Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I wondered if Joe would be like that. And what it would do to me to see it.
In early November, my belly began to pop a little. My pants grew tight. I started unbuttoning them at work and in the car, and once I forgot to do them back up again, and I taught an entire class with my pants undone.
Later that night, while I was online shopping for some maternity clothes, I got a text from Joe.
How’s my little avocado?
I laughed. Joe had found this website that kept him informed of the baby’s size by comparing it to different fruits or vegetables. We’d been through cherry, fig, lemon, and peach.
Your little avocado is fine.
I read that at 16 weeks, they can make a fist. Good practice for future hockey fights.
Stop.
What are you up to?
Shopping for maternity clothes. My pants don’t quite fit anymore.
Really?
Yes. I need some elastic waists and bigger shirts.
A week later, I got a package from Joe in the mail. Excited, I ripped it open. Inside I found a Chicago jersey that said Lupo 19 on the back, size L. I squealed with excitement and put it on. After snapping fifteen selfies, I sent the best one to Joe.
Thank you!!!! I love it!
Glad it arrived safely.
My very first hockey jersey.
Call it a sweater. Then everyone will think you’re old school.
Lol okay! Are you excited for the game tonight?
Yes. But I might have to play a little rougher than usual so don’t be surprised if you see me drop my gloves. And don’t worry, I’m fine.
Be careful! I’ll be watching and wearing #19. Maybe I’ll be your good luck charm.
Well, charms. There are two of us in here.
I’ll take all the luck I can get.
That night’s game was rough, just like Joe had warned, the two teams intent on settling old scores. I watched from my couch, wearing my new shirt, as promised, shouting at the refs, cheering for the players, crossing my fingers and murmuring prayers when the action was down in front of the Chicago goalie. In the end, Joe scored in OT on a breakaway, and I jumped off the couch, clapping and shrieking with joy. Cleo took off running for the kitchen, spooked by the noise.
“Did you see that?” I asked my belly, both hands cradling the new bump there. “That was your daddy! He’s a rock star!”
I sent Joe a quick text.
FUCKING AMAZING!!! I screamed so loud, I scared Cleo. Congratulations!
The avocado and I are very proud.
After I got ready for bed, I slipped between the sheets and grabbed my phone. Joe had replied to my text.
Thanks. I’m superstitious you know. Better wear that jersey all season long.
It’s a sweater.
He hearted the message, and I smiled.
Hey, would you like to come down here and go to a game sometime since you’re such a big fan now?
Are you serious? Of course!
Take a look at the schedule and see what home games you could make. Then I’ll fly you down.
I’ll drive.
I don’t like the idea of you making that drive alone.
I’ll be fine.
And by the way, you sound like a dad already.
He laughed at that one, and I went to bed with a huge smile on my face, cradling my stomach with both hands.
This was good, right? We were friends. Buddies. Pals. We were getting to know each other. Supporting each other. Learning what made the other one laugh.
And in just ten days, we’d learn whether our baby was a boy or a girl.
FOURTEEN
joe
The morning of the ultrasound appointment, I woke up in a panic. Tightness in my chest. Pulse like a jackhammer. Oxygen in short supply.
It used to happen to me all the time as a kid, especially on game days when I felt pressure to win or something big was riding on my performance. There was a scout in the audience. There was a new coach who thought I was overrated. There was a playoff victory at stake—if we didn’t get it done, we’d be eliminated. An entire team depending on me.
It all comes down to this. Don’t blow it.
The threat of failure was like a fucking predator in the room, prowling at the foot of my bed.
What if I wasn’t good enough? What if I got out there and forgot how to shoot? What if there was some new guy on the ice who made me look like a clown? What if my NHL dreams were delusional, like so many people said they were?
After a particularly bad panic attack in college, my roommate convinced me to talk to someone. I saw a therapist on campus who taught me some coping strategies, which helped.
I hadn’t had one in a long time—years, even—but I remembered what to do. Lying in bed, I forced myself to take deep, slow belly breaths. I concentrated on the sensations of things around me—the scent of fabric softener on my sheets, the sunlight just starting to peek around the shades, the warmth of my body heat beneath the comforter. As I grounded myself in the present, I felt the danger recede.