Page 90 of The Final Faceoff
Actually, no. I would have choked on my oat milk turmeric latte—it’s good for the baby, okay?—then told them to get checked for a head injury.
Because this? This domestic, vaguely couple-ish situation where I walk around his pristine penthouse wearing his old hoodies, while he monitors my hydration levels like a sentient water bottle? Where George, the angelic, culinary wizard he employs, ensures I’m eating healthy, and Leif has apparently taken it upon himself to manage my libido?
I’m not complaining about the latter one, I enjoy it very much. Best sex ever. No seriously, it is really good sex. Okay, it’s more like oral sex and the guy playing with my toys. I’ve yet to beg him for his cock, but every time I think we’re close to that I end up falling asleep. That’s a problem for another time.
This situation is obviouslynot exactly what I envisioned when I saw the two pink lines on that pregnancy test.
At some point, I need to remind him that this was not part of the plan. Of course, it’s hard to argue when I didn’t actually have a plan. My strategy was more of a doom spiral where I imagined myself raising this baby alone, surviving on dry cereal and existential dread.
Instead, I have this.
Leif, who’s somehow both my best friend and the reason I can’t think straight half the time. Who refuses to date me properly until I “fix my underlying issues,” whatever that means. Like I’m some kind of glitchy software that needs debugging before he’s willing to fully commit.
Not that he isn’t committed. It’s painfully obvious that he is—has been, for a long time. Something I don’t entirely understand, and yes, I am working through it with my therapist, thank you very much.
It’s not that I don’t love him. It’s more like . . . why can’t I trust love? Why can’t I believe that someone could love me without eventually deciding I’m too much work or too much of a disappointment?
So while I sort through that, I’m also trying to figure out my career, because as much as I love my job, hauling a baby around the world isn’t exactly practical when I’m only in one place for a few months at a time. So what if I have to adjust my five-year plan? It’s fine. Totally fine.
Which is exactly what I tell myself as I sit curled up on Leif’s obscenely expensive couch, flipping through a pregnancy book. The baby—currently the size of an avocado, which somehow makes them sound adorable and small—hasn’t moved yet.
According to this book, it should happen any day now.
Am I anxious about it? Absolutely. But Leif keeps telling me to be patient. Something about his youngest brother, Greyson, being a late bloomer. As if that’s the same thing. As if my baby refusing to kick isn’t just another thing to overthink at two a.m.
Across the room, Leif is in the kitchen, which should be alarming but isn’t. He’s just fixing a mid-morning snack, assembling something with the quiet focus of a man who takes even cheese distribution seriously.
Leif sets the plate down on the coffee table: apple slices, cheese, some kind of fancy nut situation.
“Eat,” he says, dropping into the armchair across from me, all long limbs and controlled exasperation.
I eye the plate. “I literally just had breakfast a couple of hours ago.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And I don’t need a second breakfast.”
His gaze flicks to my stomach, then back up. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw twitches in that Leif way that means,You think you have a say in this, but I’m about to win this argument anyway.
I huff and grab an apple slice. “You’re bossy.”
He leans back, stretching out those absurdly long legs, completely unbothered. “You’re bad at self-preservation. I still don’t know how you survived in the wild with these habits.”
I mutter something about overbearing goalies, but the truth is, he’s right. I do need to eat more. Not because I’m hungry, but because I’m growing a person. And Leif? He keeps track of everything I can tolerate. I’m not puking anymore, but nausea still lingers, making food a complicated enemy.
It terrifies me, how well he takes care of me.
Okay, a lot.
Because what happens if I let myself need him, really need him, and then one day, he decides it’s too much? That I’m too much? That he doesn’t love me the way he thinks he does?
I pick at the cheese, stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Leif watches me with that quiet, intense focus of his, the kind that makes me feel like he sees things I haven’t even admitted to myself.
I hate it. I hate how effortless he makes this look—being here, being all in.
He doesn’t hesitate. Not once.
“Any plans for tomorrow?” he asks, voice low and lazy.
