Page 45 of Christmas Cheer

“We’re having a girl?” I repeat, just as excited. I didn’t care. I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest. I’m gonna be a girl dad? Rock on.

“We’re having a girl,” I tell Keira, finally looking down at her and happy to see her hazel eyes getting misty. If I had any doubts about what I was going to do, any second guesses about my priorities this week and going forward, they’re all but evaporated.

We’re going to be a family. I’m going to love Keira and our little girl until the day I die.

I can’t keep my hands off Keira as I navigate her to the subway station to take her on my version of the Berlin tour. I have two options for Keira, same as I always have, which is why my first stop is the Poststadion.

I have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow at the training facility across the street from it. The stadium itself is closed, no events happening today. And like all football stadiums, even the ones in Germany, it’s gigantic. We spend over half an hour strolling its perimeter.

“So? You going to tell me why you’re here?” Keira says after an incredibly long silence that I was enjoying more than I ever have before. I’ve spent the last few months feeling like my heart was trapped in a vice clamp that’s been slowly tightening daily since Keira announced her pregnancy and then blocked me. It even showed up at my last check-up, elevated blood pressure for no reason except I was only getting the scantest of morsels of Keira fed to me sporadically from Ryan.

I know I’m the reason Keira’s blood pressure was elevated at the doctor’s office. She even said that to Dr. Harrington, although she phrased it in a happy way, that she’s excited to see me. The way she’s twitched at every intersection we had to stop at is proof enough that I’m continuing to stress her out.

“I’ve got some big decisions that I’m going to be running out of time on, and I couldn’t figure out how else to get you to talk to me.”

“You can do whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

She attempts to pull away from me like she hasn’t been happy to stay in my grip this whole walk, but I refuse to release her. My heart constricts along with my arm to keep her here next to me. “I’m not going to argue with you about whether you’re lying to me or not. It really doesn’t matter if you care where I go. But I’m going wherever you are.”

“You figured out how to follow me to college. I hardly think you need my input on how to keep doing that. But you need to use your brain for once in your ridiculous life.”

I nod. “This is where my brain is telling me.” I point to the banner above one of the entrances to the stadium, pronouncing the Poststadion to be . . . well, in English I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of the proud home of the Berlin Adler. It’s got the GFL logo beneath it.

Keira reads it for a moment, shakes her head, and laughs. But then she looks at me, and that laugh dies off along with the color in her cheeks. “Wait, that’s a joke, right? Evan, they don’t get paid!”

I shrug. “They do, a little. I’d have to find other work to support my family, but . . .”

She winces when I sayfamily, and yeah, I suppose I’m a bit cavalier with the way I throw it around, but I do need to support my family, and as much as the perks aren’t terrible — they offer housing, a car, and that sweet universal healthcare — the actual money they offer is side gig at best.

“This isn’t your life. You—” She closes her eyes as though she’s seeking the right words that are going to make whatever narrative that’s in her head make sense.

She didn’t want me to get her pregnant. I deceived her into getting pregnant. She did have a choice, and she chose to keep it.

Her.

Our daughter.

Probably. Dr. Harrington made it sound like they could still be a boy. I’ll love them the same either way.

And either way, Keirawillhave my support, and Iwillraise my child. Iwillwin Keira back as well, but I’m patient.

“This could be my life, Keira. I mean, it’ll be a rough couple years starting. I’ll probably need to keep going to my masters if I’m gonna get a decent job in sports psychology, but—”

“I’m sorry, what? How do you think you’re going to get a masters in sports psychology?”

“I don’t know, the same way I’m getting a bachelors in it.”

“That’syour major?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you’re-you’re-you’re—!”

No, you know what? I’m not patient. Watching her struggle to find the words she needs to explain that she thinks I’m too stupid for a real major makes my blood boil with the need to skip to the good part.

The kissing.

I grab her by the waist to do just that when someone yells my name. I glance across the intersection to see a man jogging over from the Adler training facility. He’s a big guy, probably a player, and his accent is American, but he’s only vaguely familiar.

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