“Adalyn, are you in here?”

I rest my head against the cold porcelain of the third stall toilet in the employees’ bathroom. There has to be millions of germs permeating my skin at the very moment, but I don’t care. It feels good.

The toilet feels good.

Never thought I would ever say such a thing, but this toilet, the one I’m bear-hugging right now, it’s my best friend. It’s cooling my clammy skin, making me believe there really are miracles out there, because this toilet is a miracle to me. Plucked from the porcelain factory, brought to this hospital, and installed just for me.

“Adalyn?”

“Errrrrrr,” I groan, my eye partially open, pressed against the white surface, my face smeared across what I’m hoping is NOT a pee-coated surface.

Soft steps sound along the grey-tiled floor, stopping in front of my stall that I left unlocked because when you’re about to throw up, you don’t have time for pleasantries such as locking your bathroom stall door.

“Oh Addie.” Emma pushes the door open. “What was it this time?”

Swallowing hard, my stomach rolling again, I say, “Mr. Martinez. He had me lotion his ankles. The scaly skin was just . . .” My stomach constricts and before I know it, my head is buried in the toilet again, the last of my saltines from lunch exiting my body.

Whoever said pregnancy is rewarding and a beautiful experience is a freaking con artist and should take the fast pass lane to go fuck yourself.

Hovering over me, Emma soothingly rubs my back, not needing to hold my hair, because I’ve learned by now that a tight bun at work while pregnant is my savior.

“I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”

Breathing in lovely toilet water, I spit and say, “No, I knew there was another one coming. I’m glad I got it out.” Rolling to my side so my back is against my new best friend, I lean my head against the toilet seat. “I hate life right now.”

Emma squats down next to me, taking a seat. “I know. I wish there was more we could do. You still don’t want to take those anti-nausea pills Dr. Dallas suggested?”

I shake my head. “No. I really don’t want to take any medication. I’m going to get over this, just have to get to that twenty-week mark.”

“That’s eleven more weeks to go.”

“Eleven weeks is nothing. These last nine have seemed like a blur, they went by so quickly.” Seeing as though for the first two weeks after my last missed period, I was blissfully ignorant that I would get pregnant.

Lies, all of it lies. Time stood still the minute Hayden left for California. Honestly, I don’t know what day of the week it is anymore. But I don’t want to take drugs.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Emma pushes a stray hair out of my face. “You can’t keep running to the bathroom every time you have to lotion someone’s ankles.”

“It’s not just applying lotion to ankles.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know.” I sigh. “It will get better. We just have to make it through these next couple of weeks.” Lifting my head, I ask, “Can you help me up?”

“You have toilet all over you.”

“And that’s an issue because . . .” I pause and get real with Emma. “You wipe asses at least once a week for total strangers. Pretty sure a little toilet face isn’t going to harm you.”

Rolling her eyes, she straightens and helps me to my feet. “Let’s get you washed up.”

We spend the next few minutes trying to disinfect my face and arms and brushing my teeth. I was smart. After the first day of throwing up at work, I brought in a toothbrush and toothpaste with me and keep it in my locker.

I splash one more round of water on may face and dry off. I’ve looked better, but at least I’m not as ghostly white as I was this morning. There is a small amount of color in my cheeks, making me look a little more human.

“Here. It’s not water, but it should help.” Emma hands me a ginger ale. “Drink up. Want me to get you some Powerade?”

I scrunch my nose up then take a big swig. “That stuff is way too sugary for me. Last night I was throwing up neon orange.”

“Okay, I can score you some Pedialyte if you would want.”

“Yes, that would be amazing. The clear kind. I’ll suck it down quickly.”

“Not a problem. I can grab some. Why don’t you sit on the couch for now and take a second to gather yourself.”

We both make our way to the common sitting area in the employees’ lounge. There are a few doctors watching ESPN, drinking sodas and dabbling in some free pizza that was brought to the lounge. I consider eating a piece, but think better of it. Pretty sure the demon inside me will reject the pizza just like everything else I try to eat.

The only things that don’t make me throw up right now are saltines, bland chicken, and applesauce. God, I love applesauce, the unsweetened kind. I have so many jars of it in my house right now, that you would think I had stock in the company.

“I’ll be right—”

“Hayden Holmes is looking smooth as ever on the ice this pre-season, showing no signs of a bump in the road during his transition.” One of the doctors turns the volume up on the TV as everything else around me fades away.

“I can’t believe the Brawlers traded him,” one of the doctors says, leaning forward in his seat.

“Rumor is because he lost his cool at the press conference after their loss at the end of the season.”

“If that’s true, the Brawlers are the most idiotic organization in the hockey.”

On the TV ESPN plays a short montage of highlight clips. I’ve never seen Hayden play hockey, because I’ve never paid attention to the sport, but seeing him now, floating effortlessly along the ice, the determination in his eyes, the way he handles his stick with such precision, taking shot after shot at the goalie, it’s impressive and incredibly sexy.

Emma tugs on my hand but my attention is glued to the TV, and when Hayden comes onto the screen, I freeze. Hair wet from his helmet, his shoulders looking impossibly large from his shoulder pads, he smiles boyishly at the interviewer and laughs from a question I didn’t quite catch, my attention entirely focused on the man who stole my heart.

Looking toward the ground, his straight white teeth showing, hand gripping on the back of his head, his deep voice comes to life in the small staff lounge. “They’ve been amazing. The Quakes organization has really opened their arms to me and made me feel welcome.” When Hayden looks at the camera, there is a smile on his face, but his eyes . . . they aren’t happy.

Empty, soulless. Not the same eyes that greeted me when I first met him, or the eyes that stared at me while pulsing inside me.

“And how is Los Angeles treating you?”

“Love it.” Hayden grips the collar of his shoulder pads as he speaks. “It’s a huge change from Philly, but I’ve enjoyed soaking in the atmosphere of California. I very well might be in love.”

In love.

The words vibrate through my body. He’s in love.

Because I’m selfish and wish I were still very much involved in Hayden’s life, I shamelessly hoped he was miserable in California, that despite not having a choice, he still wished he was in Binghamton with me. And for a small glimpse of hope, I thought maybe that was the case with his empty smile, but now . . .

He’s laughing, joking, LOVING the state, the team that took him away from me. It’s a hard pill to swallow. Incredibly hard.

“Hey, are you okay?”

My stomach rolls, my inability to swallow my saliva fast enough startles me. I’m going to lose it. Running to the bathroom, I throw open the first stall and dry-heave into the toilet, nothing left inside of me to rid.

Silently, tears fall from my eyes as my stomach convulses over and over again.

Why can’t he be miserable? How is it fair that his life simply moves on and he’s in love? I saw what I wanted to see—unhappy eyes. I was wrong. Oblivious Father: 1. Freaked-out Mother: 0

How I wish he were as miserable as I am.

Wrapped up in my robe, tucked under fluffy blankets, with a water next to me and a saltine in my hand, I open my computer. From a few feet away, a mint and eucalyptus candle burns, filling the air with a soothing smell that has eased the tension in my stomach. When I was at Bath & Body Works today, I bought six of the same candles, because it’s the one thing that’s been able to soothe me. Now if only I can find a way to burn one while I’m at work. If they came as those tree air fresheners, I would wear ten around my neck.

Netflix is calling me. My brother Sean was telling me about a show his wife is “making” him watch, Grace and Frankie. He said it’s really funny and I should give it a try. Needing a laugh, I decide to take his suggestion.

At least that’s what I told myself.

Lips pursed to the side, fingers hovering over my keyboard, I pause in my attempt to watch something funny, my mind deceiving me.

Type it in; go ahead. Netflix. N-E-T . . .

But my fingers don’t listen, instead, they type out something entirely different.

I focus on the screen in front of me and squeeze my eyes shut.

Hayden Holmes press conference.

Don’t press enter. Don’t you dare do it. You don’t need to watch his press conference that supposedly got him traded. This will do nothing to help your situation. There is no good in watching it.

Enter.

Oh my finger, what a defiant bitch.

Okay, no need to actually watch the video, despite the multiple links that pop up.

Oh look, there he is, headlines claiming Hayden as angry, a poor sport, and loses his temper. That’s not who he is.

Why am I defending him?

Maybe he is an angry tyrant, and I have no clue. I mean, we were only together for a little over a month. That’s not enough time to show your true colors . . .

Although, he did just lose the game that would have put them in the championships. If I were one step away from the biggest trophy in my sport, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be a smooth-talking fella either.

But what did he say?

My finger hovers over the first link. This is stupid, and you’re just going to regret it in the end. This is a toxic tendency, watching videos of people who are no longer in your life just for the hell of it.

All this is going to do is upset you. Now go on, go watch Netflix.

My finger clicks on the top link.

Son of a bitch.

Angry with myself but also strangely pleased, I sit up and turn up the volume of my computer.

The first thing I notice in the video is Hayden’s posture. He’s hunched over, arms folded on the table in front of him, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. His eyes are barely visible, his jaw pulsing, his shoulders tense.

Focusing on the interview, I listen intently, watching Hayden’s body language with each question asked and each answer he speaks into the microphone.

“Do you have any regrets about that fight with Marcus Miller?”

Leans into the microphone. Unapologetically. “No.”

Flashes of light instantly bounce off him. He doesn’t flinch.

Sips his water.

Looks around the room.

Tense and vacant.

“So you don’t think the fight cost you advancement in the playoffs?”

Flinch, flexes his forearms, bites his bottom lip.

Pulls on the brim of his hat. “The shots O’Reilly deflected cost us our advancement. He played a hell of a game and shut down our offense.”

“You were tied heading into the last five minutes of the game, right before you were sent to the penalty box, leaving your team short a man. You don’t think that has anything to do with the loss?” Shoulders tense even more and a different man appears.

The man I became accustomed to is no longer in sight. He’s morphed into an annoyed and bitter-looking man. Clenching his jaw, he works it back and forth, his knuckles white as ever, his fingers digging into his palms.

He clears his throat, pinches the microphone and then . . . right there, you can see the minute he loses his cool, the second his professional media training is thrown out the window. Lifting his eyes for the first time, he makes eye contact with the reporter asking the question, fury slicing through his pupils.

“Tell me, Bob, if someone came up to you and slapped a hockey stick across the back of your legs, would you bend over and ask for another? Or would you have retaliated? From the look of it”—Hayden gives the man a once-over—“you would have bent over, but that’s not how I handle things. Miller deserved to be brought down to the ice and I won’t apologize for my actions.” Hands digging into the table, he stands, his chair falling over. “Unless you have any other questions about the actual game, I’m done for the night.”

More lights flash at him. Reporters call after him.

But he retreats, looking ready to kill.

The video ends and I let out a long pent-up breath, my heart stuttering. Oh, Hayden.

Melting into my couch, I lean my head against the cushion and have a very bad thought. The kind of thought anyone watching me would shake their head at, scream, and say don’t do it!

But I’m feeling wild.

I’m feeling crazy.

I’m pregnant and have no sense of reason.

I’m doing it. I’m going to Google Hayden.

I know, I know, nothing good will come of this, but I never said I was smart.

Typing his name into the search bar, I have a small moment of pause, but before I can consider not doing this, my finger presses the enter button, once again being incredibly defiant.

Squinting, hand partially covering my eyes like blinds, I peek at my computer screen to be met with a small picture of Hayden holding a blonde woman’s hand.

Outraged, I bring the computer inches to my face, a gasp popping out of me. “Who is that?”

I click on the picture and start searching for names, trying to tell myself it could be old, it could be someone he used to date, it could be—

Noely Clark, Good Morning, Malibu host.

What?

Leaning back on the couch, I stare at the picture of them, the way they look so good together. Her California-blonde hair, perfect figure, and insanely cute high heels next to Hayden, who towers over her, his hand two times bigger than hers, his stride long but also protective . . . of her.

Oh hell.

This was a bad idea.

How could he? How could he date someone so soon?

I mean, I know, I was the one who called it off, I get that, but he looks so cozy with her, so comfortable. Where did he meet her? Did she interview him? Did a mutual friend set them up?

I need to know more or my mind will start making up stories, and that is not a good situation to be in. Taking a deep breath, I start to type Noely Clark into the search engine when there is a loud knock at my door. Startled, I close my computer quickly and stuff it under my couch, as if I was caught watching porn. Jesus Christ.

Taking a deep breath, calming my nerves, I open the door.

Outside, looking handsome as ever is Racer . . . who is giving me a death glare.

Uh-oh. Looks like I have other things to worry about other than Hayden moving on with . . . well, just moving on. Period.

Wanting to seem as casual as possible, I say, “Uh, hey there, buddy.”

“Don’t you hey buddy me.”

Stepping past me, he shuts the door and takes me to the couch, forcing me to sit. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Ignoring him, I ask, “How’s Georgiana?” Racer started dating a girl he met through a project he’s been working on. She’s lovely actually, and is helping Emma with her wedding plans. She is stubborn and driven, the perfect match for Racer.

“She’s great, testing my—” He pauses and gives me the raised-eyebrow-I-won’t-allow-you-to-sidetrack-me look. Yeah, it’s a thing. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t distract me with my girl.” Eyeing my stomach, he says, “Tell me.”

Sighing, I flop against the cushion of my couch. “It seems like you already know.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

I drape my arm over my eyes. “I’m pregnant, Racer.”

Cursing under his breath, Racer asks, “Is it Hayden’s?”

“Yes.” It’s a one-worded answer, one that hangs heavily in the air. He warned me, he warned Hayden; he was against our pairing from the very beginning. Maybe in some weird cosmic way, Racer knew this would happen; we were going to be entirely too irresponsible and get pregnant.

“Jesus, Adalyn. Does he know?”

I look to the side, wincing. “No, and don’t tell him, or I swear to God I will chop off your cock. I’m not kidding, Racer.” I lift up and look him dead in the eyes. “I will slice you up.”

He winces and adjusts his pants, scooting away from me. “Why aren’t you telling him?”

“More importantly, who told you?” Getting angrier by the second, I pin Racer with a glare, and he now looks more nervous than anything.

“Uh, no one told me. I could sense it, smell it.”

I whack him right in the stomach. “Gross, don’t say you can smell pregnancy. What the hell is wrong with you?”

He chuckles softly.

“Emma told you, didn’t she?” Shakes his head, lips sealed. “Racer!” I jab his side.

“Ouch, fuck.” He rubs his ribs. “Are your fingers made of metal?”

“Who. Told. You?”

“You know, you’re really scary pregnant.”

“Which should tell you I’m not afraid to cash in on my threat.” I glance down at his crotch, which he covers quickly.

“Fine, it was Tucker. He let it slip and told me not to say anything, but the guy is fucking dense. Of course I would say something to you.” Becoming fatherly, Racer says, “How on earth in this day in age can you accidentally get pregnant? Do I need to have a conversation with you about safe sex?”

“Clearly not anymore.” I sigh and lean against Racer’s shoulder. He shifts so his arm is around me. “It was heat-of-the-moment stupidity.”

He kisses the top of my head. “And why aren’t you telling him?”

“What good is it going to do now?”

“That’s a weird way of putting it.” Racer is rarely serious; he goofs around most of the time. But when his voice turns stern, I know a rare moment is about to happen. He’s about to be very honest and levelheaded with me. “It’s not about what good it’s going to do; it’s about a man knowing that he created a child with another human being. It’s about doing the right thing. You can’t keep this from him as much as you wish you could. This isn’t your secret to keep. This isn’t your burden, because this baby isn’t only yours. It’s a product of both of you, and no matter how much you think this new journey is only yours, you’re wrong, and you’re being selfish. He deserves to know, he deserves to have a chance to do the right thing, so don’t take that away from him.”

For the record, I don’t like it when Racer gets serious and levelheaded, because every time he does, he’s always right.

Slowly, a tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t say anything, and I don’t need to as his words sink in. There is no response other than you’re right, so I stay silent, allowing myself to hide within his comfort. Because right now, I need my friend, and I need him badly.