Page 144 of A Little Secret

“Are you okay?” he mouths, holding my gaze across the ice.

My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I force a nod and sit down.

“Fin,” my dad murmurs.

Pressing my hands to my thighs, I take a few slow, deep breaths. “I’m fine.”

The game resumes, the tension still through the roof, but I don’t see any of it. I’m too busy overanalyzing the inconsistent sharp pangs of discomfort cutting through myuterus. This doesn’t feel like normal cramps. But if it isn’t normal, what does it mean?

“Fin,” my dad repeats.

“Baby, you okay?” my mom adds.

“I, uh, I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Clutching my midsection, I hobble to the bathroom, my mom trailing behind. As I close the stall door, my eyes well with tears, and I unbutton my jeans. It’s strange. They always talk about mother’s instincts, but I’ve never prayed to be wrong. Not until this moment.

My hands tremble as I slide the thick denim down my legs and sit. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let my head fall forward and let out another slow, cleansing breath.

“Baby?” my mom murmurs outside the stall. I can hear the question in her voice. The hesitancy. The fear.

Forcing my eyes open, I look down at my underwear.

Blood.

There’s blood.

It isn’t a lot, but it’s there.

“Baby?” my mom repeats.

“I’m, uh, just a sec.” Resting my elbows on my knees, I pee, telling myself the liquid is only urine as I dig my nails into my hands. Once I’m finished, I grab the toilet paper, ignoring the way my body shakes, and reach between my legs, wiping myself. When I look down, a sob breaks free, and my chest caves.

“Baby,” my mom repeats. But the question’s gone. The question is fucking gone. How does she know? How does she fucking know?

“It’s going to be okay.” My mom hesitates, and the sound of rustling fabric hits my ears. “Hey, Mack,” she murmurs. She must’ve called my dad. The realization leaves me even more anxious, but apparently, I’m a gluttonfor punishment because I only strain my ears more, trying to focus on her conversation with my dad instead of the image of blood on toilet paper ingrained in my memory.

“I need you to get the car. We’re going to the hospital.”Pause.“I’m not sure, but, uh, please hurry. We’ll meet you out front.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

GRIFFIN

Whooshing hits my ears as Finley stands from her seat. The red game clock shines behind her, highlighting the score and my girl’s hunched body. Her hand presses into her belly as she scoots past her dad. Uncle Mack says something to Aunt Kate. She nods at him and follows Finley up the concrete stairs. Their movements are slow. Forced. Pained.

My attention darts to Uncle Mack again, waiting to see if he follows. He’s a paramedic. He wouldn’t leave them alone if he was worried. Would he? He stares at the tunnel the girls disappear through, wiping his palms along his jeans and shifting back into the plastic seat while turning to the ice. It should make me feel better. Maybe she ate some bad food or something. But it doesn’t do shit at easing the tightness in my muscles or the pressure in my chest.

The minutes tick by at a snail’s pace until the penalty box timer goes off, and the ref opens the door, letting me free. My skates cut through the ice as I head to myposition, gripping my stick while trying to get my head back in the game.

When I miss a pass, Coach Sanderson yells, “Thorne! Get your head outta your ass!”

I shake my head and scramble for the puck, but it crosses into the enemy’s territory, and I look up at the stands again.

Mack’s gone.

Where the fuck is Mack?