Page 110 of Slap Shot Daddies

I swear I can smell just as well as a bloodhound right now. I occupy the passenger seat, my fingers nervously twisting the soft fabric of my sweater, my stomach churning with an uneasy energy that outstrips any morning sickness I've experienced.

I never imagined myself in this particular scenario, on the way to my first prenatal appointment accompanied by three men who are all equally committed to the journey ahead.

It's been several weeks since I took the plunge and moved into Ambrose’s sprawling house.

Surprisingly, the arrangement works seamlessly. We rise with the sun, share breakfast, and navigate daily life in a newfound harmony. The ease of it all is almost unsettling.

At the rink, my colleagues remain blissfully unaware, never questioning why I consistently appear with a trio of the players, and we've certainly made no effort to enlighten them.

They take turns helping at the clinic. I keep telling them that my hand is healed and I don’t need help anymore, but they just keep showing up.

The regulars already adore them, a fact which makes me smile in spite of my worry that they shouldn’t have to help me run my business like this.

Braden taps a staccato rhythm on his thigh, the restless energy practically sparking off of him.

“You good?” he asks, his voice a quiet concern amidst the charged silence.

I nod, the motion doing little to dislodge the tight lump lodged in my throat.

Reggie’s grin is infectious, reflected in the rearview mirror. “We’re going to hear the wee one’s heartbeat today. Ye realize how insane that is?” His Scottish lilt dances through the words, his enthusiasm palpable.

I meet his gaze, a reluctant smile pulling at my lips. His excitement is impossible to resist.

Ambrose reaches across the console, his hand finding my knee. His touch is steady, grounding.

“We’ve got you, Kenz,” he assures me.

I nod again, tightening my grip on his fingers, yet my pulse is still like a rapid drumbeat.

This moment is real, and it's unfolding right now.

The waiting room is awash with harsh fluorescent lights that reflect off the pristine white walls, casting a sterile glow over everything. Couples fill the room, their murmuring conversations blending into a soft hum.

The chairs, upholstered in muted blue fabric, offer little comfort as I fidget to find a bearable position.

In my lap, a clipboard holds a thick stack of paperwork. My gaze is fixed on one particular question: Father’s Name?

I nibble on my lower lip, the rhythm of my heart pounding in my ears.

Beside me, Braden's pen scratches lightly as he absentmindedly doodles on the glossy edge of a magazine, the ink forming swirls and shapes.

Reggie leans over, his elbow brushing mine. “It’s none of their business,” he whispers, his voice low and reassuring. “Leave it blank.”

Ambrose, sitting on my other side, shakes his head slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “They might need to know for medical reasons,” he reasons, his tone cautious.

Braden lets out a derisive snort, flipping a page of the magazine with a casual flick. “You really think the doctor's gonna say, ‘Oh no, this baby has three potential dads, guess we can’t do an ultrasound’?” he quips, a smirk playing on his lips.

Despite my anxiety, a small laugh escapes me, easing some of the tension. The receptionist’s voice cuts through the room as she calls out another patient’s name, and I take a moment to glance around.

Expectant mothers sit with their partners, fingers intertwined, heads resting on shoulders, embodying the conventional image of parenthood.

A lump forms in my throat.

We don’t fit that mold.

We are not traditional by any stretch.

I draw in a deep, shaky breath, resolve hardening within me. With a final glance at the form, I decide to leave the father section blank and rise to hand the clipboard to the receptionist.

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