Page 143 of Player Misconduct
"There," she says, smug. "See? Teamwork."
I set the screwdriver down, sliding behind her so my chest presses against her back, my hands settling over the curve of her belly. "You okay, Doc?"
She leans into me, her head tipping back against my shoulder. "Yeah," she says softly. "Just thinking how different this feels. Like we finally outran everything."
I press a kiss to the side of her neck, breathing in the scent of her. "We didn't outrun it," I whisper. "We stopped running."
Her hand covers mine where it rests on her belly, and for a long moment, we just sit there, wrapped up in each other, in the quiet, in the life we're building one folded onesie and confusing swing instruction at a time.
My phone buzzes on the counter while I'm elbow-deep in assembling the changing table, this time in a language I can understand.
I glance at the screen.
SportsNet Alert:
BREAKING: Seattle Sentinels release quarterback Tarron McCoy from training camp roster.Sources cite "attitude issues and relapse concerns."
I freeze, staring at the notification.
Kendall appears in the doorway, carrying a stack of folded blankets. "What is it?"
I hand her the phone.
She reads, her expression unreadable, then exhales slowly. "Guess he finally ran out of teams to blame."
"You okay?" I ask, watching her carefully.
She nods, setting the phone facedown on the counter. "I am now." Her hand drifts to her belly, that instinctive, protective gesture I've come to recognize. "He's not part of our story anymore."
"Good," I say, crossing to her, my hands finding her waist. "Because I like the story we've got."
She looks up at me, eyes soft, mouth curving into a small smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers. "It's my favorite."
Kendall
By evening, the house has transformed.
Boxes are mostly unpacked, furniture is in place, and the chaos of the morning has settled into something that almost looks like home. The kitchen glows with warm light, takeout cartons scattered across the counter, soft music playing from Aleksi's phone propped against the toaster.
I stand at the fridge, sticky note in hand, writing the baby's name in careful block letters.
Niko Aleksi Mäkelin.
The name we chose together, after hours of debate and laughter and Aleksi suggesting increasingly ridiculous Finnish names until I threatened to veto all of them.
Named for the father who taught me that love doesn't have to hurt,I think, pressing the note to the fridge door.
"He's going to be loud," Aleksi says from behind me, setting two mugs of cocoa on the counter.
I turn, smiling. "I hope so. Just like his dad."
"Smart," he counters, handing me a mug.
"Like his mom," I finish, and we clink mugs like we're toasting something impossibly ordinary and impossibly perfect.
We settle onto the couch, the one Vivi insisted we buy because it's "family-sized" and "nap-approved", and for a while, we just sit in the quiet, sipping cocoa, my feet tucked under his legs, his hand resting on my belly.
