Chapter 73 Reveal
LIAM
The second we step outside the hospital doors, the world explodes.
Flashing lights detonate in white bursts. Microphones shove forward like spears. Voices crash over each other in a tidal wave of questions that don’t care about recovery rooms or IV lines or the fact that the woman beside me still looks pale under the streetlights.
"Ava! Are you okay?"
"Liam, why did you leave practice for her?"
"Is it true you two are together?"
“Isn’t she your coach’s daughter?”
“How long has this been going on?”
The noise is deafening. Aggressive. Hungry.
I feel Ava tense beside me, her fingers fisting in my jacket like it’s the only stable thing in a spinning world. Her nails dig into the fabric. Not painfully. Desperately.
She didn’t expect this.
She’s used to handling press in controlled environments. Clipboard in hand. Composed. Prepared.
Not this.
Not the mob mentality of breaking news.
I am used to it.
And there is no universe where I let them tear into her like this.
I tighten my arm around her shoulders and glare at the crowd with enough force that it should’ve melted lenses.
"Back off," I snap, voice sharp and unwavering. "She just got out of the hospital. Show some respect."
They don’t.
Of course they don’t.
Respect doesn’t trend.
"Ava, how long have you two been seeing each other?"
"Was this a pregnancy scare—"
I stop walking.
Completely.
Ava flinches against me at that word.
And something inside me goes still. Cold. Controlled.
That’s it.
That’s fucking it.
"Shut it down," I say quietly, deadly calm, turning toward the team’s PR guy who’s pushing through the chaos. "Now."
My coach appears seconds later like a storm front. The team floods in behind him, forming a wall. Big bodies. Broad shoulders. Family.
They don’t ask questions. They don’t hesitate.
They close ranks.
Security moves in fast, forcing space between us and the reporters. The shouting dulls slightly as we’re boxed in by protection.
I catch Coach’s eye.
He gives me a nod.
Not approval.
Permission.
Protect her.
I tighten my hold around Ava and move. Not waiting for a perfect path. Just forward. Toward the car. Toward quiet.
Inside, the doors slam shut and the noise cuts off instantly, like someone muted the world.
Silence fills the car.
Heavy.
Ava exhales shakily. Her fingers are still clutching my sleeve.
"You okay?" I ask, softer now.
She nods, but she’s staring out the window, her reflection pale against the glass.
"I didn’t think it would be that bad."
"It’ll pass," I say. "They’ll move on to something else soon."
They always do. Fame is fickle. It chews and spits.
She doesn’t answer.
There’s something behind her eyes. Not just exhaustion.
Something else.
But she doesn’t say it.
And for the first time in my career, I don’t know if I should be focusing on the next game.
Or on her.
77777
Ava is better now.
Stronger.
Back to being my Snowflakes.
She moves with more steadiness. The color has returned to her cheeks. She’s been at practice again, at interviews, standing just off camera with that composed expression she wears like armor.
She smiles more.
Laughs more.
If something is wrong, she hides it well.
She was there for my second local game after the hospital. I played like something had been set on fire inside me. Scored twice. Assisted once.
When I won, I looked for her immediately.
Always her first.
But instead of her grin, I saw her rushing off the sidelines.
By the time I reached her, she was bent over behind the bleachers.
Throwing up.
My stomach dropped.
"Jesus, Ava…"
"It’s just what I ate," she muttered, wiping her mouth and waving me off like I was overreacting.
I let it go.
Maybe I shouldn’t have.
But she looked embarrassed. Annoyed. Like she didn’t want a scene.
So I let it go.
Now we’re two weeks away from the biggest match of my life.
The one everyone keeps calling my redemption.
Things almost feel normal again.
Almost.
She’s curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of my hoodies, legs tucked beneath her. The TV flickers while I set up the movie she picked. Her phone glows in her hand.
Headlines scroll across the sports app.
“Will Star Boy Liam Carter Rise To His Glory Days?”
She rolls her eyes at it.
I catch the slight wince she makes when she shifts.
"You okay?"
"Fine," she says automatically.
She hasn’t mentioned the headache.
She doesn’t have to.
"I’ll grab your meds," I tell her, pushing off the couch.
She hums distractedly, not looking up.
I head into the bedroom, open the drawer where she keeps them.
And I freeze.
There’s a folded piece of paper sitting on top of the pill bottle.
It doesn’t belong there.
Something about it feels… wrong.
I don’t think.
I just reach for it.
Unfold it.
The words hit me like a body check I didn’t see coming.
Patient Name: Ava Reed
Test: Pregnancy
Results: Positive
Estimated Gestation: 6 weeks
Everything inside me stops.
The room goes silent in a way that feels violent.
What?
The paper shakes in my hand.
Six weeks.
Six weeks.
My brain starts connecting dots whether I want it to or not.
The fainting.
The exhaustion.
The nausea.
The hospital.
Six weeks.
She knew.
She knew.
The air feels thin.
Like I forgot how to breathe properly.
I walk back downstairs slowly, the paper crumpled in my fist.
"Ava."
My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
It sounds strained. Distant.
She shifts on the couch.
"Yeah?"
She looks up.
Sees the paper.
And everything drains from her face.
Silence drops between us like a guillotine.
"Liam—"
"How long?"
My voice is low. Tight.
She swallows.
"I was going to tell you—"
"How long have you known?"
Her fingers curl into the fabric of the hoodie.
"Since the hospital."
Since the hospital.
Weeks.
Weeks of her smiling.
Standing beside me.
Letting me talk about strategy and pressure and timing.
Weeks.
I stare at her.
I don’t yell.
I don’t move.
Because if I move, I don’t know what I’ll do.
"You knew," I say quietly.
"Yes."
"And you didn’t tell me."
Tears fill her eyes instantly.
"I didn’t know how."
That hits harder than if she’d said she didn’t want to.
"I’m the father, Ava."
"I know."
"Then why didn’t you tell me?"
Her breathing gets shaky.
"Because you just walked away from the biggest game of your season for me. Because the media already thinks I’m a distraction. Because my dad barely just stopped fighting us. Because your entire career is riding on this next match and I didn’t want to be the reason—"
Her voice breaks.
"The reason what?" I demand.
"The reason you lose everything."
The words slice through the air.
And suddenly I understand.
This wasn’t about trust.
It was fear.
"You think a baby is something I’d see as losing everything?"
She doesn’t answer.
That silence is its own answer.
I run a hand through my hair, pacing once before forcing myself to stop. My chest feels like it’s cracking open.
"You think I’d look at you carrying my child and see a problem?"
"I didn’t know what you’d see!" she cries. "You’re two weeks away from the biggest match of your life! Everyone already says I derail you! I thought if I told you now, you’d feel trapped. Or resent me. Or worse… choose differently."
Choose differently.
Like I’d choose a game over her.
Over us.
I step closer.
She flinches.
That hurts more than anything else.
"Ava," I say, softer now but still shaking, "look at me."
She does.
Terrified.
"I left a championship game because you collapsed."
"I know—"
"No. Listen to me. I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. You think a piece of paper changes that?"
Her hand drifts unconsciously to her stomach.
"I didn’t want to distract you," she whispers.
I let out a disbelieving breath.
"You are not a distraction. You’re the reason I play like I have something to fight for."
Tears spill down her cheeks.
"I was going to tell you after the match," she says. "I just needed you to have one thing that was yours before everything changed."
Everything changed.
The words echo.
I look at her.
Really look at her.
At the fear.
At the guilt she’s been carrying alone for weeks.
"You carried this by yourself," I say quietly.
"I didn’t want to ruin you."
Ruin me.
I close the distance fully now, kneeling in front of her so we’re eye level.
"You could never ruin me," I say firmly. "You don’t get that power. You only make me better."
She lets out a broken laugh through tears.
"You’re not even mad?"
"I’m hurt you didn’t tell me."
That’s honest.
"But I’m not mad about this."
I glance down at her hand on her stomach.
At the reality settling in.
A baby.
Our baby.
Fear mixes with something else now.
Something bigger.
Something that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing you can build wings instead of falling.
"I’m going to be a dad," I say, almost to myself.
The word feels unreal.
Dad.
Ava watches my face like she’s bracing for impact.
Instead, I reach up and press my forehead gently to hers.
"You don’t get to decide alone what changes my life," I murmur. "We do that together."
Her breath stutters.
"I was so scared," she admits.
"I know."
I pull back slightly, looking her dead in the eyes.
"But don’t ever think you have to protect me from my own future."
A tear slips down her cheek again.
"You’re really okay with this?"
I let out a soft, incredulous laugh.
"Am I terrified? Yeah. Am I two weeks away from the biggest game of my life? Also yeah."
Her expression tightens.
"But," I continue, "if you think I see this as something that ruins me instead of something that builds something bigger than hockey ever could, then you don’t know me as well as I thought."
She searches my face.
For doubt.
For hesitation.
She won’t find it.
Because beneath the shock, beneath the hurt, beneath the adrenaline of the reveal, something steady has already taken root.
The world can speculate.
It can call her a distraction.
It can say I lost focus.
Let them.
I reach down and gently place my hand over hers on her stomach.
The gesture feels massive.
Fragile.
Real.
"We’re having a baby," I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
"And I’m not going anywhere."
This time, when she cries, it isn’t from fear.
And this time, when I pull her into me, it isn’t to protect her from the world.
It’s because the world just got bigger.
And we’re stepping into it together.