Page 71 of Pucked and Pregnant

Except things are starting to settle down. The guys and I have established a routine that works for us. I’m having multiple orgasms from the hottest hockey players in the city every other day. My body should be relaxed enough now to have a cycle.

Being with them doesn’t shrink my workload, though. I’m just as busy as they are, if not busier, during the season. I stillhave to deal with Travis and his bullshit, so it's not all sunshine and daisies.

Stress could still be the reason my cycle is off.

You’d think that a near constant post-orgasmic haze would be enough to take the edge off though.

Even Travis’s microaggressions and thinly veiled misogyny are likely to end soon. Between Grace and me, we’ve compiled enough evidence that should get him fired when we decide to go to HR.

After his little stunt with the media failed, he’s been escalating enough for some of the men in my office to notice. Every time they say something to me about it, I tell them to file something with HR or to at least keep a record to give to them later. Some of them have actually done it.

Change is happening right in front of me. Hardly anyone is laughing at his jokes anymore, and even his threats about calling his cousin aren’t holding as much weight. People are finally standing up to him. That’s definitely taken some stress off my plate.

So where the hell is my period?

I’m halfway through my sugar pills, and there’s not a cramp in sight. I am a little bloated though, so maybe it’s on its way.

It has to be the media that’s causing my stress. Although it’s calmed down a bit, it’s constantly hovering in the background, just waiting to catch me doing something they can embellish.

You’re rationalizing harder than a politician caught up in a sex scandal. You know it’s damn well possible you could be pregnant.

That’s nonsense. I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill, and that’s practically foolproof.

Practically foolproof isn’t foolproof. Seven percent margin, Olivia.

I’m not pregnant. My ten-year plan has me engaged at thirty and pregnant or at least trying at thirty-two. There’s no wiggle room to allow for a pregnancy at twenty-six.

So your sore breasts, fatigue, and continued nausea is what? Coincidence?

My boobs are sore because I’ve gotten fucked more times in the past three weeks than the rest of my life combined. That and the nipple clamps we tried out last night.

I’ve been so busy lately that I’m not eating like I should, thus burning more calories than I’m taking in. Waking up so hungry each morning causes me to feel nauseated.

I’m tired because I’m up most nights with my men which explains the fatigue.

Sure it does.

Shut up.

I try to focus on the report in front of me but the numbers just keep dancing around on the page. For the life of me, I can’t get them to sit still and make sense.

My stomach makes a suspicious gurgle.

Did I eat today?

I planned on stopping at noon to grab something. It’s now three o’clock, definitely too late to grab lunch.

Besides, I only have two hours left and I have to get this report done by the end of the day. I’ve gone this long without eating. I’ll be fine waiting until after work.

Except now that I’ve started to think about food that's all I can think about. I’m overcome by an intense desire for a sandwich.

Pregnancy craving.

No, it’s not. It’s just been a while since I’ve had a good sandwich. That's all it is.

The cafe downstairs has sandwiches. They’re not the best, but I’ve had worse. That should tide me over for a bit.

My stomach threatens mutiny at the thought of eating one of those pre-packaged sandwiches. I’ve gone almost the whole day without getting sick and I’d really like to keep it that way. So no cafe sandwich.

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