Page 46 of Player Misconduct
I pull into the parking garage of my apartment building. It’s dim, the concrete walls sweating with condensation. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, the vibrating of the car still idling, lulls me for a moment.
If I could just stay here for another minute I might actually breathe again.
But my chest is too tight, my stomach rolling in slow, uneasy waves.
“Stress,” I whisper out loud. “It’s just stress.”
The word sounds empty even to me.
I grab my phone and send out a text to Vivi: “SOS, I might need to raid your closet tomorrow for a dinner date with my ex.”
Then I press my hand to my stomach, palm flat, as if I can will it to settle. The motion is automatic—doctor’s instinct, self-check, diagnostic calm.
Except my pulse jumps under my fingers. My breathing stutters. And the nausea doesn’t fade.
Travel fatigue, I tell myself next. Meeting up with Tarron probably isn’t helping. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep could also be the culprit. The emotional hangover of seeing the social media evidence that the man you shouldn’t want looks like he’s finally found someone who’s a better fit for him.
There are a hundred logical explanations.
My brain does what it always does. It starts cataloging data. Last cycle. Last test. The last time I had sex…
And then the thought I’ve been dodging all week slips through the cracks, quiet and cruel.
You’re not… or, could you be?
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard enough to make my vision blur. “It’s not that. We used protection.”
Except it could be.
It’s not improbable. It’s also not likely but that doesn’t mean it's impossible.
And missed periods mean nothing. During medical school finals, I missed at least a couple due to stress. Even during my divorce, I missed my periods for six straight months from heartbreak. It happens and the stress of possibly dying in the motel, and then the possibility of losing my medical license due to what Aleksi and I did, is reason enough that I could have missed one.
I’m a doctor. Women miss periods all the time. It proved nothing, and we used condoms.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, trying to ground myself. My reflection stares back from the windshield—washed out, exhausted, with that same stubborn streak that’s gotten me through every tough decision I’ve ever had to make.
I survived my mother. I survived my divorce. I survived Nevada.
If this is what… I think it could be, I can survive this too.
But even as I think it, a quiet panic coils tighter under my ribs.
I open my eyes again and look down at my phone, the faint glow of the screen painting the inside of the car in blue light. Vivi’s name stares back.
Vivi: Yes! I can’t wait. See you tomorrow. I’m inviting some of the girls. It’ll be fun. We’ll make him eat his own shorts when he sees you.
I could still cancel. I could still undo it.
But I don’t.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants the distraction. I want to walk into a room where someone looks at me like I’m still wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I know how this ends—probably with regret, definitely with indigestion—but for one night, the idea of being seen feels easier than being alone.
I shove the phone back into my bag, cut the engine and climb out of my car.
The nausea eases with motion. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that’s my body’s way of sayingyou’re fine, Kendall. Stop jumping to crazy conclusions.
