Page 54 of Puck Prince

I’m also still curious what is going on with him and the woman with the baby. I mean, here we are, pretending to be in a serious relationship for all the world to see—and meanwhile, I keep thinking about her, with her cherry brown hair cut all cute and edgy. Her perfect smile, no makeup needed. Not to mention the way Owen carries the baby for her. TheI love yousand the hugs? I’m itching to know who she is. No, scratch that—dyingto know.

Hell, I leave the balcony door open some nights, wondering if I’ll hear her and the baby in his place. But there’s nothing. Crickets.

Funny how dead quiet can actually make it harder to sleep sometimes.

I’m not at the point yet where sleeping on the couch is physically uncomfortable, but I’m a ticking time bomb. My doctor says I’m about nine weeks along. Still very early but also progressing smoothly. I lie in bed, which is a generous euphemism for Kennedy’s sofa bed—luxury line or not—with a cocktail of thoughts swimming around in my very awake mind. It's midnight, but it’s hard to sleep when you have a secret growing inside of you (literally).

I start to wonder about the little things.

When will I be able to feel it?

Is it a boy or a girl?

Who will she or he look like?

If they called me and said they were trapped on a balcony and the options were either wait and freeze, or take the hand of the handsome neighbor next door… would I tell them to reach? Would I tell them to jump?

“Chill out, psycho,” I tell myself, rolling over and covering my head with the pillow. As if that will help the all-too-intrusive thoughts shut the fuck up.

I’m not ready for this. I never asked for this.

But this is very much happening.

I am pregnant, and the father is right next door.

He also has no idea.

And I have no idea how to tell him.

I get up and open the balcony door, letting in a breeze and hoping for some sound. A hint of life existing around me. Something. Anything. But as I drift off to sleep, it is very much quiet.

The next morning, I walk into work right on time, which, for me, means I’m five minutes late. But I made a stop at Starbucks, desperate for a caffeine kick (a baby-safe amount, obviously). After a mostly sleepless night, I am really dragging today. And my schedule is already full.

“Let me guess,” I hear a male voice remark from the weights area behind me as soon as I set my things down. I turn aroundto see Miles standing there, a broad grin on his face. “Quad shot caramel latte, no whip?”

“Skinny vanilla latte, half-caf, all the whip. But your suggestion sounds heavenly right now.”

“You’re going to need it to keep up with us. Game day is coming in hot, and everyone needs some extra TLC from the lovely new PT.”

“I’ll do what I can.” I don’t know why I feel like I shouldn’t say more than that. Miles is a good guy, according to Miriam and that fan poll that voted him far and away “The NHL’s Resident Dad.” Still, I feel the need to remind him… “I heard you’re getting married?”

He nods, his grin broadening. “Soon.”

“That’s exciting. I always love seeing athletes find love, but most of you goons want to be bachelors forever.”

“Not me. I want a chill life with a beautiful wife. Speaking of love and sports and goons, I’m dying to know how you did it.”

“Did what?” I ask.

“Tamed the wild animal that is Owen Sharpe. I don’t think any of us saw that one coming.”

I offer a forced smile. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

“Love is funny.”

Or fake…

“I’m not so sure we are quite there yet,” I say instead.

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