Page 142 of Player Misconduct
The house is stacked with boxes in the foyer, filled with the contents of both me and Kendall’s apartments. Today is move-in day, while Penelope plans the wedding for next week.
I told Kendall I didn’t want to wait any longer than we had to.
Morning light pours through the windows. I stand in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand, barefoot on hardwood floors, and watch Kendall direct two movers with the precision of a battlefield general.
"Label sayskitchen," she says, pointing emphatically at a box markedMYSTERY BOX #8in my handwriting. "Notmystery box number eight."
I grin around the rim of my mug. "Pretty sure that's where I packed your wedding veil."
She turns, one hand on her hip, belly round and perfect under the soft gray of my old Hawkeyes shirt she's been living in for two weeks. That look—the one that saysyou're impossible but I love you anyway—settles over her face, and my chest does that stupid, warm thing it always does when she looks at me like that.
"If my veil is buried under protein powder and hockey tape," she says slowly, "I'm making you wear it down the aisle."
"Deal," I say, unbothered. "I'll rock it."
The movers exchange a glance at our odd bickering and Kendall sighs, pointing at another stack. "Just... put that one in the living room. We'll sort it later. Thanks."
I take another sip of coffee, letting the chaos wash over me like white noise. Boxes everywhere. Finnish candy wrappers scattered across the counter from the care package Mom sent last week. The creak of footsteps upstairs where Vivi and Isla are "helping" by rearranging the nursery for the third time with all the new stuff that we’ve got to fill the space.
This is it,I think, the words settling warm and sure in my chest.Our house. Our chaos. Our beginning.
I wander upstairs toward the nursery, mug still in hand, and stop in the doorway.
The room glows in the morning light, completely perfect and ready for our son. I arranged the constellation stickers I had arranged on the ceiling for him. Neurologists say it’s good for their brain to focus on shapes and colors when they are little,but I have my own reason for wanting my son to always be curious about the stars and to always remember that we’re only a speck of dust—You might as well swing for the fences, like I did, to tryto get his mom. Because a woman like Kendall Hensen is once in a lifetime.
The rocking chair sits in the corner, cushioned and waiting. And looming like a giant in the opposite corner is the bear, massive, and entirely too big for a newborn but is somehow exactly right.
This time, the stars look peaceful.
Not desperate. Not scared. Just... steady.
Behind me, Kendall's voice drifts up the stairs. "Aleksi, did you label the box with the baby monitor, or is that also a mystery?"
I smile into my coffee. "Mystery."
Her groan echoes through the house, and I swear I can hear Vivi laughing from somewhere upstairs.
By noon, the movers are gone, and the house has settled into a new kind of quiet, the kind that vibrates with life instead of emptiness.
Kendall sits cross-legged on the nursery floor, folding tiny onesies with the kind of meticulous care she brings to everything she does. I'm across from her, surrounded by approximately forty-seven pieces of a baby swing that came with instructions in what I'm pretty sure isn’t Swedish because then I could read it.
"You sure you followed the instructions?" she asks, not looking up from the onesie she's folding—pale blue, with a tiny hockey stick embroidered on the chest.
"I’m pretty sure the instructions are in Hieroglyphics because I can speak and read in four different languages and this is not one of them," I mutter, squinting at the diagram that shows a mysterious Part G connecting to an even more mysterious Part Q.
She snorts. That soft, unguarded sound that still floors me every time—and sets the onesie aside. "Need help?"
"No," I say stubbornly. "I’m a man… doing manly things. I've got this. Besides, you can barely bend over to pick anything upwithout getting winded at this point. We don’t need you going into early labor. Just sit back and watch your studly finance put this together."
She arches a brow, watching me try to force two pieces together that absolutely do not want to connect. "Uh-huh."
"Finnish pride," I say, still wrestling with the swing. "It's a thing."
"So is asking for help."
I glance up, catching her smile, small, teasing, full of affection, and then I soften. "Fine. You win."
She crawls over, moving slower now with the weight of the baby, and settles beside me. Her hands find the pieces I've been battling, turning them until they click into place with an ease that's borderline offensive.
