Page 80 of Chasing The Goal
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then I turned to Jaymie and whispered, “I think I’m going to be okay.”
He smiled, brushing hair back from my face with the backs of his fingers.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
Jaymie
I’d never lived withanyone before.
Not like this.
I’d had roommates, sure, guys with hockey gear that smelled like dead animals and the emotional intelligence of drywall. But this was different. Mallory wasn’t just in my apartment. She became part of it.
Her presence was everywhere—her book on the armrest, her slippers by the door, her lemon-gingertea in the cupboard I used to keep empty. I found bobby pins on the bathroom sink and pregnancy tea on the top shelf of the fridge, wedged between the mustard and a backup carton of oat milk I’d bought on instinct.
Two weeks in, and the place already felt like us.
She’d been mostly good about bedrest, reluctantly obedient. She took it like a punishment she didn’t quite believe she deserved. So I made it my job to keep her occupied. Books, snacks, warm socks straight from the dryer. Whatever I could do.
Her sister Dakota video called her nearly every afternoon, and I knew not to hover then. I used that time to make dinner, refill her absurd gallon water bottle, and Google whether it was normal for a baby to get the hiccups this much. (Apparently yes. Still weird.)
Tonight was pasta night. Mallory liked lemon. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but I’d caught the way she lingered over the citrus aisle that day I took her to the doctor. So now everything I cooked had at least one lemon involved, just in case it earned me that soft little noise she made when something tasted just right.
She was already curled up on the couch when I brought in the bowls. Her legs were tucked sideways, the hem of her sleep shorts brushing her thighs, one hand absently rubbing her belly. She looked… peaceful.
Her hair was up in a messy bun, bluelight glasses sliding down her nose, and she was wearing one of my old t-shirts that read Lake Champlain Hockey Camp 2014 in peeling white letters.
I was in so much trouble.
“Smells like carbs,” she said as I set the bowls on the coffee table.
“Lemon pasta with grilled chicken and the world’s most overcooked broccoli. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She raised a brow. “You say that like you didn’t already test three bites in the kitchen and moan dramatically into the fridge.”
I choked on a laugh. “That was a private moment.”
“Sure it was.”
We started eating, side by side on the couch, the glow of the floor lamp casting everything in gold. She nudged her knee into mine when she caught me staring at her water bottle.
“What?”
“You haven’t had your third refill today,” I said.
“You’re keeping count?”
“Of course I’m keeping count,” I said, nudging her back. “It’s part of the Jaymie Approved Bedrest Compliance Program. JABCP for short. Hydration is key.”
She rolled her eyes, but took a long sip. “Happy?”
“Delirious.”
We kept eating in a comfortable silence, the kind that only happened when you didn’t have to fill space to feel okay.
Shelooked tired tonight. Not sick-tired—just heavy. Her eyes lingered on nothing. Her fingers traced patterns on the blanket like her thoughts were far away.
