Page 85 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

“This thing with Ethan … if it’s affecting you, maybe it’s time to talk to him. Figure it out. You look like you’re carrying around a sack of rocks.”

Talking to Ethan. It’s such a simple solution. But the pit in my stomach grows at the thought. It’s one thing to be nervous about someone, another to not know if you can even trust the answer they’ll give. And lately, that trust feels as fragile as sugar glass.

“I don’t know if I can believe what he tells me anymore.” The words come out in a rush, almost surprising myself with their honesty.

Lauren’s hand rests on mine. “Well, if you need to get away for a night, you know our place is open. Just say the word.”

I force a smile, grateful for her offer but knowing I’d only feel hollow without him around. “Thanks, but I’ll try to figure it out.”

Their offer sticks with me as I go back home alone, mind churning with every possible explanation for Ethan’s mystery woman. Inside, I slump onto the couch, physically tired but mentally reeling. Sleep sounds amazing, though my brain clearly has other plans. Ethan’s absence gnaws at me, and every sound in the house feels exaggerated.

I check my phone to see I’ve got two new texts. The first one’s from Mom, announcing that they’re flying back to the U.S. next week, complete with enough heart emojis to fill a digital scrapbook.

The second text isn’t so heartwarming. It’s from Jake, my ex. And with it comes the news: he’s signed a deal to do some promotional adverts with the Blizzards, so he’ll be stayingaround a bit more. My stomach flips, nausea rolling in waves as the implications hit. Seeing him, running into him—it’s all going to be unavoidable now.

I can’t move, can’t breathe. My stomach lurches again, bile rising. I hurry to the toilet seat and spend the next five minutes heaving. As soon as I’m back on the couch, my fingers fumble for my phone, opening an AI browser to search my symptoms. Nausea, fatigue, mood swings, random food aversions. I hold my breath as the bot processes my list. The answer comes through like a cold shock — pregnancy.

No. That’s … impossible? Surely? But I’ve missed my period for more than a week now. The possibility wraps itself around my brain, squeezing tight.

The realization freezes me to the core. This can’t be happening—not now, not with everything already balancing on the edge. But the thought has a weight that feels too real to ignore. Heart hammering, I grab my coat, purse, and keys, racing to the nearest convenience store.

The store’s quiet, its fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over every aisle. The test box feels absurdly small, too flimsy for the enormity of the task. At the register, the cashier glances over with that half-sympathetic, half-curious look reserved for the obviously anxious.

“Mind if I use the restroom here?”

The nod is quick, as if he’s seen this a dozen times before.

Inside the small, antiseptic bathroom, the seconds feel eternal as I wait for the result. The seconds tick by like hours as I wait, breath shallow and mind whirling. And then — two lines.

Two. Lines.

I blink, hoping they’ll vanish. They don’t. My mind swirls, thoughts tangled in a panicked knot, barely able to process this unexpected, tiny, life-altering detail.

The bright lights of the convenience store feel like they’re pressing down on me, and the stale scent of bleach doesn’t help. Two lines, bold as ever, stare back at me like they’ve got something to prove. If there’s a time for me to melt into the tile floor, now would be it.

But nope, the world doesn’t collapse, and the little stick doesn’t magically change its mind. So, with my pulse pounding in my ears, I leave the restroom and stumble to the front of the store, keeping my head down as I make a beeline out the door.

The cold air hits like a slap — crisp, grounding, painfully real. Each gust seems to pierce through the fog in my mind, but not enough. I need someone. A friend. A plan. Or maybe a very long scream session into a pillow.

Mia’s café sits just a few blocks down, and before I know it, my feet are propelling me straight there, the glow of the “Mia’s Grind” sign pulling me in like a beacon. The café’s warm glow and wafting scent of espresso hit me as soon as I step inside, and I pause, letting the cozy air wash over my frayed nerves.

Mia’s darting between tables, trays balanced in both hands, that trademark focused look on her face as she maneuvers around the café with the grace of a pro figure skater on caffeine. She spots me from across the room and sends a quick, surprised smile in my direction, one eyebrow arching as if to say, “You working or hiding?”

She makes her way over, tray still in hand, and I manage a shaky smile in return. “Hey, Mia, need an extra set of hands?” The words spill out before I can process them, but the distraction might help.

“Of course, but are you sure you’re good?” Mia’s eyes narrow in that caring way she’s got.

“Yep! Just … give me something to do,” I say, forcing enthusiasm I absolutely do not feel.

Mia doesn’t ask further, just hands me a tray with a mix of coffees and pastries, and I glide through the tables, offering smiles and keeping my mind as blank as possible. Pouring all energy into delivering orders is exactly what I need — at least, for now.

The quiet moments creep back between orders, though. Once the café’s rush dies down, Mia sidles up to me, setting down a tray with a soft thud. “You look like you’re either on the verge of fainting or preparing to give me some wild confession,” she says, dropping into a seat across from me and folding her arms.

There’s no hiding from Mia’s all-knowing stare. Might as well spill it, even if I can hardly hear myself over the thumping in my chest.

“Promise not to tell anyone, especially Lauren—not yet?” I whisper.

She nods, her eyes warm and waiting.

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