Page 23 of Interference
“I’m going to be a father.” The words come out before I even think them.
A look of confusion crosses his face but passes when he shakes his head.
“You knocked up a chick?” he says.
“Coach, I respect you, but watch your tone,” I tell him harshly.
Respect crosses his face.
“Who?”
“Emery Monroe.”
Recognition makes his eyes widen. “The figure skater you’ve been obsessed with for years.”
I startle. I had no idea he knew about it.
“Yes.”
He looks away and runs his hand over his mouth. “I did not see this coming.”
I don’t bother to respond. It’s none of his business that this wasn’t planned.
He looks back at me and studies me. “You seem to be taking this well. When players typically tell me this, they look scared out of their minds. You look nervous, but not scared.”
“I’d be a liar if I said I’m not scared at all, but honestly, I’m more excited than anything,” I admit.
It’s the truth. I feel like I should be scared out of my mind, but I’m not. I want this. I want her and our baby. My fear only comes in when I think of everything that could go wrong.
Was it an intentional pregnancy? Obviously not, but it’s a gift.
“Wait, she’s the school’s crown jewel. The one they expected to go to the Olympics,” he muses.
“She will. Not this round obviously, but the one after,” I say with determination.
His eyebrow raises. “You sound pretty sure of that.”
“It’s because I am. She will get what she wants in life. I’ll make sure of it.”
He nods. “So where does that leave you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m assuming you are telling me for a reason.”
“I promised Emery that I will go to every doctor’s appointment with her. If one happens to be during practice, I need you to know I won’t be here.”
Coach sighs and shakes his head. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Before I can say anything, he raises his hand, cutting me off.
“Don’t get me wrong, I respect your decision to be by her side. I would be disappointed if you weren’t, but this is going to push your focus away from hockey. You need to get back on the ice. I’m almost certain if you do, you’ll be drafted in the spring.”
“Actually,” I say, making him groan.
“Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it,” he begs.
“Being drafted means nothing to me. Honestly, the thought of playing professionally isn’t appealing to me at all. Not now.”
