Page 71 of Player Misconduct
And this is the moment I get it… what all those parenting podcasts meant about support. It doesn’t always come with big speeches or perfect timing. Sometimes it’s as simple as being the steady one when the other person can’t find their footing.
She doesn’t know what the right answer is. But she’s looking at me like maybe I do.
I clear my throat, trying to soften the tension in the room. “I’d like to know… that is, if you’re okay with it. Unless you were planning some big gender reveal?”
Her shoulders drop a little. “God, no. No gender reveal,” she says, and then turns back to the doctor. “Okay, we’ll find out now.”
Dr. Rodriguez grins. “Perfect. Let’s see if the baby will give us a good look today.”
Dr. Rodriguez spreads the cool gel across Kendall’s stomach, then turns the monitor toward us. The screen flickers, gray static swirling until—there.
A small shape emerges, hazy at first, then sharpening with each adjustment of the probe. The rhythmicwhoosh-whooshof the heartbeat fills the room, steady and sure. My chest tightens. That sound—our baby’s heart—is somehow louder than everything else.
“Here we go,” the doctor says gently. “Right there… That's the head. You can see the curve of the skull here… and those are the hands sort of covering it up. We might not get a good look at the face today.”
Tiny fingers wiggle on the screen like they’re waving. Kendall lets out a shaky laugh, covering her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“And there are the feet,” Dr. Rodriguez continues, sliding the wand a little lower. “All ten toes accounted for.”
I can’t stop staring. It’s grainy, surreal, but the outline is perfect—tiny limbs, a beating heart, movement that feels impossible and miraculous all at once.
“Everything looks great,” the doctor says, her tone brightening. “And… you don’t have to look long before you see this—” She points to the screen with a grin. “That’s a penis. Congratulations, it’s a boy.”
Kendall gasps softly, eyes darting to mine. For a second, she looks stunned. Then she laughs—a breathy, teary sound that knocks the air right out of me.
A boy.
The word sinks deep, spreading warmth through my chest until I can’t help but smile.
“Guess he’s not shy,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
Kendall wipes at her eyes, still smiling through the tears. “Just like his dad.”
She squeezes my hand just a little tighter and then I pull her hand up to my lips and press them against her skin for a kiss.
Kendall’s eyes turn glossy. “He’s perfect.”
I smile when her eyes find mine for just a moment. “Of course he is. He’s ours.”
The doctor narrates as her wand moves, crown-to-rump length, heart rate, early bone structure, but I barely hear her. I can’t stop staring at the little blur pulsing on the screen. That’s the moment it all becomes real.
Not theoretical. Not a list in my phone. He’s real and in six months, we’ll be holding him.
“You okay?” I murmur.
She nods, voice thick. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect to feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s already real? Like he’s already ours. It was all theoretical, until now.”
“Would you like a picture to take home?” the doctor asks.
Kendall nods, and the printer hums softly, spitting out two small black-and-white photos. She hands one to Kendall, then offers the other to me.
I stare down at it, feeling something in me rearrange completely. “Thank you,” I say, but my voice comes out rough.
