Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“You’ve impregnated someone with no athletic skill,” I deadpan.
Gio shakes his head slowly, muttering under his breath. “This changes everything.”
“Does it, though?” I tease, crossing my arms.
“Yes. Because now, not only do I have to teach our kid to skate, I’ve got to teach you too.” He glances over, his face lit with a kind of childlike excitement that makes it impossible to stay annoyed. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’ll teach you the basics first—balance, gliding, stopping. We’ll take it slow. I’ll even hold your hand the whole time.”
I burst out laughing. “Thanks.”
“You can’t be a hockey mom and not know how to skate.” He lets me know. “It’s, like, the first rule.”
“Gio, I never agreed to be a hockey mom,” I tease, though the mental image of him teaching me to skate is admittedly kind of sweet. And the thought of our kid being on a hockey team….
Adorable.
“You will,” he says with a confident smirk. “Wait until you see me coaching from the bench. You won’t be able to resist.”
If my ovaries weren’t currently otherwise occupied, they’d be exploding from the cuteness. The idea of Gio shouting at tiny humans to “skate faster” while our kid looks up at him with awe?
It’s a recipe for emotional overload.
“You’ve really thought this through, eh?” I say, my voice softening despite my best efforts to stay teasing.
“I’ll make sure to keep it fun. No crazy coach dad energy—just hot dad energy.”
He already is a hot dad.
Looking at him has me practically drooling.
Swoon!
“So, what happens if the baby doesn’t like hockey?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him because it is entirely possible our kid won’t have a single, athletic bone in their body—like their mama.
He gasps dramatically.
“Impossible. It’s in their DNA.”
“Gio,” I deadpan. “The baby could just as easily hate ice and decide they want to do ballet or play chess. What then?”
He scoffs. “Obviously I’ll learn how to be the best damn chess dad ever,” he says without missing a beat. “I’ll build a life-size chess set in the backyard
Good God.
No.
I laugh again, the kind of laugh that bubbles up uncontrollably.
“I love you,” I say, my head leaning back against the headrest, one hand resting protectively on my baby bump.
He reaches over, his hand warm and steady as he places it over mine, giving my bump a soft pat.
“I love you, too,” he says in a way that makes my chest ache in the best way. “Both of you.”
I let my eyes close for just a moment, a soft smile playing on my lips.
He’s a goofball.
A big, hot, sexy goofball.
My goofball.
For forever, maybe.
Even if it does mean I’ll probably end up with a Zamboni parked in my backyard.
epilogue
Nova
My brother has officially left the building.
Literally.
It’s depressing knowing he’s no longer going to be three floors above; I can no longer surprise him with visits, can’t steal food from his fridge, can't interrupt him and his girlfriend in any tender moments. He’s been my built-in safety net, my loud, annoying, overprotective safety net.
And now? He’s gone.
Packed up his things, kissed me on the forehead, and drove off into suburbia with his very pregnant girlfriend.
He’s moving on with his life and creating a family.
I am so happy for him!
I love him so much—you all know that.
But…
It still leaves me empty inside, not having him in the same building.
Call it habit, call it codependency, call it whatever you want—but it feels like I’m losing my partner in crime.
Partner in crime? Ugh. I hate when people say that, especially men on dating apps. Ha ha, looking for my partner in crime! No, Chad, you’re looking for someone to split your Netflix subscription and swipe their ex’s password for Hulu.
Let’s call it what it is.
With a miserable groan, I throw myself onto the couch, the weight of my sudden loneliness hitting me square in the chest.
“You get it, don’t you, Gio?” I ask, scratching Austin's dog behind his weird ears. He glares at me, letting out a dramatic sigh as if to say, Can you keep it down, lady? I’m trying to nap.
Jeez.
“Glad someone’s thriving,” I mutter, pulling out my phone and opening the dating apps. Because when your brother moves out and your couch buddy is a dog that resents you for being a shitty dog sitter, there’s no better time for emotional self-sabotage.
Let the games begin!
The first guy? Shirtless mirror selfie.
Swipe left.
The second guy? Holding a fish.
“Why is it always a fish?” Are they trying to prove they can provide sustenance in a post-apocalyptic world?
Swipe left.
The third? Another traveler, every photo in a different exotic location, including Machu Picchu and the Canary Islands.
“Sir, I can’t afford a latte right now.”
Swipe left.
“Little dude, why are men like this?” I ask the dog, turning the phone toward him. He squints at the screen, unimpressed. Sniffs the air. “Want to move in with me permanently? Wouldn’t that be fun? Huh?”