Page 62 of Player Misconduct
She hesitates, sending a quick glance toward Vivi and Peyton who then cut eye contact as if they aren’t watching us carefully.
It has me wondering how much she told them about Nevada and the motel. But is any of that relevant now?
“No,” she says, swallowing hard. Her eyes flick back to me. “I’m three months pregnant, Aleksi.”
The words echo like they’re fighting to find gravity. The look on her face suggests that three months should mean something to me
“You’re three months pregnant,” I repeat slowly, searching her face for a clue... a hint.
My mind scrambles to do the math. And then it hits me, though my hope is too fragile to allow myself to believe that it’s possible. After all, we used protection every time. But I can’t help it, I want the baby to be mine no matter how unlikely that could be. “Three months as in—”
“Three months as in… the motel in Nevada,” she finishes quietly.
My heart stutters.
“The baby’s mine?” I ask, afraid to believe it, afraid not to.
She nods. “I hadn’t been with anyone in over a year before that. And I haven’t been with anyone since you. The baby is yours.”
For a second, the world tilts—like the whole damn planet just shifted under my feet.
Then the smile breaks across my face before I can stop it. It’s not just relief, it’s flat out joy. Stupid, overwhelming, bone-deep joy.
My duffel drops to the floor with a loud thud, and I don’t even care.
My eyes go to her belly—the small, perfect curve that’s carrying my child. Our child.
Kendall, the woman I can’t stop thinking about, is carrying my baby.
It’s the best news of my life.
I take a step closer, fighting back the sudden burn in my chest. I want to scoop her up into my arms and kiss her. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much, but the last time I saw her, she asked for space. I don’t know if my reaction to wanting to hold her would be welcomed or not.
But God, I want to.
“Can I—” I start, motioning toward her stomach.
She nods.
I reach out slowly, both hands settling on the gentle curve of her abdomen. Warm and soft, and so much more real than the social media pictures of her that I’ve been staring at for the last three months that we’ve been apart.
The moment I touch her, something inside me snaps into place.
It’s like breathing again after being held under water for far too long.
Her hands lift, sliding over mine. Her touch is hesitant but familiar, steadying me in a way nothing else ever has.
Then her fingers brush against my right hand, catching on the band of athletic tape still wrapped around my finger.
She looks down, then up at me. “You’re still wearing it?”
I glance at the ring, at her, then back again. There’s too much I want to say, but one question wins out.
“How long have you known?” I ask, and I can feel my pulse everywhere—neck, wrists, even in my throat.
She hesitates, her hands still covering mine where they rest on her stomach. “About six weeks,” she says quietly. “I took a test the night after dinner with Tarron.”
At the mention of his name, something sharp twists behind my ribs, but I stay quiet, waiting.
