Page 56 of Huge Pucking Play

Maybe she's figuring out how to tell me. Maybe she's not sure yet. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions based on a stomach bug and my own paranoia.

But I don't think so. Something in my gut tells me I'm right.

I pick up my phone, stare at our last text exchange. Her avoidance screams louder than words. I could wait for her to come to me, but that's never been my style. Not on the ice, not in life.

If she's pregnant, she's scared. Hell, I'm scared. But she shouldn't have to carry this alone, whatever "this" turns out to be.

I set my phone down, decision made. Tomorrow, I'll go to her place. See her face to face. Have the conversation we're both avoiding.

The thought of fatherhood still sends a tremor through my hands, but beneath the fear, there's something else stirring. A memory of the man I once was, the dad I once thought I'd be.

I stand outside Cyn's door, knuckles raised, hesitating. The hallway smells faintly of someone's attempt at curry. My heart hammers against my ribs. Showing up unannounced feels invasive, but five days of distance has left me no choice. I knock, three sharp raps that echo my pulse.

The sound of Oscar's excited barking comes immediately. Paws scrabbling against hardwood. A muffled "Oscar, quiet!"

The door swings open. Cyn stands there, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing joggers and an oversized Chicago Blades sweatshirt. Her face registers shock, followed by something like panic, before settling into forced casualness.

"Garrett. Hi." Her voice is tight. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I know. Sorry to drop in." I shift my weight. "Just wanted to check on you."

Oscar saves us from the awkward moment by pushing past Cyn's legs to greet me. His tail whips back and forth as he presses against my shins.

"At least someone's happy to see me," I say, bending to scratch behind his ears.

"Don't be ridiculous." Cyn steps back from the door. "Come in."

Her apartment tells its own story. A blanket twisted on the couch. Ginger tea and saltines on the coffee table. A trash can piled with tissues. The blinds drawn against the late afternoon sun.

She moves quickly, gathering items, straightening pillows. "Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting company."

"No need to apologize." I stay by the door, giving her space. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Too quick, too bright. Her hands don't stop moving.

Oscar circles my legs, nudging at my hand with his wet nose. I focus on him, not wanting to stare at Cyn as she flutters around the room like a trapped bird.

"You look tired," I say.

She freezes for a second. "Well, aren’t you a smooth talker?"

"That's not—I'm just worried about you."

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly. "There’s nothing to worry about."

I watch her collect mugs from the coffee table, movements jerky and uncertain. She is all nervous energy and averted eyes.

"Can we sit?" I ask. "Talk for a minute?"

She stops, mugs clutched to her chest like a shield. Her green eyes finally meet mine, wide and frightened. In that moment, my suspicion solidifies into certainty.

"I don't know if now's a good time," she says, but her voice breaks on the last word.

I cross the room, gently take the mugs from her hands, set them down. "I think it might be the perfect time."

A tear spills down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly, frustrated. "I hate this. I'm not a crier."

"Hey." I touch her arm, feather-light. "It's just me."

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