Page 86 of Top Scorer
“Well, then stop. I’m already an emotional mess.” I rub my belly absentmindedly, suddenly tired.
“Why are you an emotional mess?” Her voice gets louder, as if she stood up and pressed her mouth into the speaker.
“One moment I’m hoarding all the onesies on sale, and then next I’m wondering if I should buy baby armor and helmets. I can’t wait to hold them and meet them and love them. But what if that’s not enough? What if I mess up?” I whisper my manic tirade into the phone but still get the attention of the woman across the aisle who gives me a sympathetic smile. It’s the stranger’s kindness that makes my eyes prickle.
“You will not mess up, Ligaya Torres,” Ami states. “No one will love them more and keep them safe like you do.”
I sniffle and nod. Realizing she can’t see me, I add, “Thank you. As you can tell, pregnancy hormones are no joke.”
“I’m here for you any time you need a cheerleader, OK?”
Without being prompted, I unload more of my insecurities.
“And there’s still part of me that thinks I won’t recover if he leaves. Marrying him might be the logical answer to our circumstances, but I’m already feeling so vulnerable. I hate that feeling!”
“He’s not going to leave, Ligaya.”
“He’s done it before.”
Why can’t I shake that bitterness about something that happened a whole decade ago?
Everything about Tristantodayindicates his commitment to be here for me and the babies. He’s given me no reason to doubt his ability to be a great father.
“Ligaya . . .” Ami starts but then pauses.
My phone pings with another call.
“Shoot, it’s the women’s center confirming my second ultrasound. I’ve gotta go,Ate.”
“OK,” she says quickly. “Call me later? There’s something I—”
I don’t catch the rest of her statement because I’ve already swiped to answer.
CHAPTER 35
TRISTAN
The puck pops free in the neutral zone, and I burst toward it at a speed that surprises the Washington defenseman. Swiping the puck off his lazy stickhandling is a joke.
It’s something the coaches and I have been working on. I establish pace and snag scoring chances during the first two periods but push my speed to the next gear when we hit the third. The crowd is louder with my every stride down the left wing. I burn past the last man back so it’s just the goalie now.
I fake a shot, cut right, and go for the backhand tuck.
It grazes the post.
Damn.
My linemates groan. The arena slumps back. I circle toward the bench, sucking air through my mouthguard.
Neither team has scored yet. Opportunities have been few and far between, but I’ve come the closest in this tight game. The guys pat me on the back and tell me “great shot” which is unearned, since I didn’t get the job done. Coach Zach assesses me, his gaze openly calculating my value.
Lance Jefferson, our star forward, goes hard at the net. We all burst to our feet in anticipation. This could be the clincher. Lance makes a nifty move to get the goalie out of balance. He’s about torelease the shot when he gets a nasty hook from behind, making him sprawl on the ice.
That’s a two-minute penalty for Washington.
Lance skates back to the bench but doesn’t hop over to sit down. He earned a spot in the power play and is consulting with the offensive coordinator. Surprisingly, I get a hard pat on my shoulder.
“You’re up for this one. Net-front.” Coach Zach’s orders are curt but clear.
