Today feels monumental and I’m genuinely surprised she’s not freaking the fuck out, but as the thought enters my head, she flings her body off mine and launches herself toward the bathroom, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet.
Luckily, she did prewarn me the anxiety on the morning of a competition makes her throw up nine times out of ten, and not to panic it was morning sickness. She also said the vomit was my cue to leave, because from that point, she would be a nervous nightmare, and she wouldn’t want me there for that.
By the time I’ve pulled on all my clothes and grabbed her a glass of water from the kitchen, she’s emerging from the bathroom, thankfully smelling more like peppermint than anything else. “That’s my cue to leave, right?” I confirm, bending over to kiss her forehead.
“Thank you for staying here last night.” Her arms tighten around me. “I’d be so much worse right now if you hadn’t. Good luck with your game today, I won’t be on my phone, but I’ll video call you when I get back to my hotel, okay? Text me your results too.”
I’ve been so focused on Stas’s competition I almost forgot we’re playing UCLA today. Hopefully, the rink-trashing drama is behind us now because the UCLA team are generally good guys. With it being so close, we see each other in clubs or parties, and other than a healthy bit of rivalry, they’re one of the more fun teams to play against.
The figure skating nationals are down in San Diego and will be all weekend. The first of their routines will be today, and if they score high enough, they’ll do their other one tomorrow. Anastasia was super understanding when I said I had a hockey game, so I couldn’t go with her; she was ridiculously sweet and said it was okay.
What I didn’t tell her is the second my game ends I’ll be jumping in my car to fly down the I-5 to watch her. I give her one last pep talk, tell her how much I love her and how proud I am of her, then leave her to it.
In contrast to the calm of Stassie’s place, the guys are being their normal clown selves when I get home.
JJ, Henry, Mattie, and Russ are all fully suited up, standing on the couch when I walk into the living room. Mattie uses the table as a stepping stone to jump onto a chair on the other side of the room; the table creaks under his weight but luckily doesn’t straight-up collapse. I look between the four of them, waiting for someone to say something.
Robbie appears from the den, big mug of coffee in one hand, pushing his wheel with the other. He’s already in his suit and I can sense the impending lecture about messing around before a game. Instead, he shrugs a shoulder and explains what the fuck is going on. “Floor is lava.”
“You’re fucked, then.”
“Not as fucked as you. Go get your suit on, we can’t be late to a home game.”
It doesn’t take me long to get ready, and as I’m about to get into the car, my phone buzzes.
UBER SLUT
UBER SLUT: Just set off and Brady is making us listen to ABBA
NATE HAWKINS: That doesn’t sound too bad.
UBER SLUT: She’s singing too.
NATE HAWKINS: JJ said call him, they can do a duet.
UBER SLUT: Will you still love me if I fall on my face and disgrace myself in front of the American figure skating elite?
NATE HAWKINS: *thinking emoji*
UBER SLUT: …
NATE HAWKINS: Yeah, probably.
UBER SLUT: I hate u.
NATE HAWKINS: You’re not going to fall on your face. You’re going to smash it, and I love you regardless of the outcome.
UBER SLUT: Feel nauseous.
NATE HAWKINS: Take deep breaths. If you’re going to be sick, make sure you direct it toward Aaron.
JJ drives my car so I can text back and forth with my very nervous girl. We park and Robbie goes into asshole coach mode and demands I put my phone away to get into the zone. “You’ll see her in a few hours, just get a grip for a bit, yeah?” He grunts in his most Faulkner-like voice. “I’m nervous for her, too, but we gotta, y’know, we gotta just push through it.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I go into captain mode as soon as we step through the doors of the arena.
It pays off because, after probably the best game we’ve played so far this season, we beat UCLA a very comfortable 9–3. Faulkner told me yesterday that if we won, he’d let me delay our post-game review so I could head straight to San Diego in time for the pairs short program. I’m about to head out the door when Cory O’Neill, UCLA’s captain, grabs me.