Page 68 of Player Misconduct
I stare at that last line for a long time. I never realized that women sometimes have a sex drive spike during their second trimester. So many thoughts come to mind. How do I not hurt the baby? Will she want to have horny pregnancy sex with me? And how do I bring this up when we’re on unsure ground right now?
My phone buzzes with a new notification. The podcast app:Recommended for you – “Becoming Dad: The Science of Attachment.”
“Sure,” I mutter, hitting subscribe. “Why the hell not.”
I keep scrolling. Another article catches my eye:‘How to Prepare for Your Partner’s First Ultrasound.’
It’s past midnight before I finally shut my laptop. Everything I just learned swirls through my mind. I rub the athletic-tape ring around my finger, thinking about the way Kendall’s hand rested on top of mine at the store. About hearing the heartbeat for the first time. About her smile when she saidourbaby.
I consider my notes. The one thing seems to be a recurring phrase: Offer support, and often. I take that as my green light to touch base with her.
Me:You doing okay tonight?
Five minutes pass. Ten. Then:
Kendall:Yeah. Trying to get some sleep. You?
Me:Learning how to be a dad from YouTube.
Kendall:Oh no. That sounds full-proof.
Me:Don’t worry. I’m a fast learner.
Kendall:I know you are.Goodnight, Aleksi.
Me:Goodnight, Doc.
I stare at the last text until the screen fades to black. Then I whisper into the quiet, “I’m not just showing up, Doc. I’m staying.”
Two days later and over a dozen text messages later-the big day. I show up to Kendall’s for our ultrasound knock once, then again.
A crash answers me from inside, something metal hitting tile and then a muttered “ouch” from Kendall’s voice. “One second!” she calls out.
A beat later the door swings open, and she’s standing there in leggings and a light blue blouse that’s too big for her, hair twisted into a messy bun. She looks as beautiful as ever, even while sporting an expression somewhere between flustered and apologetic.
“Sorry,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I tried to make breakfast. It went… poorly.”
I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, fighting a smile. “You’re feeding two people now. That’s practically a sport.”
She huffs a laugh and steps aside so I can come in. The place smells faintly like burnt toast and coffee. The studio’s small–so small that when I shift to close the door, my duffel nearly bumps the corner of her couch. But it’sher.Soft gray blankets, stacks of medical journals, a few framed photos of the Hawkeyes, and in the corner, still in the box, a folded bassinet.
She notices me looking. “It’s temporary,” she says quickly, like she’s been rehearsing it. “My lease is up in six months. I’ll find somewhere bigger after the baby gets here.”
“Looks cozy,” I offer.
“It’s small,” she insists.
“Small can be cozy,” I counter, earning a tiny smile that makes my chest ache.
She’s nervous. I can see it in the way she keeps straightening things that don’t need straightening. A stack of mail, her coffee mug, a blanket that’s already neat.
When she reaches for her purse, I grab it first. “Got it.”
“I can carry my own bag,” she protests.
“I know,” I say, slinging it over my shoulder. “But I want to.”
