41. Lola

Lola

I'm lying face down on my bed, desperately trying to forget the past twenty-four hours. The doctor was very kind and gentle with me, laying out the facts.

I am pregnant. And already a month along. There is a human life growing inside me, and I had no idea this entire time. When I hyperventilated in the doctor's room, she calmly brought in a specialist to help me calm down.

Then, when I left the clinic, Maisie walked with me, clutching the pamphlets and papers in her hand. As soon as my apartment building came into view, I burst into tears, and she held me, rocking me back and forth.

"Are you going to keep it?" she whispered, and being faced with such a decision sent me into another round of crying on her shoulder. After ten more minutes of that, she quietly brought me inside and deposited me on my bed, telling me to call her if I needed anything.

How in the world am I going to tell Devon?

He's been calling me non-stop, blowing up my phone, and I'm half terrified he might just show up at my apartment. Levi has been texting me, too, after I commented something cryptic on his latest post about him and Alex.

Levi is lucky he won't do something stupid like accidentally getting pregnant, blowing up his entire career, budding relationship, and life.

Gurl, are you okay?

The text from Maisie comes in, and I stare at it before tossing my phone back on my bed. I can't talk to anyone right now. Somehow, someway, I was given my second chance, and I threw it right into the flames.

Forget telling Devon. How am I going to get through this without the PR team realizing what happened? I'm still contracted to attend the rest of the games this season. Missing one due to illness is excusable, but they'll definitely expect me for the rest of the championship games.

And I can't stand the idea of going there, sitting in the stands, and cheering half-heartedly for a man who doesn't know I'm carrying his child.

Of course, I could just tell him that—come right out and tell him the truth—but what if he doesn't want it? What if he's not ready to be a father? Do I raise our baby by myself?

Even worse, what if he decides to stay with me out of obligation, and I get stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who thinks of me as one more chore he has to take care of? The thought of Devon looking at me with anything other than adoration sends me into hysterical sobs again.

Numbly, I click over to my DoorDash app and order chocolate and tissues. When the delivery comes, I yell for them to leave it at the door. I wait an appropriate amount of time, then wander over, opening the door slowly like someone in the hallway might attack me.

I gather my supplies and return to bed, deciding I won't leave my spot until I've molded into the bed.

Groping for the remote, I flick on the TV, but to my dismay, it turns to the sports channel I was watching when I was trying to catch glimpses of Devon. My heart aches for the person I was back then, and I'm about to click away when something that makes my heart flip in my chest flashes over the screen.

"Happy announcement from hockey's favorite couple," the announcer says, his wide, white smile taking up most of the screen. Even watching it in real time, I know with absolute certainty that this moment and this man's voice will haunt me for the rest of my life. "We have reports here that Lola Burke is pregnant! Congratulations to the happy couple, and we look forward to welcoming another Viper to the family."

"Too right, Bert, but I can't help wondering if this announcement is what caused Chambers to have his worst performance to date. And if that is the case, will he get it together for the rest of the series?"

I stare at the TV numbly with my mouth wide open, only blinking away from it when my phone starts to buzz by my thigh.

Devon.

Maisie.

Levi.

And finally, a single, heart-stopping text from Penelope that says, We need to talk.

I do the only thing a sane, rational woman can possibly do in this situation. I turn off my phone, toss it across the room, not even caring where it lands, and switch my TV to DVD mode, watching as the opening scene of The Proposal starts to play.

Upbeat music filters through my apartment, and Sandra Bullock appears on her exercise bike, reading and breathing hard. It's a stark reminder of how far away I am from that perfect ideal. I feel more like Ryan Reynolds, waking up late and running through the city to get coffee on time.

I want to be Sandra Bullock, but I'm not. I'm in bed, crying and eating truffles straight from the box. Cocoa powder and powdered sugar are sprinkled over my sheets. I reach for the bottle of soda on the bedside table because, as much as I want to, I can't have wine.

That thought sends me into another round of sobs, and I burrow further into my bed, watching as Sandra Bullock pats Ryan Reynolds on the stomach and tells her bosses about their fake engagement.

Fake relationships are always better in the movies.