Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8)

by Elise Faber

  Dr. Holdings smiled. “Yes,” she said. “It’s right on track at 165 beats per minute. And considering you’re ten weeks along, that’s just perfect.” She turned the machine so the screen faced Calle’s direction. “And . . . there’s your baby.”

  “Oh, it is a baby,” Calle whispered, inanely, she knew, but she also hadn’t expected it to look like that, like an actual baby with a head and arms and legs and . . . yes, she’d done research, yes, she’d read up—

  But no, nothing could compare to actually seeing her baby on the screen.

  Her throat went tight.

  “Wow,” Coop said, and she looked over at him, saw his eyes glued to the screen. His hand was still covering hers, and it squeezed lightly.

  “I’ll print a few pictures of the baby,” Dr. Holding said softly.

  Coop’s stare drifted away from the screen, coming up to meet Calle’s. Their eyes locked and held and . . . something deep and meaningful passed between them. New life or life changed or perhaps, simply the absolute astonishment in bearing witness of something so magical.

  She swallowed hard, blinked rapidly, and his hand slipped from hers.

  The pulse of disappointment she felt at the loss of contact was insane.

  That wasn’t up for discussion at this moment—

  Coop’s thumb brushed along her cheek.

  Her breath hitched, and she realized that he’d wiped away a tear, but just as quickly as her mind caught up to his action, her eyes processed his expression.

  Soft. Warm, mahogany eyes. Gentle smile.

  She bit her lip, heart skipping a beat. He leaned closer, and—

  Rip.

  The tearing sound made them both jump.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Holdings said, holding up a strip of ultrasound snaps before handing them over to Calle. The paper was thin and a little slippery, but the slightly blurry black-and-white images already meant everything. “Okay, so that’s all done,” the doctor said as she stripped off her gloves and stood. “How’s the nausea?”

  Calle shrugged. “There, but mostly in the mornings and manageable.”

  “All right,” Dr. Holdings said. “Let me know if that changes, but ginger ale and saltine crackers are probably going to be your best friends for a little while.” Calle nodded. “Now tell me, what other questions do you have?”

  In one fell swoop, Coop slid the pictures from Calle’s hand and swapped them for her notebook.

  When he’d even taken it out of her backpack, she didn’t know. What she did know was that her heart did that skipping-a-beat thing again and her stomach had gone all squishy.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  He nodded encouragingly.

  She opened the cover on the notebook and began rattling off the questions.

  Dr. Holdings sat next to her, patiently answering everything Calle threw at her: Was it safe to eat lunch meat? Yes. What about coffee? In moderation, fine. What kind of medications should she avoid? Ibuprofen, aspirin, and several other types often used for coughs and colds. Acetaminophen was the safest bet.

  Then the most important question: could she still be on the ice with the guys?

  She held her breath as she waited for the answer, knowing that if she couldn’t, then coaching was going to get a lot harder . . . as well as potentially keeping her job.

  “For now, yes,” Dr. Holdings said. “Many women continue their normal activities up to their due date.”

  Relief poured through her.

  “Although—”

  Her stomach tightened.

  “You’re not working out with the team or involved in the actual games, right?”

  Calle shook her head. “For the most part, no. I’m on the bench during games, and not on the ice for warmup or anything like that. During practice, I’ll occasionally demonstrate something, but aside from that, there’s nothing really physical, so it’s not like one of the guys is going to check me into the boards or I’m going to rip a slapshot.”

  “Okay.” A nod. “So, for now, let’s continue on as you’ve been doing. Once the baby gets bigger—along with you—you’ll probably need to make some accommodations to being on the ice so that you don’t become a fall risk.” She picked up an electronic tablet and typed in a few notes. “We’ll revisit this in your second trimester.”

  Calle relaxed. “Sounds good.”

  “What about if she gets hit with a puck?” Coop asked. “Or someone falls and cuts her with a skate blade?”

  Dr. Holdings frowned. “Has that happened?”

  “No,” Calle said.

  “Yes,” Coop said at the same time.

  One of Dr. Holdings’ brows lifted.

  “Well,” Calle admitted. “It has happened, of course. In the history of hockey, people have gotten hit with pucks or sliced with skates. But those are players and not coaches, for the vast majority. I can definitely take precautions,” she said. “But I need my job, and these guys are insanely talented. They can skate while controlling a puck better than most of the rest of us walk down the sidewalk.”

  Coop made a noise and when she glanced over at him, she saw his face had gone dark, thunderclouds filling his expression.

  Thankfully, Dr. Holdings began talking. “Got it. For now, this seems like a lower risk than some of my other patients, so let’s just take it one day at a time, and we’ll reevaluate in a month.” She set the tablet down. “That being said, if at any point you feel uncomfortable with what you’re doing, then stop doing it.”

  Calle smiled. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” The doctor smiled back then turned and pulled out some fliers and samples from a drawer. Next, she wrote out a prescription for prenatal vitamins and stuck everything into a bag. “I think we’re good here. Don’t forget to leave a urine sample before you go—instructions are in the bathroom. Just use the facilities, bring your sample to the deposit box at the end of the hall, and we’ll call if there’s an issue.” She took a step toward the door. “In the meantime, you’re healthy and it looks like you two are prepared with questions and concerns. Keep staying on top of it and you’ll breeze through this.”

  “Thank you,” Calle murmured.

  “Thanks, Doc,” Coop said

  With a wave, Dr. Holdings left, the door shutting behind her with a soft click. Neither she nor Coop moved, and silence descended.

  Then he stood. “I’ll—uh—wait in the hall?”

  Her head bobbed up and down. “Yes, please.”

  He’d snagged the notebook from her lap, picked up her backpack, and disappeared into the hall almost before the two words passed her lips.

  Then there was one.

  She glanced down at the pile of clothes next to the table, at her paper-and-fabric-covered body, and took a moment to ponder what in the fuck all had just happened.

  Her baby’s heartbeat.

  Cooper.

  Her practically naked and spread eagle on a table.

  In front of Cooper.

  Yeah, that seemed to be the most important common denominator.

  “Oh my God,” she muttered, mentally smacking herself into motion. She slid down from the table, reached for her clothes, and began to get dressed. How the last hour had managed to shake down, she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully process, but it had happened, and she’d shared it with Coop.

  With Coop.

  Coop.

  She’d been almost naked, her lady bits exposed to the room, her breasts examined, and a speculum—

  Fuck her life.

  This might be the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to her.

  She yanked up her pants, tugged her Gold sweatshirt over her head, and saw the container Dr. Holdings had left on the counter.

  “Oh fuck,” she groaned.

  Scratch the might be part of her thinking.

  She’d forgotten she got to add to her embarrassment by carrying a jar of her own pee down the hallway in front of Coop to her experience.

  Might be was out. De
finitely the most embarrassing event of her life.

  Kudos to her for exceeding her own expectations.

  Five

  Coop

  “Thanks,” Calle said when he handed over her backpack.

  They’d had a slight scuffle over the bag after she’d emerged from the bathroom, but thankfully, the receptionist had used her magical powers to detect their brewing argument and had popped her head out to schedule Calle’s follow-up appointment.

  He’d taken the opportunity to escape into the hall, still carrying her backpack.

  Though, not before he’d made a mental note of the date.

  Just in case.

  Now, she was back in his SUV and they needed to sort out her car.

  He rounded the hood and opened his driver’s side door, but before he got in, he noticed there was some dirt on the floor mat. So, in a move he’d done hundreds of times since he’d finally made enough money to buy a nice enough car, Coop whipped the mat out.

  One quick shake got the dust off and twenty seconds later, he had the mat secured.

  Keys in the ignition, ass in seat, belt across his lap and chest, and secured.

  Only then did he realize Calle was staring at him, mouth agape. “Oh my God,” she said, shoving her backpack into the space at her feet. “It’s true, isn’t it?” Her lips tipped up. “I thought it was just the guys trying to find something they could tease you about, but it’s actually true.”

  Aw shit.

  He’d given Max, one of their defensemen, a ride home last season and had stopped the other man mid-potato chip consumption—a.k.a. Max doing his damnedest to grind every tiny crumb into the seams of Coop’s leather seats.

  Totally reasonable, he’d thought.

  But it had given Max—and the team—the fodder with which to tease him about being obsessed over his car.

  And look, he was a tad bit obsessed.

  He liked his car clean. He liked things in their place. He hated feeling tiny, pokey crumbs under his ass when he wore shorts in his car almost as much as he hated having any visible trash in the SUV he’d worked really fucking hard to pay for.

  Yes, with his new contract he could buy a new vehicle, one undoubtedly nicer and more expensive than this one.

  But it wouldn’t be this one.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, pushing the button to start the ignition and backing out of the stall.

  “Coop.”

  He flicked his eyes in her direction.

  “You just shook imaginary dust out of your floor mat.”

  “It wasn’t imaginary—” Clicking his teeth closed to cut off his protest came too late. Calle’s expression had already gone all cat-ate-the-canary.

  “So, what do you do when it rains? Dry your baby gently with a three-hundred-thread-count silk towel?”

  Actually, he used a ridiculously expensive chamois he’d picked up at a car show.

  “I think there’s a fingerprint on your nav screen.”

  His stare darted there.

  Calle burst out laughing.

  He sighed.

  “I can’t wait to tell the guys this.”

  Another sigh as he drove out of the parking lot.

  “If you shaved your head, we could call you Mr. Coop.”

  “Yeah, no.”

  “But you’d look so cute bald and with one earring.”

  No. No, he would not.

  She giggled, and even though it was the result of her giving him shit, it still made Coop feel like a million bucks. Seeing her smile like that, as though just teasing him had made some of the boulders she’d been carrying on her shoulders fall away, and he could have sworn he’d grown five inches and put on twenty pounds of muscle.

  It made him feel invincible.

  Fuck, she was special.

  “I’m not getting an earring,” he said, playing along.

  “So, you’re saying that shaving your head is not out of the question.”

  He pulled the car to a stop at a signal. “Have you seen my head? It looks like an egg.” A shudder. “I shaved my head once, and the results weren’t pretty.”

  “Pictures or it didn’t happen.”

  “You’re persistent.”

  “There is a reason I’ve made it as far in this industry as I have.” She giggled again. “Though I’m guessing there’s a reason you’ve made it this far, too.”

  “Persistent meet stubborn?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  Coop hadn’t realized he’d been staring at her, entranced by the playfulness, loving how relaxed she seemed now that the appointment was over, and everything was okay and . . . she was fully clothed.

  Well, there was that.

  But anyway, he’d been watching her face change, studying the lines of her brows as they lifted and fell while she talked, the corners of her lips dancing as she fought a smile, the barest hint of a dimple appearing and disappearing on her cheek, and he’d been absolutely mesmerized.

  At least until the horn blared behind them.

  Coop’s gaze shot forward and he hit the gas, sliding through the intersection as the light changed from yellow to red.

  “Whoops,” Calle said.

  He chuckled.

  “So, Mr. Coop is out,” she murmured.

  “That’s a certainty.”

  “Bummer,” she said and fell quiet as he continued down the road and pulled onto the freeway. “I should call Triple A,” she murmured, a few moments later. “Get a jump on the wait time.”

  “Good idea.”

  But as she reached into her backpack for her cell, her stomach rumbled, the noise all but blaring like a siren through the quiet car.

  “Maybe we should eat first?” he suggested.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I can wait. You’ve already taken enough time out of your day.”

  “I’m hungry, too.”

  “Coop. No.”

  He bit back a sigh. Although . . . one benefit of being in the driver’s seat when a stubborn female sat in the passenger’s seat meant he had control of at least one thing.

  He took the exit for the practice rink . . . then turned in the opposite direction of it.

  “What—?”

  There was a cool outdoor space just around the corner, specialty markets mixed in with a variety of food stalls to fill the pavilion. One, in particular, he knew Calle was a fan of—Sam and Cheese—made gourmet dishes with, no surprise, plenty of cheese.

  “Brie, cranberries, and apricot jelly, right?” he asked, navigating his SUV into a parking spot on the street across from the market.

  “Coop—”

  “On toasted sourdough bread?”

  Her stomach growled again, but despite that, she shook her head again.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s my cheat day. I’m starving, and I need a brownie from Molly’s stand.”

  Recently expanded into a restaurant spot in the Gold Mine, Molly’s was a local restaurant that sported an awesome bakery, homemade soups, sandwiches, and salads, and was singlehandedly the reason he’d gained five pounds soon after moving to San Francisco.

  It had been a lot easier to put them on than taking them off, that was for damn sure.

  Calle sighed.

  “Melted cheese, tart cranberry compote, homemade sourdough—”

  She popped the passenger’s side door, shoved out onto the sidewalk. “Fine,” she bit out, grabbing her backpack. “What are you auditioning for the Food Network now?”

  He smothered a smile as he got out on the driver’s side, meeting her at the back of his car. They let a car pass then jay-walked across the road and moved into the open-air market.

  “Sam and Cheese first?”

  She grunted.

  Sam and Cheese first.

  They made their way over to the counter, ordered at the window—brie and cranberry grilled cheeses for both of them, since he’d heard Calle and Brit rave about the sandwich for long enough that he needed to try it for h
imself, and some of their homemade lavender and honey lemonade. He paid—ignoring her protest and taking advantage of the fact that he was taller, had longer arms, and had prepped by getting his wallet out, already anticipating the battle. “You can buy me a brownie.”

  Her expression went thunderous, and she sucked in a huge breath.

  Coop braced himself.

  Then she released it with a long, slow hiss of air. “Not exactly a fair trade,” she said. “Be prepared for twenty dollars’ worth of brownies.”

  “I’ll take that trade.” He grinned. “Especially when it’s Coach giving the means to really take advantage of my cheat day.”

  “Fuck,” she muttered.

  He grinned, knowing the battle was mostly won. “I won’t set Rebecca loose on you, I promise.”

  A roll of those pretty chocolate eyes. “Fine. I’ll buy you one brownie, with the promise of another on the next scheduled cheat day.”

  “Deal.”

  Their nutritionist, Rebecca, had put together a great meal plan for the team. They had transitioned the players to a wholly vegetarian diet, with the bulk of their protein choices coming from plant-based sources. Some came from fish, eggs, milk, and cheese, but most often he stayed away from anything that came from animals . . . and he found that he didn’t miss meat all that much.

  Cheese, on the other hand?

  That was hard to give up.

  His mom’s mac and cheese, cheddar biscuits, grilled cheese sandwiches, cheesecake—

  Yeah, the dairy component was hard to keep in moderation.

  So, he tended to stay away from it all and then go crazy on cheese—cough—cheat days.

  And thank fuck he’d never let his nickname for the team’s days off their diet plan slip in the locker room. The shit-givers would love to have something new to tease him about.

  Although now Calle had car fodder.

  “There it is,” she said, and Coop blinked, realized he’d been wool-gathering while staring at the pickup window. He turned to face her.

  “Sorry, what?”

  Her cheeks went pink. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, I think we’ve had plenty of ridiculous today. Hit me with it.”

  Her face screwed up and she lifted a hand, tugged at the end of her ponytail. “It’s just easy to tell, even from the side, when you smile.”