Page 61 of Chasing The Goal
She texted back five minutes later.
Mallory
Sure did.
Let me put on real pants.
I smiled, shoved my phone in my back pocket, and grabbed my keys. There was a little gastro pub just around the corner from our building. Close enough that we could walk. Nice enough that it felt like a break from the chaos. Neutral territory.
Still, by the time I saw her walk off the elevator in our building lobby—messy ponytail, soft sweater clinging to her curves, cheeks flushed from the wind—I felt something knock loose in my chest. She didn’t look pregnant from far away either. Not at first glance. But as she got closer, I saw the way she carried her belly now. With a kind of gentle awareness. Like she was always protecting something without even thinking about it.
“Hey,” I said, pulling the door open for her.
“Hi.” Her smile was soft but sure, like she hadn’t been surprised I asked. “Thanks for lunch.”
“Friends gotta eat,” I said, keeping my voice easy. Teasing.
“Is that your new motto?”
“Only when it works.” We walked to the pub in comforatable silence, enjoying the crisp fresh air. Once inside, the hostess led us to a booth near the back, and I waited until Mallory slid in before taking the seat across from her. The table was small. Our knees brushed once and neither of us moved.
The place smelled like rosemary and steak fries, and some kind of seasonal cider I’d never admit (to the guys) I wanted to try. We flipped through menus in quiet for a minute before she looked up.
“I’ve never been here,” she said.
“Good fries. Decent burgers. Really weird aioli choices.”
Her mouth quirked. “Weird how?”
“Like, who needs beet-horseradish sauce? What culinary god demanded that pairing?”
“You might be more passionate about aioli than any man alive.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She snorted and set her menu down. “I already like this place.”
We ordered, her: roasted chicken sandwich, extra pickles; me: burger, medium rare, no beet sauce—and when the server walked away, the silence stretched a little.
It wasn’t awkward. Just... full.
I leaned back. “You’re really showing now.”
Her hand moved instinctively to her belly. “I know. I’ve officially crossed from maybe-she-ate-too-much to baby-on-board.”
I grinned. “You look good.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted. “You’re not allowed to flirt. You said ‘just friends.’”
I lifted my hands in mock innocence. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t compliment. Big difference.”
“Uh-huh.”
She took a sip of water, then met my gaze again.
“Only a few months left now,” she said. “I’m almost in the third trimester. Which sounds fake. Like, how?”
“Time’s flying,” I said. “Feels like yesterday I was convincing you to eat crackers on my couch.”
