Page 52 of Huge Pucking Play

Garrett. My phone is still in the bedroom. I haven't checked it yet, too afraid of what he might say about the fallout after I left last night.

"Water," I tell myself firmly. "Saltines. Ginger ale. The stomach bug protocol."

But as I reach for a glass, a tendril of doubt unfurls in my chest. There's something not quite right about these symptoms,something I'm missing. I shake my head, dismissing the thought. It's just a bug. It'll pass.

It has to.

An hour later I’m sitting on the couch, trying to get into my favorite reality TV show when the thought hits me like a slap—sudden, stinging, impossible to ignore. I start counting backward, my mind a frantic calculator of days and dates and possibilities I've been too busy to notice.

"No," I say aloud. Oscar tilts his head, ears perked at my tone. "No way."

But the possibility, once acknowledged, refuses to retreat. Morning sickness. The term echoes in my head like a bad joke. Not stomach flu. Not food poisoning. Something else entirely.

When was my last period? I try to remember, but the days blur together. August was a mess—the Blades' pre-season ramping up, new rookies to evaluate, my schedule packed with assessments and preventative care plans.

I set the glass down with a sharp click and grab my phone from my bedroom. I swipe past Garrett's texts—three of them, I note with a pang of guilt—and pull up my cycle app.

What I find there makes my blood run cold. I’m late. Two weeks late. And I’m never late.

"Shit."

Oscar whines, picking up on my distress. I sink down onto my bed, legs suddenly unable to support me.

The birth control pills. My stomach drops as I recall the chaos of last month. There definitely had been a few days when I just forgot.

"But it's not like I missed a whole week straight," I tell Oscar, who has settled beside me, resting his big head on my knee. "Pregnancy doesn't just happen from missing a few pills."

Except it can. I know it can.

I rake my fingers through my hair, tangled from sleep and now damp with nervous sweat. My hand shakes as I press it against my still-flat stomach.

"Stop," I tell myself firmly. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

But am I? The symptoms align too perfectly. The nausea. The sensitivity to smells. Even the exhaustion I've been blaming on my workload.

A baby. The word feels foreign in my mind, impossible to connect to my reality. I'm twenty-five, barely established in my dream job. My student loans still loom like a mountain I'm only beginning to climb. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a giant puppy.

And Garrett. What about Garrett? We’ve barely gotten to know each other, and we've never once discussed a future beyond next week. Does he even want children? Do I?

The panic rises in my chest, a wave threatening to drown me. I need to know. Now. Before my mind spins any further into this nightmare of what-ifs.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights hum above me, too bright and too revealing. I keep my head down, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses in place despite being indoors. The last thing I need is someone from the team spotting me in the family planning aisle, speculation spreading through the locker room faster than a puck across fresh ice.

I grab three different brands of tests—because if my life is about to implode, I want statistical significance.

The teenage cashier barely glances at me, too engrossed in her phone to notice my white-knuckle grip on the basket or the way my credit card trembles between my fingers.

"Have a nice day," she drones.

I nod, clutching the paper bag to my chest like it contains state secrets.

The drive home is a blur. I catch myself pressing a hand to my abdomen at red lights, then yanking it away as if burned.

When I get back in my apartment I immediately head to the bathroom. Emptying the bag onto the counter, lining up the three boxes like suspects in a police lineup. Each one promises accuracy, early detection, clear results. The most expensive one even features a digital readout—no ambiguous lines to interpret. Just pregnant or not pregnant in black and white.

I tear open that one first, hands shaking so badly I almost drop the plastic stick into the toilet. The instructions blur before my eyes—something about holding it in the stream for five seconds, then waiting three minutes. Simple enough.

When I'm done, I set the test flat on a folded piece of toilet paper on the counter, then start the timer on my phone. Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds that might reshape my entire future.

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