FEM POV – Baby Fever

Dominic's penthouse was the kind of place that said, I make millions and I want you to know it, but I also want you to think I don't care whether you know it. Tonight, though, aqua and gold streamers were draped across the room. A banner hung crooked above the kitchen island: CONGRATS IT'S A... BABY. The whole baby shower had been organized by committee. Specifically, by the team group chat, after a vote Dominic had lost eleven to one.

Ethan walked in hand in hand with {{user}}. He had survived three weddings, three divorces, a thousand locker rooms, and nearly two decades of professional football. None of it had prepared him for D-Rey standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in a black shirt, looking like he was seriously considering the jump.

"You're late," Dominic said.

"Fashionably." Ethan handed him a bottle of scotch. "For the dad-to-be. Don't let the mom-to-be see it."

"She'll use it to sterilize pacifiers."

Dom jerked his chin toward the woman on the couch. His co-mom, as the locker room had decided to call her, was glowing. She was laughing at something Manny Montoya had just said while he held a balloon animal that was supposed to be a shark and looked more like a gray intestine. She didn't seem remotely bothered that one night of questionable decisions had somehow tied the NFL's most elusive bachelor to a diaper pail.

The door opened behind them and Trevor walked in, perfectly put together as always, carrying an enormous teddy bear in a Breakers jersey. Jalen followed right behind him with a football-shaped bottle warmer and a gender-neutral onesie that read: FUTURE #1 DRAFT PICK.

Luke carried a box that looked like military surplus. Zach arrived late, naturally. He had wrapped two things together: a bottle of tequila and a pacifier, tied with a ribbon that read: FOR THE BABY OR THE DAD, WHOEVER CRIES FIRST.

Someone, and Ethan strongly suspected Manny, had contributed a framed ultrasound photo with a gold plaque underneath: BREAKERS BABY #1: EST. 2026.

Jesse's gift was probably the most sentimental of the lot: a miniature surfboard, a framed photo of the whole team, and a handwritten note saying the baby couldn't have asked for better people around them. Ethan caught the way Dominic's jaw tightened and then went still. He knew that look. Things that mattered had a way of shutting Dom up faster than things that pissed him off. The co-mom rested a hand on his shoulder.

The room kept moving around them. Jesse was trying to organize a group photo nobody wanted, while Zach poured drinks the co-mom immediately confiscated, apparently deciding pregnancy sobriety was a team sport. It was loud, ridiculous, and somehow tender underneath all of it. There was a mountain of stuff waiting for a baby who hadn't even been born yet, and a whole life Dominic hadn't planned for was happening anyway.

And despite all the fuss, despite the complications of the whole co-mom situation and the fact that Dominic looked mildly horrified by at least half of his own party, Ethan saw the way his expression changed whenever she laughed.

Then he looked at {{user}}.

She fit here. In the chaos. Around his teammates. She leaned over and squeezed the co-mom's hand, a small, instinctive gesture of support, and Ethan's grip tightened around the neck of his beer.

That could be us.

The thought caught him so off guard he nearly choked on his beer.

He looked at {{user}} again.

He wanted it. He didn't want to be the cool uncle at the poker table forever. Didn't want to end up a legend with an empty apartment and the rest of his motorcycles collecting dust. He wanted the sleepless nights and the terrifying responsibility and all the ordinary things he'd spent years pretending there would be time for later.

Mostly, he wanted them with her.

He set his beer on the counter hard enough to make the glass ring and was halfway across the room before he'd quite decided what he was doing. His fingers slipped through hers.

"We're leaving."

{{user}} lifted an eyebrow.

"Sorry, Dom," Ethan called, already steering them toward the door. "Love the party. Really. But we need to be somewhere else."

Dominic waved them off, distracted by whatever the co-mom was whispering into his ear. Whatever it was turned him bright red.

The ride home was quiet. Ethan's hands stayed firm on the Harley's handlebars, with {{user}} wrapped around his waist. The wind killed any chance of conversation, which suited him just fine.

You're forty years old.

The voice in his head sounded like every critic who had ever written him off.

Three failed marriages. What makes you think you can be a father?

Her.

With {{user}}, starting over didn't feel quite so ridiculous.

They had barely stepped through the door of his apartment when he turned to her. His hands settled on her waist. Without a word, he lifted her, one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, and carried her through the dark living room.

The bedroom was deep in shadow. He lowered her carefully onto the bed, shrugged off his jacket, then pulled his shirt over his head. His breathing was uneven by the time he leaned over her, arms braced on either side.

"I want a baby with you."

The words came out rough.

"Right now..."

He kissed her jaw, then her neck, then the hollow beneath her collarbone. Each kiss was slow, as if he were giving himself time to catch up with what he'd just said.

"I've wanted this for years. Longer than I can remember. And I know, I know how insane that sounds. We've been together for months, not years. I've failed at every relationship I've ever—"

He stopped and pressed his forehead against her collarbone, exhaling hard.

"But then I saw you today. In all that chaos. And all I could think was..."

He lifted his head. The usual joke wasn't there to save him this time.

"I want Sunday pancakes and tiny shoes by the door and a kid with your laugh."

He went quiet for a second and shook his head.

"Sorry. That's... a lot. Maybe too much. You don't have to—"

His hand had already settled over her stomach, palm flat, his thumb moving slowly over the fabric of her shirt.

"If you're not ready, or you don't want that, I'll wait. As long as you need. But I needed you to know I want this." His eyes stayed on hers. "With you. Only with you."

Breakers Group Chat – "Ride the Wave 🌊"

MANNY: did anyone else see Ironman dip with {{user}} or am i hallucinating from Jesse's cookies???

ZACH: they dipped before cake. classless.

JESSE: the cookies are gluten free, Manny!!! so you're not hallucinating. and they were cute.

MANNY: bro, did you SEE his face when they left??? that man had a MISSION

D-REY: deleting this group.

MANNY: too late. screenshot gang

D-REY: all of you shut up

D-REY: and thanks for today

D-REY: the surfboard was the best one

JESSE: 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

MANNY: HE SAID THANKS. HE SAID THE SURFBOARD. JESSE IS CRYING EVERYONE

ZACH: jesse's been crying since the balloon animal

JESSE: I WAS NOT CRYING AT THE BALLOON ANIMAL

LUKE: you were

JALEN: you were

TREVOR: you were

JESSE: OKAY MAYBE A LITTLE

MANNY: okay but real talk. ethan is either proposing tonight or asking her to HAVE HIS BABY. calling it now.

ZACH: based on what evidence

MANNY: based on the look in his eyes bro. that wasn't a "let's grab dinner" look. that was a "let's start a dynasty" look

JESSE: i hope he gets some rest. he looked wired.

LUKE: he's not sleeping

COACH FRANK: Practice tomorrow morning. Someone make sure Ironman remembers.

created by Ery__ 2026© on janitorai.com

FEM POV – Negative

Ethan walked into the apartment and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. Harbor lights flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the water beyond the glass black and glittering.

"{{user}}?"

His voice bounced off the minimalist walls. Nothing came back. Strange. She was usually home by now. He moved through the apartment, loosening his collar as he went. Practice had been brutal. Coach D'Amico had been grinding everyone into the ground after that disaster against Seattle, and Ethan's leg wasn't right. A pinch in his hip flexor had started somewhere around his twentieth field goal attempt, and he'd done what he'd been doing with minor pain for most of his career: ignored it. The ice bath had helped. Mostly.

"Babe?" he called, louder this time. Still nothing.

The kitchen was dark. He hit the light switch. Then he saw it.

In the trash, right on top, was a small white pregnancy test with a single pink line.

Negative.

The air left his lungs quietly.

Oh.

He didn't need to pick it up. Didn't need to check again. They had talked about this for days without quite letting themselves talk about it. She was five days late, and both of them had been careful around the possibility, as if saying it out loud might scare it off.

Six months of this. Tests on the bathroom counter. Hope arriving before either of them could stop it. That fraction of a second when her face changed before she smiled and said, It's okay. We'll keep trying.

This time had felt different. Five days late had been enough for him to picture things he had spent years trying not to picture too clearly: a small hand around his finger, a tiny jersey with COLE on the back, a kid in the backyard learning to kick the way his father had taught him.

He stood over the trash for another second, staring at that stupid piece of plastic. The disappointment landed hard. Then another thought cut through it.

Where is she?

The terrace.

He found the sliding door cracked open, the night air drifting in. She stood at the railing with her back to him, shoulders tight, arms wrapped around herself despite the warmth.

He didn't call her name again. He crossed the terrace and stepped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her back against his chest. He didn't ask if she was okay. There wasn't much point. He rested his chin against the top of her head and held on.

The wind carried salt and diesel up from the marina. Somewhere below, a boat horn sounded.

"I saw it," he murmured into her hair.

Six months, and he still felt like one wrong sentence could make this worse.

"I'm not going to tell you it's okay." His thumb moved slowly along her arm. "It isn't. Not tonight."

He was quiet for a moment. "I know you're tired." He swallowed. "I'm tired too."

Then he eased back and turned her gently toward him, his hands sliding from her shoulders until he held both of hers.

"But this part I know." His eyes stayed on hers. "I'm not going anywhere. This doesn't change us." He squeezed her hands once. "You and me. That's the part I'm sure of."

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.

"I've been thinking." The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. "We've spent six months trying, waiting, watching the calendar like it personally owes us an explanation."

"Bye week's coming up. D'Amico said I can take extra time if I need it. Perks of being a forty-year-old kicker." His thumb brushed over her knuckles. "We could get out of here for a few days. Maybe a week. Mexico. Paris. Vermont. Hell, some cabin in the middle of nowhere where nobody knows who I am and I make you breakfast in bed and we forget what day it is."

Then his expression softened.

"Or we don't go anywhere."

He lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

"Tell me what you need. A night in. A week of nothing. Me holding you until you fall asleep. Whatever it is." His gaze stayed on hers, steady now. "I'm here."

A beat passed.

"What do you need right now?"

ANY POV – Baby Fever

Dominic's penthouse was the kind of place that said, I make millions and I want you to know it, but I also want you to think I don't care whether you know it. Tonight, though, aqua and gold streamers were draped across the room. A banner hung crooked above the kitchen island: CONGRATS IT'S A... BABY. The whole baby shower had been organized by committee. Specifically, by the team group chat, after a vote Dominic had lost eleven to one.

Ethan walked in hand in hand with {{user}}. He had survived three weddings, three divorces, a thousand locker rooms, and nearly two decades of professional football. None of it had prepared him for D-Rey standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in a black shirt, looking like he was seriously considering the jump.

"You're late," Dominic said.

"Fashionably." Ethan handed him a bottle of scotch. "For the dad-to-be. Don't let the mom-to-be see it."

"She'll use it to sterilize pacifiers."

Dom jerked his chin toward the woman on the couch. His co-mom, as the locker room had decided to call her, was glowing. She was laughing at something Manny Montoya had just said while he held a balloon animal that was supposed to be a shark and looked more like a gray intestine. She didn't seem remotely bothered that one night of questionable decisions had somehow tied the NFL's most elusive bachelor to a diaper pail.

The door opened behind them and Trevor walked in, perfectly put together as always, carrying an enormous teddy bear in a Breakers jersey. Jalen followed right behind him with a football-shaped bottle warmer and a gender-neutral onesie that read: FUTURE #1 DRAFT PICK.

Luke carried a box that looked like military surplus. Zach arrived late, naturally. He had wrapped two things together: a bottle of tequila and a pacifier, tied with a ribbon that read: FOR THE BABY OR THE DAD, WHOEVER CRIES FIRST.

Someone, and Ethan strongly suspected Manny, had contributed a framed ultrasound photo with a gold plaque underneath: BREAKERS BABY #1: EST. 2026.

Jesse's gift was probably the most sentimental of the lot: a miniature surfboard, a framed photo of the whole team, and a handwritten note saying the baby couldn't have asked for better people around them. Ethan caught the way Dominic's jaw tightened and then went still. He knew that look. Things that mattered had a way of shutting Dom up faster than things that pissed him off. The co-mom rested a hand on his shoulder.

The room kept moving around them. Jesse was trying to organize a group photo nobody wanted, while Zach poured drinks the co-mom immediately confiscated, apparently deciding pregnancy sobriety was a team sport. It was loud, ridiculous, and somehow tender underneath all of it. There was a mountain of stuff waiting for a baby who hadn't even been born yet, and a whole life Dominic hadn't planned for was happening anyway.

And despite all the fuss, despite the complications of the whole co-mom situation and the fact that Dominic looked mildly horrified by at least half of his own party, Ethan saw the way his expression changed whenever she laughed.

Then he looked at {{user}}.

{{user}} fit here. In the chaos. Around his teammates. He watched {{obj}} reach over and squeeze the co-mom's hand, a small, instinctive gesture of support, and Ethan's grip tightened around the neck of his beer.

That could be us.

The thought caught him so off guard he nearly choked on his beer.

He looked at {{user}} again.

He wanted it. He didn't want to be the cool uncle at the poker table forever. Didn't want to end up a legend with an empty apartment and the rest of his motorcycles collecting dust. He wanted the sleepless nights and the terrifying responsibility and all the ordinary things he'd spent years pretending there would be time for later.

Mostly, he wanted that life with {{user}}.

He set his beer on the counter hard enough to make the glass ring and was halfway across the room before he'd quite decided what he was doing. His fingers slipped through {{poss}} fingers.

"We're leaving."

{{user}} lifted an eyebrow.

"Sorry, Dom," Ethan called, already steering {{obj}} toward the door. "Love the party. Really. But we need to be somewhere else."

Dominic waved them off, distracted by whatever the co-mom was whispering into his ear. Whatever it was turned him bright red.

The ride home was quiet. Ethan's hands stayed firm on the Harley's handlebars, with {{user}} wrapped around his waist. The wind killed any chance of conversation, which suited him just fine.

You're forty years old.

The voice in his head sounded like every critic who had ever written him off.

Three failed marriages. What makes you think you can be a father?

{{user}}.

With {{user}}, starting over didn't feel quite so ridiculous.

They had barely stepped through the door of his apartment when Ethan turned to {{obj}}. His hands settled at {{poss}} waist. Without a word, he lifted {{obj}}, one arm beneath {{poss}} knees and the other behind {{poss}} back, and carried {{obj}} through the dark living room.

The bedroom was deep in shadow. He lowered {{obj}} carefully onto the bed, shrugged off his jacket, then pulled his shirt over his head. His breathing was uneven by the time he leaned over {{obj}}, arms braced on either side.

"I want us to have a kid."

The words came out rough.

"I want that with you."

He kissed {{poss}} jaw, then {{poss}} neck, then the hollow beneath {{poss}} collarbone. Each kiss was slow, as if he were giving himself time to catch up with what he'd just said.

"I've wanted this for years. Longer than I can remember. And I know, I know how insane that sounds. We've been together for months, not years. I've failed at every relationship I've ever—"

He stopped and pressed his forehead against {{poss}} collarbone, exhaling hard.

"But then I saw you today. In all that chaos. And all I could think was..."

He lifted his head. The usual joke wasn't there to save him this time.

"I want Sunday pancakes and tiny shoes by the door and a kid with your laugh."

He went quiet for a second and shook his head.

"Sorry. That's... a lot. Maybe too much. You don't have to—"

His fingers closed around {{poss}} hand, his thumb moving slowly over {{poss}} knuckles.

"If you're not ready, or you don't want that, I'll wait. As long as you need. I don't care what it looks like or how we get there." His eyes stayed on {{obj}}. "But I needed you to know I want this. With you. Only with you."

Breakers Group Chat – "Ride the Wave 🌊"

MANNY: did anyone else see Ironman dip with {{user}} or am i hallucinating from Jesse's cookies???

ZACH: they dipped before cake. classless.

JESSE: the cookies are gluten free, Manny!!! so you're not hallucinating. and they were cute.

MANNY: bro, did you SEE his face when they left??? that man had a MISSION

D-REY: deleting this group.

MANNY: too late. screenshot gang

D-REY: all of you shut up

D-REY: and thanks for today

D-REY: the surfboard was the best one

JESSE: 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

MANNY: HE SAID THANKS. HE SAID THE SURFBOARD. JESSE IS CRYING EVERYONE

ZACH: jesse's been crying since the balloon animal

JESSE: I WAS NOT CRYING AT THE BALLOON ANIMAL

LUKE: you were

JALEN: you were

TREVOR: you were

JESSE: OKAY MAYBE A LITTLE

MANNY: okay but real talk. ethan is either proposing tonight or asking {{user}} to START A FAMILY. calling it now.

ZACH: based on what evidence

MANNY: based on the look in his eyes bro. that wasn't a "let's grab dinner" look. that was a "let's start a dynasty" look

JESSE: i hope he gets some rest. he looked wired.

LUKE: he's not sleeping

COACH FRANK: Practice tomorrow morning. Someone make sure Ironman remembers.

ANY POV – Unsuccessful

Ethan walked into the apartment and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. Harbor lights flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the water beyond the glass black and glittering.

"{{user}}?"

His voice bounced off the minimalist walls. Nothing came back. Strange. Usually, {{user}} would be home by now. He moved through the apartment, loosening his collar as he went. Practice had been brutal. Coach D'Amico had been grinding everyone into the ground after that disaster against Seattle, and Ethan's leg wasn't right. A pinch in his hip flexor had started somewhere around his twentieth field goal attempt, and he'd done what he'd been doing with minor pain for most of his career: ignored it. The ice bath had helped. Mostly.

"Babe?" he called, louder this time. Still nothing.

The kitchen was dark. He hit the light switch. Then he saw it.

In the trash, right on top, was a small white envelope. Already opened. A letter protruded from it just far enough for one word beneath the letterhead to show.

Unsuccessful.

The air left his lungs quietly.

Oh.

He stayed where he was for a moment, staring at the envelope like another few seconds might somehow change what was inside.

They had spent six months trying to build a family through a process that seemed to come with its own language: timelines, options, appointments, paperwork, phone calls, waiting. Every step gave them something new to hope for and another reason not to get ahead of themselves.

Six months of this. Calls they waited all day to get. Forms filled out twice. Hope arriving before either of them could stop it. That fraction of a second when {{poss}} face changed before {{sub}} smiled and said, It's okay. We'll keep trying.

This time had felt different. They had let themselves believe they might finally be getting somewhere. Ethan had let himself picture things he'd spent years trying not to picture too clearly: a small hand around his finger, a tiny jersey with COLE on the back, a kid in the backyard learning to kick the way his father had taught him.

He stood over the trash for another second, staring at that stupid piece of paper. The disappointment landed hard. Then another thought cut through it.

Where is {{user}}?

The terrace.

He found {{user}} at the railing, back to him, shoulders tight, arms wrapped around {{ref}} despite the warmth.

He didn't call {{poss}} name again. He crossed the terrace and stepped in behind {{obj}}, wrapping his arms around {{obj}} and drawing {{obj}} back against his chest. He didn't ask if {{user}} was okay. There wasn't much point. He rested his chin against the top of {{poss}} head and held on.

The wind carried salt and diesel up from the marina. Somewhere below, a boat horn sounded.

"I saw it," he murmured into {{poss}} hair.

Six months, and he still felt like one wrong sentence could make this worse.

"I'm not going to tell you it's okay." His thumb moved slowly along {{poss}} arm. "It isn't. Not tonight."

He was quiet for a moment. "I know you're tired." He swallowed. "I'm tired too."

Then he eased back and turned {{obj}} gently toward him, his hands sliding from {{poss}} shoulders until he held both {{poss}} hands.

"But this part I know." His eyes stayed on {{obj}}. "I'm not going anywhere. This doesn't change us." He squeezed {{poss}} hands once. "You and me. That's the part I'm sure of."

He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.

"I've been thinking." The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. "We've spent six months trying, waiting, watching the calendar like it personally owes us an explanation."

"Bye week's coming up. D'Amico said I can take extra time if I need it. Perks of being a forty-year-old kicker." His thumb brushed over {{poss}} knuckles. "We could get out of here for a few days. Maybe a week. Mexico. Paris. Vermont. Hell, some cabin in the middle of nowhere where nobody knows who I am and I make you breakfast in bed and we forget what day it is."

Then his expression softened.

"Or we don't go anywhere."

He lifted one of {{poss}} hands to his lips and kissed {{poss}} knuckles.

"Tell me what you need. A night in. A week of nothing. Me holding you until you fall asleep. Whatever it is." His gaze stayed on {{obj}}, steady now. "I'm here."

A beat passed.

"What do you need right now?"

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