Page 6 of Bar Down, Baby

“What is the press saying?”

“That you want me at Syracuse.”

“Hmm,” she says as if distracted.

I don’t know why she would want me at Syracuse. Other than the fact that I’m fucking good at my job. We’re friendly, as evidenced by the fact that I can call her at three a.m. her time and she’ll pick up. But she also knows that if she asked me point blank, I would say no. If I hear it from other people, I’ll get competitive. She always could read me like a book.

“I have news,” she says, changing the subject.

“What’s your news?” I ask, knocking back another sip of my beer.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

My stomach drops and I feel the color drain from my face. Cold panic floods my chest.

“How far?” I ask. I’ve asked this question before.

“Twenty-two weeks,” she says, and I can hear the shimmer of happy tears in her voice.

I sigh and lean back against the couch. “That’s more than halfway,” I say.

“I know.”

“Everything… healthy?” My question lands on a shaky note and I don’t have to imagine I hear her reaction to it.

“Completely healthy. We did all the genetic counseling and… everything’s fine. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

I take in a deep breath and I hear the tea kettle whistle on the other end of the line.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “God, Deanna. This is… congratulations.” I know my voice sounds rigid and stiff, but I’m so fucking happy for her. After everything I put her through.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick.

“What is it?” I ask. “Boy or girl?”

“We’re waiting to be surprised.”

I nod as if she can see me. I don’t have to ask why. When you’ve had three miscarriages, you wait. There’s less to get attached to that way.

“I want to send shit,” I say, swallowing hard. “Assuming Julian won’t mind?”

“Of course he won’t,” she says as if it’s a ridiculous question. Her husband of three years is my former teammate and was even one of my groomsmen at our wedding. The bathroom door opens and I sit up.

“I gotta go,” I say, setting my beer down on the coffee table.

“‘Kay,” she says.

“I’m not coming to Syracuse,” I say, feeling resolute in it.

She makes a little noise that sounds almost like ‘meh.’ “Whatever you say, Coach.”

I smile as I end the call, just as Karlie walks out of the bathroom, looking much fresher than when she was on her knees.

“Thanks for calling me,” she says.

I nod, moving to the kitchen where I have an envelope of cash. Even after having called her for almost two years, it’s still awkward. Still, it’s less awkward than trying to navigate one-night stands with puck bunnies who might mess with condoms. I pass it to her and she tucks it into her purse without counting it.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, taking another drink of my beer.

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