Page 49 of Player Misconduct
“Finding out what?”
She straightens, holding up a small pink box like it’s the Holy Grail. “Kaenan and I are trying for baby number three. I keep a test on me. You’re welcome.”
Vivi squeals. “This is happening!”
“It’s not happening.” I protest, backing up a step. “You can’t just ambush someone into taking a pregnancy test.”
“Sure we can,” Isla says. “That’s called friendship.”
I stare at the box in her hand. Three minutes, and I’ll know. Three minutes to unravel my entire life.
“Maybe it’s just stress,” I say weakly. “The season was insane, I haven’t been sleeping—”
“Or maybe it’s Aleksi’s baby,” Vivi interrupts gently.
The room goes still again.
She doesn’t mean it to sting, but it does. Because now that the words are out there, I can’t stuff them back down.
I picture his smile, his laugh, the way his hand felt steady on mine even when everything else was chaos.
If it’s his…
My throat tightens.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
Isla’s voice softens. “Then take it home. You don’t have to open it until you’re ready.”
I nod, taking the box like it might explode.
“Good,” Vivi says briskly, grabbing another hanger. “Now that we’ve emotionally traumatized you, let’s pick a dress that makes your ex hate himself.”
Cammy lifts her popcorn in a toast. “To revenge, bad decisions, and maybe babies.”
The girls laugh. I even manage a weak smile. But when I turn toward the mirror again, the reflection staring back looks different—flushed, uncertain, afraid.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if the flutter in my stomach is nerves… or a little baby with Aleksi’s blue eyes and my smile.
The rain finally stopped—Seattle’s idea of mercy.
Puddles still dapple the asphalt outside the restaurant, slick and mirror-bright under the glow of streetlights. The scent of wet pavement mingles with exhaust, the kind of city cocktail that feels both alive and suffocating at once.
The valet line moves slowly, brake lights casting red ripples over the wet ground. A couple in the car ahead of me laugh about something.
It gives me exactly one extra minute to gather myself—to pretend I’m fine, that this is just dinner, not some twisted social experiment in emotional manipulation at its finest.
The restaurant’s front windows are all warm light and motion: waiters in pressed white shirts, a hostess greeting guests with a perfect practiced smile. I can hear the clinking of crystal and the hum of conversation slipping through the glass.
It’s high-end, but of course it is. Tarron always did like the kind of places that came with wine lists heavier than medical textbooks. The kind where the napkins are real linen and everyone pretends to know the difference between “notes of praline” and “hints of rose water” or some kind of rubbish I could never understand.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and freeze.
Vivi’s soft curls still hold. Isla’s jewelry gleams under the dash light. The smoky eyeliner Vivi insisted on makes my eyes look bigger, bolder, like someone who isn’t terrified.
I look good. Too good, maybe. Like someone who’s trying too hard not to care.
The valet waves the car in front of me forward.
