My options are to pretend all three positive pregnancy tests are broken, flee to a wolf sanctuary in Montana, or tell my hockey player ex he’s going to be a dad.
Unfortunately, I’m a responsible adult.
I’m a veterinarian with a broke rescue clinic, a cat who runs the place like a tiny king, and a strict policy against Beckett, the NHL goaltender who picked the ice over me ten years ago.
So I save his dog, hand him the bill, and consider the matter closed.
One extremely unprofessional night later, I’m in the supply room while my best friend times three pregnancy tests like a playoff shootout. Positive. I tell Beckett, braced for him to bolt.
Except he doesn’t ask how to get out. He asks how to get there.
Which is how the league’s grumpiest goaltender ends up living in my house under the rules on my refrigerator: separate rooms, rent paid in kennel duty at five a.m., and in red block capitals, nobody falls in love.
He starts bottle-feeding my foster kittens, charms the cat, out-stubborns my hostile little brother, and refuses to let anyone adopt the grey kitten that sleeps on him.
For the record, kissing him at midnight on New Year’s was a clerical error, and we have ruled in writing that it does not count as falling in love. But the man who left once keeps staying.
And I’m one quiet, ridiculous kindness away from breaking my own rule in permanent marker.
