Page 73 of Pucked and Pregnant

The three of them are so much alike and so damn competitive that it could ultimately cost them their friendship, and that’s not something I want to be responsible for. Selfishly, I don’t want to give up any of them because of some outdated moral standard coming from a time where women were seen as property.

On the off chance that I am pregnant, I wouldn’t want to know which one of them was the father anyway. I wouldn’t want anything to change. I’d still want to be with the three of them, but I know they’d never go for that.

Our arrangement has been working for several weeks, with jealousy only an occasional issue. We talk it through whenever it arises, but adding a child to the mix would be like adding kerosene to a fire.

There’s an easy solution if I am pregnant. Boston has a handful of clinics but could I actually go through with that?

I do want kids someday. Even if the marriage part of my ten-year plan falls through and I’m alone, I’ve got a backup plan. There are reputable sperm banks out there—I researched them—and I know the basics of the adoption process.

I knew what I wanted my future to look like from an early age, and I put a plan in place to help me achieve it. Children have always been a part of that.

I’m not sure that I could end a pregnancy just because it happened a few years too soon.

No, I know I couldn’t.

I just need to wait until morning to see if I’ve been working myself up over nothing, or if my life is about to drastically change.

Suffice it to say I don’t sleep well. I toss and turn to such a degree that I make rotisserie chickens look lazy.

I give up around three in the morning. I’m not going to be able to sleep until I know, and depending on the result, I may not be able to sleep once I do know.

Those are the longest three minutes of my life.

I couldn’t bring myself to stay in the bathroom with the little stick, so I pace outside the door until my phone timer goes off.

Okay. Here we go.

When I flip the test over, it takes my brain almost a full minute to register what my eyes are seeing.

Right there in that teeny tiny window is an unmistakable plus sign.

I know three things for certain:

One, I’m keeping this baby.

Two, if I don’t want to destroy their friendship, I’m going to have to end things with them and go it alone.

Three, I don’t care how selfish it is or how bad a person it makes me, but I’m not telling them about the baby until I absolutely have to.

20

CONNOR

Jock, compression shirt, pads, shin guards, hockey socks, pants, skates, jersey, helmet, gloves, mouthguard, stick—that’s the exact order I have to put everything on for the game. If I deviate from it even a little bit, everything will go wrong.

I repeat the list over and over in my head like a prayer as I enter the locker room. There aren’t too many guys here yet but it is an hour before call time.

I’m always early or right on time. I arrive fifteen minutes ahead of schedule then wait in my car until exactly the right moment to walk in.

That didn’t happen today, though. I was so jittery after breakfast this morning I had to stop myself from heading to the stadium immediately after.

My brain has been rotating between three thoughts and three thoughts only.

One, we have to win this game; two, I am the world’s shittiest friend for keeping a major secret from Max; and three, everything is going to blow up in my face and I’m going to lose the game and my friend in one fell swoop.

I try to focus on my equipment instead, taking extra time inspecting each and every piece in my locker.

If my gear is perfect, then I will be perfect. If I’m perfect, then the world won’t come crashing down around me.

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