Page 97 of Chasing The Goal
I’m laughing and crying and bouncing Lola all at once. She squawks, offended by the volume, but quiets again when I press a kiss to her temple.
Another goal, thirty seconds later—HellBlades again.
Final score: 5-3.
They’re going to the Stanley Cup.
Everyone is yelling, hugging, texting their players, half-drunk and totally euphoric. I sit on the couch with Lola curled in my arms, heart pounding, and smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
***
The apartment is dark when I unlock the door, save for the amber glow of the hallway light and the blinking red of the stove clock. I toe off my shoes and carry Lola inside, her breath soft and steady against my chest as she dozes in the wrap.
I don’t bother turning on the lights.
I walk through the familiar space—the apartment I moved into when my body couldn’t carry me any further on its own. Bedrest. The baby. Jaymie. It had all happened here, between these walls. Somehow, this place became home. Became ours.
I settle onto the couch, slipping Lola out of the wrap and into the bassinet beside it. She stretches slightly, one arm flinging out like she’s reaching for something in her dreams, and then sighs.
Jaymie’s hoodie is still draped over the armrest. I pull it on, the fabric soft and comforting, and tuck my knees under me.
The game plays silently in my memory—his goal, the way he grinned through the camera lens like he could feel me watching. The team’s celebration. The sheer magnitude of it all.
I pick up my phone and tap out a quick message.
Congrats, superstar. That goal was insane. She and I screamed our faces off. We love you.
I hit send before I can overthink the we. Before I can wonder what Jaymie will think about being lumped in with me and a baby that shares zero of his DNA.
Butas I sit in the quiet, I can’t stop my mind from wandering.
What would she call him?
“Jaymie” feels too formal. Too distant. “Jay”?
“Dad”?
I blink, surprised at how warm that thought feels. Like a coat pulled over cold shoulders.
It’s kind of cool, actually.
She’s already his in every way that matters. Who cares about biology? He’s the one who held her first, who stayed up rocking her through that second night while I sobbed into a pillow. He’s the one who carries her like she’s precious cargo, who talks to her like she understands every word, who looks at her like she hung the moon.
He’s already the best dad I could’ve imagined for her.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s everything.
I lean back into the cushions, listening to the soft night sounds of the apartment—traffic below, the hum of the fridge, Lola’s sleepy breathing—and wonder where we’re going from here.
Because something tells me… it’s somewhere good.
Somewhere real.
Jaymie
The air inside thearena isn’t just electric—it’s vibrating. Alive. Game 7. Stanley Cup Final. Series tied 3–3.
Every seat in the building is filled, every inch of plexiglass pressed with faces, painted cheeks, fists clenched. The noise is a wall—deafening, relentless, thrumming through my chest like a war drum. I skate onto the ice and it hits me in the sternum.
