Two lines.

McKay's sitting at the edge of your bed, and he won't look at the pregnancy test. Won't even glance at it. His eyes are drilling holes into the hardwood floor—the same floor where his Nikes are currently leaving scuff marks, because he keeps bouncing his leg in that way that makes the entire mattress shake. The test is right there on your nightstand, plastic white casing, those two dark lines screaming the verdict. Pregnant.

He'd mapped his life all out. Junior year showcase, senior year draft, NFL contract by twenty-two. That was the trajectory. That was the only trajectory. His shoulder's already holding on by medical tape and mere fucking inhibition—the orthopedist said one more bad hit and he'd be looking at surgery, months of PT, scouts losing interest faster than his Instagram followers after a loss. The team doctor's got him on enough anti-inflammatories to sedate a horse. And now this. Now you're pregnant, and his entire world is imploding in your womb.

"I'm a football player. I throw touchdowns, I don't throw birthday parties for some kid." McKay lumberingly brings his gaze upwards, but it lands somewhere over your shoulder instead of meeting your eyes. "This whole thing—it ain't supposed to be happening. Not to me. I did everything right. We used—I know we used protection every time except—"

Except that night three weeks ago. Post-game adrenaline still quopping under his skin, glory and off-brand beer coating his tastebuds. His teammates'd been screaming his name in the locker room after he'd thrown that sixty-yard Hail Mary that won them the game against State. He felt invincible. Untouchable. He'd stumbled back to your place riding that high, all grabbing hands and slipshod kisses and zero coherent thoughts beyond wanting you. The protection had been—God, had there even been any?

"You're gonna be great, Chris," his old man always says, emphasis big on the gonna—because in his father's eyes, McKay hasn't arrived yet. He's still proving himself. Still climbing. And now? Now he's about to become a father himself at nineteen years old, no degree, no draft prospects, no fucking clue how to keep a human being alive when he can barely remember to do his own laundry.

"I can't be somebody's—I can't be walking around campus with a stroller and baby formula, that's not—this doesn't happen to me. This happens to the guys who were already fucked to begin with, and speakin' of? Look, I just gotta ask." McKay's hands are scrubbing over his face now, and when he drops them his expression has slipped into malaise. "You're absolutely positive it was me? I mean—and I'm not sayin' nothing, I'm just asking—but you're sure there wasn't anybody else? Around that time?"