Page 69 of Chasing The Goal
He didn’t laugh. Just walked over and crouched in front of me, his eyes scanning my face. “You okay?”
I nodded. Too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Jaymie wasn’t buying it. “You’ve been pale since warmups. And you barely touched your dinner in the lounge.”
“I wasn’t that hungry.”
He frowned, then stood. “Come on. Let me drive you home.”
“I’ve got my car.”
“And I’m offering to save you the trouble,” he said. “Don’t make this about pride.”
“It’s not,” I lied. “I just… need a little quiet. The drive will help.”
He exhaled hard, clearly debating whether to push. I could see it on his face—he wanted to argue, to insist—but in the end, he just nodded.
“Text me the second you walk in the door.”
“I will.”
“Mallory.”
“I promise.”
He lingered another beat, then turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway. I didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind him. Then I groaned, pushed off the stool, and forced myself upright.
Every muscle in my body rebelled.
The baby shifted low, heavy, and I had to press a hand to my belly just to catch my breath. Not contractions. Just pressure. Unrelenting, aching, exhausting pressure.
I gathered my bag and coat, moving slow. By the time I made it to the car, I was sweating under my hoodie, even with the freezing wind cutting through. The drive home was a blur. I cranked the heat and cracked the window, trying to balance the nausea that had started to roll through me like waves. My fingers clenched the steering wheel tight, knuckles white, the city lights blurring as I blinked harder than I should’ve. The apartment garage was blessedly empty when I pulled in. I sat there for a full minute, engine off, forehead resting on the steering wheel. My heart was racing. My body was pulsing with fatigue.
I finally climbed out, every step from the car to the elevator a test in endurance. I had to hold the railing inside the lift, leaning against it like someone twice my age. I just had to make it to the eighth floor. I didn’t even remember unlocking the door to my apartment. Just the cool whoosh of air against my face, the dark living room swallowing me up. I dropped my bag by the wall, kicked off my shoes, and sank into the couch like a stone.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t even sigh.
I just… deflated.
It had been building all day—this tight, hot ball of discomfort in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just the awful, guilty awareness that I was nearing my limit and still pretending I wasn’t.
I rested one hand over my belly, feeling a gentle roll beneath my palm. The baby was still active, still stretching, still reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this body. That I was responsible for more than just my own exhaustion. I reached for my phone with my free hand.
Don’t feel great. Just wanted you to know.
I didn’t expect a fast reply. It was almost midnight in Vermont. Dakota was probably asleep. But the typing dots appeared almost instantly.
Dakota
Define “don’t feel great.” Are you bleeding? Is it the baby?
No bleeding. Just wiped out. Lightheaded. Crampy like just worked out. But not labor-y?
Have you eaten? Drank water? You need to lie down with your feet up. You’re overdoing it again.
I swallowed hard.
