Page 88 of Pucking the Single Dad
She crashed into me, her momentum nearly taking us both down on my destroyed knee. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I was at Maria's watching and you could barely skate and Finn kept using his inhaler and—"
"You left." I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice, even with cameras recording every word.
"I know. I know. I'm—" She pulled back, mascara streaking down her face in rivers, hands shaking as they gripped my jersey. "Brad, I need to tell you something."
"Now? Here?" Commissioner was literally standing ten feet away with the Cup, waiting for his moment.
"I'm pregnant."
The arena noise became white static. My brain stopped processing language. Pregnant. Serena. Baby. The words wouldn't combine into meaning.
"Six weeks," she continued in a rush, like if she stopped talking she'd lose courage. "Found out this morning at 7:23 AM. That's why I panicked with Finn's medication. My brain was just—broken. And I thought if I can't handle one kid having an asthma attack, how can I handle two? What if the baby has respiratory issues? What if—"
I kissed her. Not a movie kiss—messy and desperate, tasting tears and fear and hope. When I pulled back, we were both gasping.
"We're having a baby," I said, testing the words.
"You're not angry?"
"I'm everything. Angry, terrified, ecstatic, confused—" I pressed my forehead to hers. "But mostly just glad you're here."
"Wait, WHAT?" Finn's voice cut through our bubble. He stood beside us, inhaler in one hand, eyes cartoon-wide. "There's a BABY? In Serena? RIGHT NOW?"
The jumbotron had caught everything. Twenty thousand people now knew our business. The crowd's roar shifted, taking on a different quality—celebration mixed with gossip-hungry delight.
"Yeah, buddy," I managed, pulling him into our huddle. "A baby."
"But—" His face scrunched in seven-year-old calculation. "But Miss Serena left. She had a bag. Theo said she went to think."
Serena dropped to her knees on the ice, her dress soaking through immediately. "Finn, baby, I'm so sorry. I got scared. Really, really scared."
"Like when I can't breathe scared?"
"Exactly like that." She took his hands, inhaler and all. "I was scared I'd mess up. That I wouldn't be good enough for you or the baby."
"That's dumb," Finn said flatly. "You're already my mom."
The simple certainty of it destroyed her. She pulled him against her, sobbing into his hair while he patted her back like she was the child.
Commissioner cleared his throat. The entire hockey world was waiting. But Brad Wilder, Stanley Cup Champion, stayed on his knees on the ice, holding his complicated, expanding family.
"I need you both to promise," I said, including Finn in this. "No more running. From any of us. We're going to be scared—about the baby, about breathing, about everything. But we stay. We figure it out together."
"Pinky promise?" Finn extended his small finger, so serious it broke my heart.
Serena hooked her pinky with his, then held out her other hand to me. "Pinky promise."
We must have looked ridiculous—a broken hockey player, a panicking pregnant teacher, and an asthmatic seven-year-old, making pinky promises while the Stanley Cup waited and twenty thousand phones recorded. But someone—Theo, probably—started clapping. Then the whole team. Then the entire arena, because hockey fans are suckers for family drama.
"Mr. Wilder?" Commissioner’s voice carried a note of barely contained impatience. "The Cup?"
I stood, pulling my family up with me. The Cup was heavy—thirty-five pounds of silver and history. But holding it with Finn on my hip (inhaler and all) and Serena pressed against my side (pregnant, terrified, mine), it felt lighter than air.
"How does it feel?" Some reporter shoved a microphone at us.
I looked at Serena, whose hand had found her stomach in that protective gesture I'd be seeing for the next seven months. At Finn, whose breathing had finally steadied. At the Cup, which would sit in our house for exactly one day before moving on to the next winner.
"Like the beginning," I said.
