Page 60 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

I’m sitting on the floor with Clementine, holding still while she does my makeup. When I laugh, raising a hand to Finn, Clementine tuts.

“Staystill,Sammy.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, something in my chest turning over when Finn finally pulls her eyes from mine. Brett’s laughing, pointing upstairs and gesturing for Finn to follow him. Clementine reaches for another palette, and I take a shuddering breath, already waiting for the moment she returns.

Finn

“Oh!Cinderella!”

I’m posing with my hands on my head like a crown. Before this, I’ve mimed little mice and the transformation scene. We’ve spent less than five seconds on this clue, and managed to get another point in the nick of time.

“Yes!” Fallon lets out a loud laugh and fist pumps.

Brett says, “That’s time!”

“Ninepoints?” Devon asks, tutting and writing it down. “You guys have to be cheating.”

“Women are just better at charades,” Lola says, taking a sip of her eggnog. “Everyone knows that.”

“Come on, guys,” Brett says, standing and shaking out his shoulders. “We are literal teammates. We should be able to read each other’s minds.”

“I’m your coach,” Grey says, crossing his arms.

“And I’m retired,” Devon says, relaxing into the couch and smiling when Lola puts her arm around his shoulders.

“You know what I mean—”

“No talking!” Fallon says, eyes sparkling confidently as she leans toward Brett. “Your time has already started.”

“I didn’t know she was this competitive when we got married,” Brett mutters to his team, already starting to act out whatever is on his scrap of paper.

“He knew,” Fallon whispers, checking her phone for the hundredth time. All the kids are asleep in a shared room. One of those Claymation Christmas movies is flickering on the screen. The babies are tucked away in cribs, and Clementine is cuddled with a giant teddy bear on the floor, her little chest rising and falling.

“The video quality on this is amazing,” I say, and Fallon smiles when she looks up at me.

“I swear Brett bought every single baby gadget that exists,” Fallon says, laughing under her breath as the guys throw out guesses, desperately trying to get their first point before time runs out. “Most of the time, it’s annoying. Right now it’s pretty useful.”

We pause together, watching the little bodies on the screen, and I feel something tight and uncomfortable twisting in my chest.

Since the moment I first realized I was out on my own—that my adoptive parents didn’t want me—I wanted to be a mother. Some people say they can feel their frontal lobes develop in their twenties, and the knowledge of wanting to be a mother was like that for me. Something certain. Part of my identity as a person.

But I would never adopt. For obvious reasons, I wanted my baby to bemine. To belong to me in the fullest sense. To be biologically linked to me so the courts couldn’t mistakenly take them away.

Of course there are adoptive families that make it work, that love their children and care for them fully, but once you’re on the wrong side of something, it’s hard to put all your faith into that system again.

The game of charades has devolved into a laughing conversation between the guys, Ellie, and Lola. Lola is saying something about being the undeniable champion of charades, while Ellie is laughing and trying to open a bottle of champagne.

“It’s weird because I never thought I’d be a mom,” Fallon says, under her breath, almost like she didn’t mean to say it. I blink, that sentence rolling through me, reminding me that there are some people who get babies without even wanting them, while there are so many people—like me—going through hell to make a family. How unfair.

“Sorry,” Fallon says, eyes darting up to mine and widening. “Is that—is that too personal? I’ve had a bit of the champagne.”

“No, it’s not,” I laugh, surprised at how relaxed I feel. Normally, I’d be shying away from this interaction. But something about being here with these people—with Sammy on the other side of the room, laughing at something Devon’s just said—makes me feel safe. And the champagne I’ve had tonight might also be helping to blur some of the lines, soften that new-person feeling between Fallon and me.

So I surprise myself by saying, “I’ve always wanted to be a mom.”

“Always?” Fallon asks, surprised, tilting her head toward me. The look on her face is like that thought is impossible.

“Since I was sixteen years old.”

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