Page 110 of Hooked On Them

The kettle’s whistle jolted me back to reality.

My brain still wanted to pick apart every screw-up from the game like if I cataloged them hard enough, it would somehow fix the score. But what good was that going to do now?

Yeah, I messed up. And yeah, it sucked. But Nora didn’t need me wallowing. She needed tea. She needed me. Just me. Not the guy who tried to fix everything before it broke, or the guy who apologized for taking up space.

Just Miles.

I poured the water over a decaf tea bag for Nora and a chamomile tea bag for me and carried the mugs into the living room, trying to leave the weight of the loss back in the kitchen.

Nora was already curled up on the couch in flannel pajama bottoms and one of my old college shirts that stretched accommodatingly over her belly. Her hair was piled messily on top of her head, and she’d removed her makeup. She looked younger, softer, and utterly beautiful.

I handed Nora her mug, watching as she gratefully wrapped her fingers around it, inhaling the steam rising from the surface. She shifted on the couch, wincing slightly.

“Back hurting?” I sank down beside her, my body suddenly reminding me of every hit, every sprint, every battle along the boards.

“Everything is hurting. I’m pretty sure GB is using my spine as a dance pole.” She took a cautious sip of her tea, then leaned toward me with a little groan. “Mind if I...?”

“Come here.” I lifted my arm, creating a space for her to tuck herself against my side.

She nestled into me, her head finding that perfect spot between my shoulder and chest. Her belly pressed against my side, and I felt a distinct little thump.

“Your daughter is saying hello.” Nora smiled up at me, the exhaustion of the day softening around her eyes. “Or possibly asking why you couldn’t keep possession of the puck in the offensive zone during the third-period power play.”

I winced. “Low blow, Hastings.”

“Sorry.” She patted my thigh. “No hockey talk. I’m cranky and ready for this baby to come.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. It was still strange sometimes, living here with all of them. Our weird, wonderful arrangement that had started as a solution to a problem and morphed into... this.

“What do you think we’ll tell her?” My fingers absently traced patterns on her shoulder. “About all of this. When she’s older, I mean.”

She looked thoughtful, her free hand moving in slow circles over her belly. “The truth, I guess? Age-appropriate versions as she grows up.”

“Which version of the truth? The one where her mom had a wild threesome and wasn’t sure which guy knocked her up? Or the one where I was pining over you and decided to pretend to be her dad while her actual dad was panicking about becoming a father?” I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.

“Both? Neither?” Nora’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “When you say it out loud, it sounds like the plot of a really bad soap opera.”

“Or a really good one.”

She tilted her head up to look at me. “Maybe we start with the easy part: that a bunch of people who care about each other found a way to make a family that works for them. The rest can wait until she’s... I don’t know, thirty?”

“Solid plan.” I pressed my lips to the top of her head, taking in the faint smell of her shampoo. “You know what’s weird?”

“Besides literally everything about our situation?”

“Besides that.” I smiled against her hair. “If I could go back to the day you walked into that first team meeting and tell myself where we’d end up... I wouldn’t believe it. But I also wouldn’t change it.”

Nora’s hand found mine, our fingers intertwining. “Not even the part where you’re constantly sharing a bathroom with Carter’s ridiculous skincare routine?”

“Small price to pay.” I squeezed her fingers. “Even if he does use my towel when he runs out of his fancy Egyptian cotton ones.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does. Dom caught him once and threatened to use his ridiculously expensive imported moisturizer to polish his skate blades.”

Nora dissolved into giggles, then suddenly clutched her belly. “Oof, don’t make me laugh. GB does not appreciate it.”

“Sorry, little one.” I moved my hand to rest on the swell of her stomach, feeling another kick in response. “You know, for a kid who’s not genetically mine, she sure has my attitude about being told what to do.”

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