Page 74 of Ruthless Game

“Right.” The doctor focused on me. “And it doesn’t always work. The second concern was that you’re worried you might also have endometriosis, given how bad the pain is. For that, we’ll have to schedule a laparoscopy to determine whether you do or don’t, but based on your symptoms, I think you’re struggling with PCOS that’s been worsening over time.”

“When can I schedule the laparoscopy?” I asked, wringing my hands together, breathing speeding up. Just thinking about the procedure and what it could tell me was scary.

And then there were Lawson’s hands, solid, big around mine, stilling my anxious movements and stabilizing my breathing.

“As soon as she wants,” Lawson prompted.

The doctor nodded. Apparently she really wanted those season tickets. “We can get you in whenever it works for you. But Emma, there’s one more thing …” she hesitated. “Maybe we should talk without your boyfriend in the room.”

“No,” I said, voice certain. “He stays.”

She sighed. “I’m sure you know this, but I just want to warn you—you’re young, but if or when you start thinking about it, getting pregnant and conceiving are going to be … trickier for you. There are fertility treatments and IVF, of course, but I want to make sure my patients with PCOS are aware of the potential issues.”

I swallowed.

That’s what I hadn’t wanted to hear.

Because there was a truth I’d been avoiding thinking about for a long, long time. There was something I wanted, desperately. More than the internship in London. More than becoming a child psychologist and changing foster children’s lives for the better. Even more than pleasing my parents.

I wanted to be a mom.

And I had to face the reality: I might not be able to be.

Not in the way I’d dreamed of, anyway.

And what did Lawson think about that? We’d never talked about that sort of future—I knew better than to expect it. But having him hear that I wasn’t … that maybe I couldn’t …

But I didn’t say any of that, aware of both the man whose lap I sat in and the doctor who I faced, and not wanting either to see or feel how upset I was.

Instead, I forced a smile on my face.

“I know,” is all I said.

The drive back was quiet. No music, no speaking. Lawson kept glancing over at me as he drove us back to the hockey house, but I couldn’t look at him.

Finally, he spoke.

“You’re clearly not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Starburst, you’re not fine. You think I don’t know your tells? I can imagine there was a lot she said that upset you, but I want you to specifically tell me what it was.”

I meant to say, I’m honestly fine. The pain in my chest was coalescing into a jagged bubble.

What came out was, “I guess when we do finally have sex, you don’t have to worry about getting me pregnant.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I figured that’s what it was. Emma⁠—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I do. When we were kids, we never talked about having a family. Whenever I’d bring it up, you’d get really quiet. I always figured you didn’t want kids, or—” he cleared his throat, eyes on the road, “—worried you just didn’t want mine. But it wasn’t that, was it? You were the one who was worried—that you couldn’t have them.”

Suddenly, that jagged bubble popped.

“How would you feel, Lawson, if someone told you that you could never play hockey again? And there may not be anything you could do about it, other than to accept it? All I have ever wanted was to be a mom. To have kids. To give them a loving home—one I didn’t have when I was a baby, a toddler, a small child, not until I was adopted. Would you want to talk about it? Commiserate about it? Deal with someone’s pity?” I shook my head, my hair whipping satisfyingly back and forth. “No. You wouldn’t. So forgive me if I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t pity you, Emma. I just want to help.” His voice broke. “I didn’t know. You never told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”