Page 96 of Chasing The Goal
Tonight, it smells like expensive candles, takeout, and playoff tension.
Ava throws open the door the second I buzz, already holding a mimosa in one hand. “You made it! The baby made it! My hormones made it!”
I laugh, stepping in with Lola tucked snug against my chest in her wrap. “We survived the car ride. Barely.”
“You brave, brave woman,” she says, mock solemn, before peering down at Lola. “Oh my god, she’s wearing a HellBlades onesie. I’m gonna cry.”
“She’s contractually obligated to support her almost-stepdad,” I joke.
The house is already buzzing. Flat screen on the wall streaming pre-game coverage. Music low, glasses clinking. The WAGs—wives and girlfriends—are gathered in the open living room, perched on couches and curled up in armchairs with blankets and charcuterie boards.
Lola and I are instantly engulfed.
“Oh my god, this is her?”
“She’s so small! Look at her cheeks!”
“Is that real hair?!”
“She looks like Jaymie.”
“She’s prettier than Jaymie.”
I smile through it all, shifting the wrap slightly so Lola stays asleep. “She’s been practicing her media game. Sleeps through everything.”
“Just like her dad,” one of the women laughs.
Another one nudges me gently. “So, what’s the deal? You and Jaymie getting married soon? Baby first, ring second?”
I blink. “Oh—we haven’t really talked about that yet. I mean… we’re figuring things out.”
Ava swoops in with a glass of sparkling water for me. “Translation: mind your business. Let them live.”
The women laugh, mostly good-natured, and the attention drifts toward the TV again as the game clock counts down toward puck drop. I find a spot on the end of the couch, Lola still snoozing contentedly against me, and take a deep breath.
I haven’t watched a full game without Jaymie beside me since the Lola came into the picture. There’s a nervous energy in the room—buzzing, sparking, electric. The kind of tension only Game Seven can produce. Win, and they head to the finals. Lose, and it’s over.
I clutch Lola a little tighter, whispering, “No pressure, right?”
The game starts fast. First period, two goals each. Second period, tighter. Physical. I wince as Jaymie takes a check into the boards but watch him bounce back like it’s nothing.
“He’s skating like a man possessed,” Ava mutters beside me.
“That’s because he is,” I say, my voice low. “He’s got everything to play for now.”
Third period.
Five minutes left.
Tie game.
Lola stirs against my chest. I sway gently, shushing under my breath, eyes never leaving the screen. Then—chaos. A breakaway. Connor steals, passes to Jaymie. He cuts through center ice like he’s got rockets in his skates, fakes a defender, and buries the puck top shelf.
The room explodes.
Screaming. Jumping. Wine splashing. Someone’s dog barks from the hallway.
Ava grabs me and yells, “HE DID IT! YOUR MAN DID IT!”
