After a bit, I see her head toward the bathrooms. This is my chance. I follow her and wait in the hall.
She’s in there for a while. Then I hear it. The puking.
Is that Maggie?
I pace outside the bathrooms, wondering if I should go in there, when I spot Ben’s aunt Teresa. “Tía,” I say, because we all call her Tía. “Can you check on Maggie for me? She’s in there, and it sounds like she’s getting sick.”
Teresa and Maggie have spent a lot of time together at Ben’s taking care of his daughter, so she isn’t a stranger.
After a moment, Teresa sticks her head back out. “Come help me.”
I follow her in and find Maggie sprawled on the floor next to the toilet, dry-heaving. “Jesus, Maggie. What’s wrong?”
I scoop her hair back and get a good look at her face. She’s pale. Really pale. And covered in sweat. This close, I can see dark circles under her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says, but when she wipes her mouth, her hands tremble hard. She starts retching again.
“Did you get food poisoning or something?”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know. I’ve had this bug I can’t seem to kick.”
Teresa scoots in behind me and hands me a wad of damp paper towels. “Wipe her face.”
I do as I’m told, grateful to have a job. Gently, I dab Maggie’s forehead. “Do you need to go to the doctor’s or the ER?” She looks mortified to have me in here, but if she’s sick, I want to be by her side.
“I… I don’t know.”
Teresa rattles off something in Spanish. Maggie shakes her head. Then Teresa asks, “¿Estás embarazada?”
Why would she ask if Maggie was embarrassed? Of course she is. She’s hurling chunks in the middle of a party.
But Maggie’s eyes widen. “I don’t think so. I mean…” She glances at me and then lowers her voice. “I got my period last month. It was light, but…”
Oh, shit. Teresa didn’t ask her if Maggie was embarrassed. Teresa asked if she was pregnant.
Then they talk about “la regla.” Again, I’m at a loss. I took Spanish years ago in middle school, and I think that word means “the rule,” but judging by the context, I’m off base.
In a daze, I go out to the bar, order a glass of ice water, and return to the women’s bathroom. Maggie is off the floor and not so deathly pale anymore, thank God.
I hand her the drink as I mull over what I heard a few minutes ago. She got her period after we were together.
So that means if she’s pregnant, it’s not mine.
I’m instantly relieved.
Then wrecked.
I definitely don’t need a kid right now—I need to put one hundred percent of my time and energy into the team and my rehab. But this also means Maggie is probably having Greg’s kid.
Fuck.
Besides my knee injury, I’ve never felt this kind of devastation. Because if I know Maggie, she’ll try to make it work with that guy for the sake of her kid.
Being benched for three games last season, I can tell you there’s nothing like watching your team from the sidelines. Seeing what you want to do but being unable to help.
It’s the same with Maggie. If this kid were mine, I’d be by her every step of the way.
But that role’s not for me.
