the soft rustle of a paper bag.

“Hey,” Grant says gently. With hands full, he leans over the couch and gives me a hello kiss. “Has she been asleep long?”

His voice is tired, and it makes my heart clench. He’s been doing so much to help with our transition and allowing my body the time to heal. But is he hurting himself by burning both ends of the candle?

I nod. “Almost two hours.”

He smiles wistfully at Lennon before moving to the kitchen. “I brought home tacos. Why don’t you come eat some before she wakes?”

Smiling, I hum. “My hero.”

I close the laptop slowly, careful not to jostle Lennon. Grant is placing a Styrofoam container on the counter and opening the lid as I make my way over. The smell of authentic tacos, rice, and beans wafts through the air, making my stomach grumble. I didn’t realize I was so hungry, but I also don’t remember eating lunch.

“How was practice?” I ask, sitting on the barstool next to him. I reach for a steak taco and practically inhale half of it. As the flavors burst on my tongue, I let out a very unattractive moan.

Grant shifts in his seat. “Long, but good. Our freshman receiver is finally stepping up the way we want him to. He’s less focused on the fame and more focused on the game.”

“Look at you, a poet, and you didn’t even know it.”

He laughs around a mouthful of rice. “You’re cute.”

I love his laugh. Grant is the quiet one; often misjudged as a grump, but he’s far from it. He’s quiet and shy, but when you get his walls to crumble, he’s radiant.

We eat in silence, rushing through our meals before another feeding interrupts us. And though I’ve been alone all day without stimulating conversation, the silence between us is comforting.We never feel the need to force chatter; we can just be in each other’s presence. Grant is the first to finish. I don’t think he chews, only inhales his meals. Four tacos, a side of rice, and beans—gone—before I’ve finished half of mine. I watch as he clears his space and moves back to the couch to watch Lennon.

With my food gone and my place cleared, I join them on the couch. As I move past him, Grant’s hand grips my wrist gently, tugging me down onto his lap. Strong arms wrap around me in a hug I didn’t know I needed.

I feel a sting in my nose. Scrunching it, I fight to keep my emotions at bay. “This is hard.”

“Yeah, Peach, it is.” He doesn’t offer solutions, only agreement. He lets the honesty land and sits with it. It’s reassuring that he feels the same way—it’s not just me. I’m grateful he doesn’t sugarcoat this adjustment like so many others.