Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I really appreciate your help.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He pauses. “I know things seem rough right now, Cam, but I promise it’s going to be okay. I’ve got a feeling you and your career are going to come back from this stronger than ever.”

“We’ll see.”

“We will see. In the meantime, take care of yourself. Take care of your baby. And I’ll call you either later today or tomorrow so we can talk some more.”

We hang up then, but I sit on the side of the bed for a long time after Mitch has disconnected. He’s the first one to tell me congratulations, the first one to tell me to take care of my baby and that everything is going to be all right. Oh, I know that if I had given my friends a chance, they would have said some of those things. If I’d given them any encouragement, had given them any reason to think I would be excited to hear such things from them, that they would have been right there. As it is, I can already tell that Tansy wants to help pick out names while Ophelia is all about the baby clothes.

Z and Ash are all about making sure I’m okay, and Luc? I don’t know quite what Luc is about yet, but I intend to find out. But to do that, I’ll have to actually call him. Actually talk to him. Actually get his opinion about this whole pregnancy thing.

Just the thought is absolutely terrifying. Because I’m not the only one whose life this baby is going to disrupt. When I have it—and yes, I know I’m suddenly talking about when and not if—Luc’s life is going to change, too. And that doesn’t seem any more fair to him right now than it does to me. He didn’t ask for this any more than I did. Maybe I’m selfish to thrust it on him—selfish to make the decision myself when it should be a decision we both make.

But at the same time, I know I won’t be able to handle hearing him tell me to have an abortion. I’m not saying that’s what he’s going to do, because Luc’s a pretty dependable guy, no matter the circumstances. But if he does—if he tries to force me to do something that I’m growing more and more certain I don’t want to do—I’m not sure things between us will ever recover.

Our relationship is in bad enough shape as it is. Add a disagreement of this magnitude to it, and where are we going to be then?

It’s a dire thought, one that has me up and moving around as I wait on tenterhooks for Mitch to call back. I straighten up my room, picking up dirty clothes and putting them in the hamper, making my bed for the first time since I took that first awful home pregnancy test three days ago, putting away whatever other odds and ends I can find.

When that’s done, I get online and start looking up pregnant athletes and endorsement deals. To be honest, there isn’t much—either because their pregnancies didn’t affect the endorsement deals or because there are very few female athletes stupid enough to get pregnant—but the lack of precedent somehow manages to soothe me even more. If no one else out there has had my exact problem, that gives Mitch even more wiggle room—even more of a chance to create a compromise that both my sponsors and I can live with.

I’ve barely made it through the six or seven articles I actually consider relevant to my situation when my phone buzzes with a text. Thinking that it’s Mitch, I reach for it right away and pull up my messages. But the text isn’t from Mitch. It’s from Luc. And as I watch, it’s followed by a series of shorter texts, all from him.

just wanted to check in

how are you?

do you need anything?

let me know if i can do anything to help you

And then, finally:

i’m excellent at picking out ice cream and pickles just saying

I laugh, because I can’t not laugh. And because that’s exactly what he intended for me to do. I start to answer him—the first words I’ve spoken or texted to him since that fight on Z’s doorstep yesterday, but before I can get out anything more than I’m fine, the phone starts to ring. And this time it is Mitch.

“Hello?”

“I think this could end up being really good for your career,” Mitch says as soon as I pick up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for the most part, it looks like your part in the endorsements—photo shoots, commercials, product placement—can all be put off until after your pregnancy. You won’t get your full commission until you fulfill your obligations, but you’ll be able to keep the twenty-five percent you got on signing.”

“Even if I haven’t gotten the twenty-five percent yet?”

Some of the endorsement deals are brand new, only a couple months old.

“Yes, even those. If we look at your pregnancy as a temporary disability—”

“It’s not a disability, though.”

“It’s classified as one by law. And since I don’t think any company wants to be the one to make news because they dumped a pregnant athlete, I think you’re going to come out of this just fine.”

“Oh, thank God.”

I may not be able to board this year, but at least I won’t lose anything in the long run. And in the meantime, I’ll be able to support my baby without having to ask for help from Luc. That means a lot to me.