Chapter Nine
KENDALL
I never thought I’d find myself standing in a closet that costs more than
my entire apartment, but here I am, surrounded by sequins, satin, and one
terrifyingly judgmental full-length mirror.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind the room full of three women who look way
too entertained by my misery.
Vivi arches a perfect brow as she holds up a sleek black dress. “You’re
meeting your ex-husband for dinner in downtown Seattle. Honey, that’s not
‘just catching up.’ That’s revenge couture.”
“I don’t want revenge,” I mutter. “I just want him to see me and… maybe
choke a little.”
Cammy bursts out laughing from her spot on the bed, where she’s sitting
cross-legged with a bowl of popcorn. “So, you do want revenge. You just
want it classy.”
“Exactly,” Vivi says, triumphant, as if I’ve just admitted something
profound. “We’ll give him heart palpitations before dessert.”
Isla, curled up in an armchair with a glass of wine, tips her head toward
me. “Honestly, you should. He dumped you for a cheerleader. If I were you,
I’d show up in something that says, ‘I’m thriving and you’re balding.’”
That earns a snort from me. “He’s not balding.”
Though I won’t lie. That kind of karma would feel good. He’s always
been obsessed with his hair.
“Yet,” Isla says. “But time’s coming for him. Let’s give it a head start.”
Vivi shoves another hanger into my hands, ignoring my protests. “Try
this one.”
It’s emerald silk, the kind of dress that probably has its own insurance
policy. I tug it on, wobbling as I zip it up, and step out into the bedroom like
I’m walking into battle.
Cammy whistles. “Damn. Okay, girl… we’re getting somewhere.”
“Too much?” I ask, turning toward the mirror.
“Not enough,” Vivi says, circling me like a stylist at Fashion Week.
“You’re petite. The slit gives you legs for days. Trey’s going to lose his
mind when he sees I let another man benefit from my wardrobe.”
I laugh despite myself. “He’ll survive.”
Isla takes another sip of wine. “So will you. Eventually.”
“See, that’s the kind of optimism I need,” I say dripping with sarcasm,
and the girls crack up.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine. That my
stomach hasn’t felt like a rollercoaster all day, or that the faint smell of
Vivi’s perfume doesn’t make my nausea spike.
The nap yesterday helped and I thought I was out of the dark, but now it’s
starting to creep back.
“Okay, next.” Vivi claps her hands, snapping me out of it.
I duck back into the closet and wriggle out of the silk. My head feels
fuzzy. My boobs ache. My patience is hanging by a thread.
“I swear, if I try on one more dress, my nipples might file for divorce,” I
call out, voice muffled through the fabric.
Cammy snorts. “TMI, Doc.”
“Boob pain and mood swings?” Isla says, all faux-casual. “Sounds
familiar.”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, stepping out in another dress—shorter this
time, with dangerous cleavage Vivi insists is “tastefully slutty.”
“Those were my first pregnancy symptoms,” Isla says in a sing-song
voice.
“It’s just my period coming. That’s all.”
Vivi blinks, pausing mid-lip-gloss application. “Wait, what?”
Cammy leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Hold up. Are we saying Kendall
might be pregnant? Because I will open another bottle of wine for this.”
I freeze, one heel halfway on. “I’m not pregnant.”
Isla raises her brow. “Then why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
I roll my eyes, forcing a laugh that feels too sharp. “Please. I’ve just been
busy. Probably hormonal. My period’s due any day now.”
“Hmm.” Vivi taps her chin. “You’ve also been kind of snappy. And you
nearly puked at Serendipity’s over onions.”
“That was the smell of caramelized butter,” I protest.
Cammy grins. “You do realize butter doesn’t make normal people gag,
right?”
I open my mouth, close it again.
“Just saying,” Isla mutters.
There’s a long pause—too long. I can practically hear the gears turning in
their heads.
Finally, I cave. “There was one night,” I admit quietly.
The silence that follows could rival the Stanley Cup playoffs.
“One night?” Vivi repeats, eyes widening. “With who?”
I groan. “It doesn’t matter. It was… complicated. We used protection.”
Cammy leans forward, popcorn forgotten. “Was this before or after the
quarantine scare?”
“Cammy!”
“What? I just need to know if you’re the girl who got frisky in
quarantine.”
Isla bursts out laughing. “You did, didn’t you? With who? Some random
guy on the plane?”
I glare, cheeks burning. “I’m not answering that.”
Vivi gasps. “Oh my God, it was Aleksi, wasn’t it?”
I hear the moment they all let out an audible gasp as everyone comes to
the same conclusion.
I drop my head into my hands. “You’re all insane.”
“Insanely supportive,” Cammy says sweetly.
“Insanely nosey,” I mutter.
Isla sets her wine glass down and stands, rummaging through her purse.
“Well, nosey or not, we’re finding out.”
“Finding out what?”
She straightens, holding up a small pink box like it’s the Holy Grail.
“Kaenan and I are trying for baby number three. I keep a test on me. You’re
welcome.”
Vivi squeals. “This is happening!”
“It’s not happening.” I protest, backing up a step. “You can’t just ambush
someone into taking a pregnancy test.”
“Sure we can,” Isla says. “That’s called friendship.”
I stare at the box in her hand. Three minutes, and I’ll know. Three
minutes to unravel my entire life.
“Maybe it’s just stress,” I say weakly. “The season was insane, I haven’t
been sleeping—”
“Or maybe it’s Aleksi’s baby,” Vivi interrupts gently.
The room goes still again.
She doesn’t mean it to sting, but it does. Because now that the words are
out there, I can’t stuff them back down.
I picture his smile, his laugh, the way his hand felt steady on mine even
when everything else was chaos.
If it’s his…
My throat tightens.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
Isla’s voice softens. “Then take it home. You don’t have to open it until
you’re ready.”
I nod, taking the box like it might explode.
“Good,” Vivi says briskly, grabbing another hanger. “Now that we’ve
emotionally traumatized you, let’s pick a dress that makes your ex hate
himself.”
Cammy lifts her popcorn in a toast. “To revenge, bad decisions, and
maybe babies.”
The girls laugh. I even manage a weak smile. But when I turn toward the
mirror again, the reflection staring back looks different—flushed, uncertain,
afraid.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if the flutter in my stomach is nerves…
or a little baby with Aleksi’s blue eyes and my smile.
The rain finally stopped—Seattle’s idea of mercy.
Puddles still dapple the asphalt outside the restaurant, slick and mirrorbright under the glow of streetlights. The scent of wet pavement mingles
with exhaust, the kind of city cocktail that feels both alive and suffocating
at once.
The valet line moves slowly, brake lights casting red ripples over the wet
ground. A couple in the car ahead of me laugh about something.
It gives me exactly one extra minute to gather myself—to pretend I’m
fine, that this is just dinner, not some twisted social experiment in emotional
manipulation at its finest.
The restaurant’s front windows are all warm light and motion: waiters in
pressed white shirts, a hostess greeting guests with a perfect practiced
smile. I can hear the clinking of crystal and the hum of conversation
slipping through the glass.
It’s high-end, but of course it is. Tarron always did like the kind of places
that came with wine lists heavier than medical textbooks. The kind where
the napkins are real linen and everyone pretends to know the difference
between “notes of praline” and “hints of rose water” or some kind of
rubbish I could never understand.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and freeze.
Vivi’s soft curls still hold. Isla’s jewelry gleams under the dash light. The
smoky eyeliner Vivi insisted on makes my eyes look bigger, bolder, like
someone who isn’t terrified.
I look good. Too good, maybe. Like someone who’s trying too hard not to
care.
The valet waves the car in front of me forward.
One more deep breath.
My pulse is racing so fast it feels like I’ve just sprinted from the hospital
to the arena again, balancing a medical kit and a dozen crisis reports.
Except this time, the thing I’m trying to stabilize is myself.
The glove compartment looms in my peripheral vision of my fifteen year
old car, closed but not forgotten. Isla’s pregnancy test is still inside. I don’t
open it.
Instead, I reach for my lipstick—Vivi’s favorite shade, a soft coral that
promises confidence even when you’re running on fumes. I swipe it across
my lips in the visor mirror.
My hand doesn’t shake, but my breath does… just a little.
“You’ve survived worse,” I tell my reflection quietly.
It’s not even a lie.
I survived a messy divorce, professional humiliation, and a cheating
husband who turned my life into tabloid fodder. I survived starting over in a
new city where no one knew my name or my shame.
But somehow, this feels harder.
Maybe because it might turn out not to be just about me anymore. I might
have someone else to consider now.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. A reflex. A protective
instinct I don’t have to train, it’s just there.
It’s not anything, I remind myself.
It’s probably just stress. Or hormones. Or Vivi’s overly perfumed hair
spray still clinging to my lungs.
The valet line moves again.
My turn.
I shift the car into park as a young valet jogs toward me, his jacket collar
turned up against the drizzle that’s threatening to start again.
He smiles politely as he opens my door, holding out a hand. “Welcome to
Bergtolli’s, ma’am.”
I take one last look in the mirror.
Lipstick perfect. Hair smooth. Smile… a little faulty but I can work with
it.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
Then I open the door and step out into the cool night air. The kind that
hums with equal parts possibility and disaster.
I clutch my purse a little tighter. My heels click against the wet pavement,
every step a reminder that I’m walking straight into something I probably
shouldn’t.
“Just don’t trip on your own heels and we’ll survive the night,” I mutter
under my breath, forcing a tight smile as the valet gives me a courteous
nod.
I circle the front of the car, blinking against the gleam of the restaurant
lights, and there he is—Tarron McCoy.
Tall. Composed. Effortlessly magnetic in a tailored navy suit that
probably costs more than my rent.
He’s standing in the entrance, waiting for me, like no time has passed at
all.
And just like that, my pulse stumbles, because for the first time in three
years, I’m not looking at the ghost of my past.
I’m staring straight into it.
The man responsible for my no-player rule.
The only man who’s ever truly broken my heart.
“Still punctual,” Tarron says when I reach him, that easy, charming smile
sliding into place like he’s practiced it in the mirror.
It’s the same smile that once made me forget every red flag waving in
front of me.
“Takes one to know one,” I manage, adjusting the thin strap of the
crystal-studded clutch Vivi lent me. The one that matches the shoes
perfectly. Then he leans in and presses a soft, too-familiar kiss to my cheek.
His hand lingers at the small of my back, just long enough to remind me
how much I used to love that touch, and how much I hate myself for
noticing it now.
“You look incredible,” he says, his voice dipping the way it always does
when he wants something.
He’s not lying. Vivi’s dress hugs every curve, Isla’s jewelry sparkles
under the entrance light, and Cammy’s pep talk still echoes somewhere in
the back of my head.
But the compliment doesn’t land.
It never does anymore, because I know he considers his compliments as
currency. He’s trying to buy something… like my trust, self confidence, a
night in his bed.
He won’t get any of those, but he can certainly try.
“Thank you,” I say, polite but clipped. “You clean up well too.”
He smirks. “You used to like when I wore this suit.”
I did. I also used to think the man wearing it was responsible for hanging
the moon and stars in the sky.
A hostess appears before I can reply, bright smile and clipboard in hand.
“Mr. McCoy, your table’s ready.”
Of course it is. Tarron’s name still carries weight. Even after everything.
He gestures for me to go first, and I force my legs to move. The
restaurant is dim and warm, lit by candles flickering on every table. Glass
clinks, laughter ripples, and the smell of roasted garlic and seared steak
turns my stomach in an instant.
Not from disgust. From nausea. Again.
Being quarantined and thinking you might die in a desert motel in the
middle of nowhere was enough reason for me not to clock the missed
period as odd for me.
I swallow hard as we follow the hostess toward a window booth
overlooking the water. The drizzle has started again, tracing slow rivers
down the glass, blurring the city lights outside.
“This is nice,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
He flashes that winning grin that used to make me melt. “It’s good to see
you, K.”
That nickname again. The one only he uses.
The waiter arrives before I can respond, all professionalism and charm.
“Can I start you two off with drinks?”
Tarron doesn’t even hesitate. “She’ll have a Moscow Mule, and I’ll take a
Whiskey with a splash of coke.”
My throat tightens. I haven’t had a drink since Nevada. And now with
what could potentially be, I’m relieved I haven’t. I certainly don’t want to
risk it now until I know if I’m pregnant or not.
“No,” I say quickly–too quickly. The waiter blinks. Tarron looks up,
surprised. “I mean… water, please. Just water to start.”
The words tumble out too fast. I clear my throat, forcing a light laugh.
“I’m driving.”
The waiter nods and disappears with a polite smile. Tarron leans back,
studying me.
“You’ve never turned down a drink at a nice restaurant before.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say.
He tilts his head, that old, calculating gleam flickering behind his eyes.
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
The air leaves my lungs like a punch.
He’s always been able to read me. I used to think it was because he was
in tune with me. Now, I just wish I was a mystery he couldn’t solve.
“I—what?”
He shrugs, like it’s an offhand observation. “You’ve got that look.”
I laugh, but it comes out brittle. “What look?”
“The one you used to get when you thought you’d messed up,” he says
quietly, like he’s remembering something fond. “You’ve always carried
everything like it’s life or death—like one mistake and you’ll end up like
your mom. You were hardest on yourself long before anyone else ever
could be. It’s your ‘tell’.”
I stare at him, jaw tight. I want to be angry, but mostly I just feel… tired.
He softens, leaning forward. “I didn’t mean to… look, Kendall, if you
are, you know you can tell me.”
Something inside me twists painfully. For a moment, I almost see the
man I fell in love with years ago.
The one who’d bring me coffee at two a.m. during med-school rotations,
before he ended up on the team in New York, the man who’d read my flash
cards out loud even though he could barely pronounce half the words.
But that man died somewhere between the fame, the cheating, and the
headlines.
“I’m not sure yet,” I say quietly.
His brows lift. “Who is he?”
“No one you know.”
He sighs, sits back, and looks away toward the bar. “He’s on the
Hawkeyes, isn’t he?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.
When his gaze comes back, the teasing is gone. “Kendall… the medical
board. You know what they’ll do if they find out.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I snap before I can stop myself.
I glance around but luckily the table Tarron reserved for us is the most
private, set back a little ways for the rest of the main dining hall.
He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does he know you might be
pregnant?”
“No. He doesn’t.”
The waiter returns with our drinks, breaking the tension. Tarron thanks
him smoothly and waits until he’s gone before leaning in again.
“I’ll say it’s mine.”
My heart actually stops. “I’m sorry, what?”
He says it so casually, like it’s the simplest solution in the world. “Come
on. It’s perfect. He doesn’t know, and neither does the board. We tell people
we’re… figuring things out. That the baby’s mine. With us both in the same
city again, it’ll make sense that we’re trying again. No one would question
it.”
“You’re insane.”
As if I would ever make any agreement with him. Besides, he never does
anything out of the goodness of his heart. Well… not anymore.
He shrugs again, swirling his drink. “No, I’m pragmatic. It helps us
both.”
There it is. I stare at him, disbelief and nausea tangling into one. “Define
helps,” I say flatly.
“It protects your license,” he says plainly. “And it gives me the image I
need. A family man, second chances, a redemption arc. The Sentinels will
eat it up and can sell it.”
“Do they really care about your reputation that much?” I ask.
“They do,” he says. “Especially when their GM used to run New York.
He’s the one who had my coach fire me.” He looks at me, expression even.
“They don’t play around.”
“They canned you because you were drinking and partying too much.
You were missing practice–”
“I know. I was there,” he says, stopping me from continuing.
Did he think I forgot?
“How does this help you exactly?” I ask.
“You help me clean up my name, and I keep yours out of the medical
board’s crosshairs.” His voice is clinical, almost rehearsed.
I can’t breathe. “You think pretending we’re back together will fix
anything?”
He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers against mine. I freeze.
“I’m not exactly suggesting we pretend,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s
temporary, until we both get what we need. Or maybe it’s fate. I know you
want to be a mother. If it turns out you’re not pregnant… I could change
that result for you too.”
I pull my hand back and let out a shaky laugh. “You really haven’t
changed.”
“I have Kendall. More than you think. But I need a chance to prove it.
This is my chance,” he says, smiling faintly. “I still care about you. And if I
can protect you, why not let me?”
And damn him, he almost sounds sincere.
I take a long drink of my water and stare out at the rain-blurred window.
“I’m not even sure I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
“If you’re not, and you want to be, my offer stands either way,” he says
easily, as if we’re planning a vacation and not rewriting our lives.
The waiter reappears with our food. Tarron thanks him again, his polished
charm on automatic, and I can’t decide if it’s worse that he’s being kind or
that his offer would actually solve my immediate professional problem.
As he talks about training camp and rehab, I nod, letting his voice wash
into the background. The knot in my stomach tightens with every second.
When I get home, I need to take that test. One way or another, I need to
know.
If I’m pregnant, I’m probably about eight weeks gestational with them
counting the time from my last period. I don’t know when I’ll start to show,
but I need to be prepared. Thank God scrubs aren’t form-fitting, and neither
are the Hawkeyes’ athletic sweats. That could buy me more time… if I need
it.
Tarron’s offer gives me one other benefit I hadn’t intended to consider: if
he claims paternity publicly, I don’t have to drop a bomb into Aleksi’s life
now that he seems to have found someone who makes him genuinely
happy. After how I shoved him away after the playoff loss and our night in
Nevada—after everything—I don’t want to yank him back into chaos.
Maybe this is the best outcome for everyone.
Maybe I’m just rationalizing.
Either way, the test in my car is burning a hole in my glove compartment.
Dinner wraps in a blur. I don’t even remember the last thing Tarron said
before the waiter cleared our plates.
Outside, the drizzle has turned into a fine mist. The valet jogs off to get
my car while Tarron stands beside me under the awning, hands shoved in
his pockets.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place? It’s got a great view
of Seattle,” he says, voice smooth, practiced, like he’s offering comfort
instead of complication.
“You’re not asking me back to your place to check out the view.”
He shakes his head and looks down with a grin. “Okay, I’m not. I miss
you and maybe I don’t want this night to end. I screwed up with you. I
know that. Tonight was a start to fix it. And then you came to dinner
dressed like that…” he takes a full scan of my body. “And we were always
good in bed together.”
That makes me think of Aleksi. Now that I’ve had better than Tarron, I
don’t share his same sentiment about our past sex life.
In some ways, it would be easy to fall back in bed with Tarron. He’s hurt
me in the worst way, but there’s comfort in being with him too. Something
that has more to do with me than him. Like mother, like daughter, I
suppose. But falling in bed with him just to not be alone tonight while I find
out my fate about whether I’m pregnant or not isn’t what I need.
I’ll only hate myself more in the morning.
“Not tonight… probably not ever,” I say. “Dinner was all I can handle
right now.”
He studies me for a beat longer, searching for something in my face that
I’m not willing to give. Finally, he nods. “You’ll consider my offer though?
About the pregnancy?”
“I will take your odd proposal into consideration.”
The valet pulls up my car, the headlights of my old but reliable car
cutting through the rain-slick pavement. Tarron waves off the driver and
holds the door open for me. These are the kind of moments when I see the
old Tarron. I slide inside, thank him, and wait until the door shuts before
exhaling and unclenching the abs I’ve been holding all night with nerves.
Through the windshield, I catch his reflection. confident, charming, and
perfectly unbothered by my rejection because he’s confident I’ll come
around, like I always did. The man who used to be my whole world, and
then took a wrecking ball to it in less than a second.
I grip the steering wheel. “I’m not pregnant,” I whisper to my reflection
in the rearview mirror. “I can’t be.”
My heart doesn’t believe it. Not even a little.
By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the city feels half-asleep.
My hands tremble as I reach into the glove compartment and pull out the
pregnancy test Isla gave me. It feels heavier now than it did when I left
Vivi’s house. Like it already knows the answer I’m not ready for.
In the bathroom, I follow the directions with clinical precision. Years of
medical training don’t make it any easier. I set the test on the counter and
wash my hands, because it’s something to do while I wait.
But waiting is the worst part.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Before I can talk
myself out of it, I open Instagram again.
Aleksi’s page.
The first thing I see is a new post: him on the ice, grinning, arm wrapped
around that same blonde woman. She’s laughing up at him, cheeks pink
from the cold, like they share a secret only they know.
My stomach twists. God, he looks happy.
The caption: Nothing better than being home. A heart emoji and a Finnish
flag.
I want to be happy for him. I do. But the air leaves my lungs in a sharp
exhale.
He deserves this. Some peace and normalcy. A woman not running from
him to save her career.
And I… can’t be the one to take that away.
A baby with Aleksi could cost me my license and cost the team and
Aleksi sanctions.
It doesn’t change the fact that seeing them together makes the nausea rise
fast. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up.
When it’s over, I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and stare
at my reflection. I look pale despite the full face of make-up, and I’m
shaking–terrified.
I turn toward the counter.
The test is ready.
Two pink lines stare back at me.
My knees almost buckle. I grab the sink, heart pounding so hard I can
hear it in my ears.
Aleksi’s smiling face flashes in my mind again, that woman tucked under
his arm, his caption about being home.
“I can’t ruin this for you,” I whisper.
But the truth glows bright and undeniable in front of me.
Positive.
There’s no undoing this.
I’m pregnant.
And it’s his.
