Page 75 of Player Misconduct
Of course it does.
I thank him and drag the box inside, half glaring at the neat mountain ofAleksi’s generositypiling up beside my couch.
I gesture to the second box.
“What? I’m helping,” he says simply. “Also—” he gestures toward my belly, “—you look like you haven’t eaten today.”
I squint at him. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because you forget to eat when you get busy. And it’s lunch.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying,” he says, and before I can argue he adds, “I was going to grab pizza anyway. Come with me.”
The mention of pizza makes my stomach growl loud enough to betray me. His mouth tilts into that cocky grin that should be illegal.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But only because I’m starving.”
The smell of melted cheese and garlic hits before we even sit down.
We ordered a large half-veggie, half-pepperoni because he refuses to believe a pizza is complete without meat, and right now, pepperoni sounds like heartburn, yet another pregnancy symptom that Aleksi said means the baby will have lots of hair.
At this point, I’d happily take abaldinfant if it meant the acid would stop burning my esophagus.
He leans back in the booth, relaxed in that effortless way only Aleksi can manage. “So,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes, “how’s the baby?”
“He seems happy,” I tell him, resting a hand over my bump. “I’m starting to feel more movement now, but it’s faint—like a little butterfly most of the time. Half the time I can’t tell if it’s him or gas.”
“The baby’s giving you heartburnandgas?” His mouth curves into a grin. “Sounds like all the things I give you too. Like father, like son.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “And gray hairs. Don’t forget those. You’ve been giving me a lot of those lately.”
He laughs, low and warm, the sound wrapping around me like a sweet memory. “Gray hairs? When?” he asks as he pulls another slice of pizza and takes a giant bite.
“Whenever you step onto the ice.” I admit.
He licks his lips, catching a little pizza sauce and the grease from the cheese off his lip. “You don’t like watching me play?”
“No… that’s not it. I don’t like watching you get hurt.”
He smirks. “I knew you cared.”
We both laugh and then our food comes. We talk about the season, about how quiet Seattle feels in the off-week, about where I can make things work in my studio apartment when the baby gets here until I can get out of my lease and afford a bigger place.
“Too small for a crib,” I tell him, taking a sip of my lemonade.
“You’ll move soon,” he says, like it’s already decided.
I roll my eyes. “You’re overly confident for someone who doesn’t have to find housing in this market.”
He laughs. “My father taught me practical optimism. Nikola Makelin was the epitome of the glass is half full.”
“Your father’s name was Nicola?” I ask. It’s the first time he used it. A name puts to much more weight to the man who raised Aleksi.
“Yeah, Niko is what my mom called him.”
“I like it.” I say.
