Page 53 of Huge Pucking Play

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, knees bouncing, unable to look directly at the stick. Oscar scratches at the door, his concern evident in his persistent whining.

"Almost done," I tell him.

My phone buzzes. Time's up.

I don't move. If I don't look, the potential reality hovers in suspension.

"Get it together, Cyn," I mutter.

I stand on legs that feel disconnected from my body and approach the counter like it's rigged with explosives. The small window on the test faces up, its message already displayed.

Pregnant.

The word doesn't register at first. I blink, expecting it to change. It doesn't.

"No," I whisper.

My legs give out. I slide down against the wall to the floor, the cold tile seeping through my leggings. A strange numbnessspreads through me, like I've been injected with novocaine from the inside out.

Pregnant.

Oscar's whining has escalated to concerned barking. I reach up with a leaden arm and unlock the door. He bursts in, immediately planting himself in my lap—all forty pounds of him—and licks my face.

It's only when I taste salt that I realize I'm crying.

"I'm pregnant," I tell him, the first time I've said the words aloud.

He stays, pressed against me as silent sobs rack my body. I'm not ready for this. Not financially, not professionally, not emotionally. My career is just beginning. My life is just beginning.

And now everything has changed.

Now I’m on the couch, but my mind is free-falling through space.

My dream job with the Blades. Six years of education and a mountain of student debt to get here. I'd beaten out twenty other applicants for this position—the only female physical therapist on staff. The athletes respect me. The coaches value me. I've spent every day proving I belong in that male-dominated space.

And now this.

My hands drift to my stomach, still flat and firm from my morning runs and weekly yoga sessions. How long before it swells, announcing my condition to everyone? How long before the whispers start? Before the questions about my "commitment" arise?

"They can't fire me for being pregnant," I tell Oscar, who blinks up at me with soulful eyes. "That's discrimination."

But they can make my life difficult. They can question my focus. They can pass me over for the career advancement I've been working toward.

And the money. God, the money. I pull my laptop closer and open my budget spreadsheet—a meticulously maintained document that tracks every dollar in and every dollar out. The numbers stare back at me, cold and unforgiving.

Student loans: $68,432 remaining.

Rent: $1,950.

Car payment: $325.

Utilities, groceries, Oscar's expenses, health insurance premiums, retirement contributions. It all adds up to a life I can just barely afford while making responsible financial choices.

And a baby? Diapers, formula, childcare—the costs pile up in my mind like a tower of blocks threatening to topple. My mother's voice echoes in my head: "Children are expensive, Cynthia. More expensive than you can imagine."

She would know. I remember the constant worry lines between her brows, the way she stretched every dollar, the nights she sat at our kitchen table surrounded by bills, calculating and recalculating, trying to make the numbers work.

I swore I'd never live that way. I'd be financially independent, beholden to no one. I'd build my career first, establish myself, save money. Only then would I consider a family—maybe, someday, with a partner whose commitment I was certain of.

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