Even if I try to focus my mind on tonight’s game plan, my brain starts to drift as it often does during warmups.
Four days.It’s been four days since the party. Since Haisley dropped the bomb and told me I’m going to be a dad.
And I still don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to feel.
Most of the time, my thoughts lean positive, but there’s still this heaviness that never goes away when I think about my own parents and childhood. About my mom walking out when I was four, the previous night filled with slurred words and shattered plates. My maternal grandparents stepped in to raise me, only to die before I graduated high school. They never saw me receive a college scholarship or become a third overall draft pick. They never saw me become anything more than a kid barely surviving.
“You’re pedaling like hell’s hounds are chasing you,” a voice says behind me.
I don’t bother turning. “Just warming up.”
Åkerman leans against the bike next to mine, arms folded, as if he’s got all the time in the world. We’ve barely spoken since my trade if you don’t count the party. A few sentences here and there, mostly about the game play, but never about the past.
“We need you sharp tonight,” he comments.
“I will be.”
He assesses me closely. “You good?”
I nod automatically, even thoughgoodisn’t the word I’d use.
“You were always a shitty liar,” he snorts a humorless sound.
My jaw tightens and I keep pedaling. I don’t bite back, even if it takes every inch in my body to hold back a retort.
“You talk toherafter the party?”
I glance around, making sure nobody’s within earshot. Lee and Silas are still cracking jokes, Rocket’s bobbing his head to whatever is blasting through his AirPods, and Papa Shane is nowhere in sight. Safe enough.
Lowering my voice, I say, “Yeah. But let’s not talk about it here. Not exactly gym talk.”
He nods once. But of course, he doesn’t drop it. “She doing okay?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
There’s a beat of silence and his voice drops further, sharp enough to cut. “You’re gonna treat her better than you’ve treated anyone else, right?”
I stop pedaling. “What?”
“You heard me.” His eyes narrow. “She’s not just some woman you hooked up with. She’s Haisley Lavigne. She’s my friend. She’s close with Vivian and Em, too, and pretty much everyone in that locker room thinks the world of her. You mess this up, Westerholm, it won’t be only her you have to answer to.”
I square my shoulders. “I’m not planning to mess it up.”
“You planning to be in it, then? For real?”
I pause. Not because I don’t have an answer. But because the weight of the question presses down on me.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “I’m in it.”
He watches me a beat longer, then gives a slow nod before walking off, stretching one arm across his chest. Like he didn’t just remind me of the thin ice I’ve been skating on all week since Haisley’s unexpected news.
We’ve been texting a fair amount since then. Mostly everyday things, including random jokes and memes. Baby related facts we find online. Nothing too deep, but still some bits and pieces of our lives.
And I meant what I told Åkerman—I want to be involved, I just don’t know how it’ll look in the long run.
Not when I’ve only known for four short days. Not when the woman carrying my child is the GM’s daughter. Not when her father could ice my entire career with one phone call if he chooses. Not when my teammates are on her side.
So I keep pedaling and let another ABBA track fill my head and drown out the thoughts I can’t quiet.
