Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

41. Callie

41

CALLIE

“I know I’m not your real boyfriend, but you need to go to a doctor.”

Owen is leaning against the bathroom door frame, shirtless and wearing gym pants that hang low on his chiseled hips.

I have a great view of him from where I’m huddled on the bathroom floor.

As if being reminded my relationship with this scientifically perfect model of the male form while I’m hugging a toilet isn’t enough, I also dry heave in the middle of it. Because life is cruel and unfair.

I don’t say anything—partially because of the dry heaving. But also, I’m well aware at this point that something isn’t right here. I’ve heard babies might need nutrients to grow, but I haven’t kept anything down in days.

“It’s been going on too long to be food poisoning. And if it was a bug, I’d have it too.”

He’s got that right. Between bouts of nausea, we’ve been making the most of our new living arrangements. We’ve been swapping germs on the daily.

I look back at him, wiping my mouth with a towel. “It’s just stress. I mean, I’m living with my boyfriend because my ex is a psycho and lying to everyone I know. That’s stressful.”

“You’re lying to help people, though. What you’re doing is noble. You should be proud.”

Owen might actually feel that way, which makes me even more ashamed. This probably isn’t stress or morning sickness—it’s karmic vomiting. This is the price I must pay for not telling Owen about the baby.

“And if puking for days at a time is your way of handling stress,” he continues, “then you definitely need to see a doctor. That can’t be normal.”

“Thanks for that. I feel so much better now,” I mumble as I stand up. I flush the toilet and go to walk around him, but he blocks the doorway with his hard body.

“I know I can’t tell you what to do?—”

I bark out a laugh. “You basically kidnapped me onto your balcony, told my uncle we were dating, and are now holding my apartment keys ransom so I’ll live with you. All you do is tell me what to do, Owen.”

He smiles like I just read off a list of his biggest accomplishments. “You’re right. And they’ve all been such objectively good decisions. Here’s another one: we’re going to the doctor.”

I shove past him, ignoring the warmth of his body against mine. My refractory period between vomming and sex is obscenely small, apparently.

“We’re going to work. You have a game, and we both need to get to the arena and prep for it.”

He follows me down the hall. “I’m going to call coach and tell him you’re sick.”

I swing around, my sights locked on him. “You can’t call in sick for me.”

“We just determined that I make the decisions around here, and I’ve decided you need to either rest or go to the doctor. Since you’re too stubborn to make the call yourself, I’m doing it for you.”

“I’m not sick. I’m—” Pregnant. I’m very, very pregnant. With your baby. “—I’m going to work.”

He grips my elbow, pulling me against his bare chest. “No, you’re not.”

I try to squirm away, but he’s strong, and I haven’t eaten more than a handful of Captain Crunch in days. “Let go of me! You aren’t even my boyfriend, remember? Why do you care whether I?—”

“Because I fucking care about you, goddammit.” He drops my hand and rakes his fingers through his hair. “And I’m worried about you!”

It’s sweet. Too sweet for a man who is not my boyfriend.

Way too sweet for a man I’m lying to—more and more as this baby grows and wreaks havoc on my insides.

So instead of hugging myself to his chest like I want to, I glare.

He glares back.

It’s the familiar song and dance we engage in, which is probably why it ends with me, once again, giving Owen what he wants.

“Fine.”

He immediately grins.

“But you have to leave,” I tack on. “You have to go to work.”

“Done. I’m halfway out the door as we speak.” He raises his hands like the innocent man he isn’t. But as I walk past him, he swoops in to press a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll DoorDash you some soup for lunch.”

Shame and guilt swirl into a tornado inside of me. The only reason I don’t dive back into the bathroom and heave again is because I know Owen would never leave if I did.

This nausea is absolutely karmic.

And I deserve every bit of it.

“It’s not entirely uncommon to still be sick in your second trimester, especially if it’s your first baby.” For a doctor that was the first Google result and just so happened to have a same-day cancellation, Dr. Mavis actually seems legit.

She’s middle-aged with a sleek blonde bob and a get-shit-done attitude that I find reassuring. If I have to push a whole human being out of the same hole that can’t comfortably fit a super-sized tampon, this is the woman I want by my side.

I’ve been weighed and measured and poked and prodded, and she only looked horrified for a second when she realized I’m twelve weeks along and this is my first doctor’s appointment. She hid her judgment really well, which is all I can really ask for at this point.

“In fact, sometimes it likes to make surprise appearances even into the third trimester,” she continues.

“Lovely,” I sigh, leaning back on the table.

“On the plus side, it’s normal. On the down side, it’s absolute bullshit.” She shrugs in a what-the-hell-are-ya-gonna-do kinda way. “Nothing teaches you that life isn’t fair like working with the female body. The things we go through to carry on the human race.”

I raise a fist. “Solidarity, sister.”

She wheels a small table closer and swivels her chair to face me. “While I think this is normal, I would feel better if we did an ultrasound.”

“Right now?”

She gestures to the table, which I now realize is outfitted with a small screen. “Right now. I’ll be able to see if things are coming along as they should, and you’ll get to see your baby.”

My baby.

Hearing someone else say it, rather than the idea just bouncing around in my own head, makes it real in a way nothing else has.

But before I can freak out, she lubes my stomach with warm gel and presses the probe to my stomach. The machine makes submarine noises as she moves it around and black and white blobs shift and swirl on the screen. It looks like I’m growing a lava lamp.

Then, suddenly, it’s a baby.

Mostly. There’s a head and a belly, little arms and legs. No neck to speak of, but I assume that’ll work itself out over the next few months. Unless my lack of nutrition the last few weeks caused some kind of weird mutation.

Again, before I can freak out, Dr. Mavis hums in satisfaction. “Your baby is growing beautifully.”

“Is she? Or he. Or… whichever.”

“We’ll be able to answer that question in about eight weeks if you want to know. But for now, I can tell you you’ve got a human with a head and a hand. And this fluttering right there in the chest—” She punches in some keys, focusing in on the flickering light until a rhythmic whooshing sound floods through the speakers. “That’s the heartbeat.”

My baby has a heartbeat.

And a head.

And probably a neck, one day.

I stare at the screen for a long time, my own heart settling into the same rapid rhythm as my baby’s.

I’m going to have a baby.

Eventually, Dr. Mavis prints some pictures and shuts off the machine, and I find myself disappointed. That sonogram was the most boring television show that I could’ve watched for hours.

“It’s time for my lecture. Are you ready?” She turns to me, arms crossed over her white coat. “You need to see me more often. You’re thinner than I’d like to see, so we need to get this nausea under control. I’ll give you a few over the counter things to try, but if you can’t keep food down, give me a call and I can write a script. Also, a healthy diet is important. Lots of water, not too much caffeine. Are you active?”

“Sexually?” I blurt.

She chuckles. “I was thinking more like a gym membership, but that counts, too, I suppose.”

And I’m mortified.

Heat crawls up my neck. “No gym membership, but I work at the hockey arena. I’m on my feet a lot.”

“That’s great. Make sure you’re walking and staying limber… in whichever way you choose.” She wags a brow, and I think I’m going to like this woman. “Other than that, you’re doing a great job. Your baby is beautiful.”

With that, she hands me a small black and white photo the printer spit out and then leaves me alone to get dressed.

But I don’t move. I just stare down at the picture, rubbing my thumb over the tiny profile of a face as my entire life reshapes around this four-by-six print.

It’s been weeks of uncertainty and doubts, but my future clicks into place. Suddenly, I can see everything. I can imagine holding them for the first time at the hospital. And rocking them in the corner of the nursery in the middle of the night. There will be first and second and third birthdays with lopsided cakes. I’ll teach them to ride a bike and take them to their first day of school.

Tears blur my vision, and I squeeze my eyes closed.

It’s not just that I’m pregnant or that it’s going to hurt like hell to get this child out of me or even that my entire life is going to change.

It’s that this baby has a father. An infuriating, stubborn, hockey-playing bachelor of a father who is also driven and smart and compassionate and gentle.

And he has no idea he’s going to be a father.

In less than seven months, this baby is going to change everything… and Owen has no idea.

It goes without saying, I need to tell him.

It also goes with saying… I have no idea how I’m going to do that.