Page 69 of Hat Trick Daddies

I grab the bag, slam the car door, and rush into the house. Tossing my keys onto the counter, I head straight for the bathroom. The silence inside feels deafening, broken only by the crinkle of the bag as I tear it open.

Five tests. Five chances to confirm, or deny, my deepest fear. My hands shake as I open the first one, the plastic feeling cold and foreign in my hand. I follow the instructions, then wait.

One line. Two lines.

My stomach drops.

I try another. Then another.

Each test delivers the same result. Pregnant.

The word blares in my mind, louder and more insistent with each passing second. I sink to the bathroom floor, clutching the last test in my hand as hot tears stream down my face.

“What am I going to do?” I whisper, my voice trembling.

The thought of telling the boys makes my chest tighten. How will they react? Will they even want to be involved?

I curl up in bed, clutching a pillow as sobs wrack my body. The walls of my bedroom feel like they’re closing in, the enormity of the situation suffocating me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I glance at the screen through blurry eyes. It’s a text from Kenzie.

>> Hey! How’s it going?

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Can I trust her? She’s been nothing but kind since we met, but spilling something this huge feels impossible.

>> Can we talk? I really need someone right now.

Her response is almost instant.

>> Of course! Want me to come by after work?

My fingers fumble over the screen.

>> Yes. Please. Thank you.

She sends back a heart emoji, and I clutch my phone to my chest, a small thread of comfort weaving its way through my panic.

The hours stretch endlessly as I lay in bed, staring at the blank wall. Every time I close my eyes, tears well up again, and my thoughts spiral. What if Kenzie judges me? What if she doesn’t understand?

By the time her car pulls up outside, I feel numb from the constant waves of fear and despair.

As I wait for Kenzie to knock, my mind conjures the worst scenarios.

What if the guys run the second they find out? I suddenly think of one of those trashy daytime shows, the crowd jeering as DNA results are read aloud. My best friend in high school always loved those shows.

My breath hitches at the thought.

I see it all play out: people shouting accusations, the boys arguing about who’s responsible. My baby, a tiny, innocent life, caught in the crossfire of chaos and judgment.

I bury my face in the pillow, sobbing quietly.

“What have I done?” I whisper, my voice muffled and broken.

My thoughts shift to the practical, how will I afford a baby? How will I work? What will my dad say? He’ll be devastated to know his daughter got herself into such a mess.

The ache in my chest grows unbearable. I clutch the blanket tightly, curling into myself as though I can shield myself from the reality crashing down around me.

I can’t do this. I can’t raise a baby alone. But the thought of asking the guys to step up feels just as impossible.

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