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* story deals briefly with pregnancy loss *

"I'm late."

The words slipped out before Micah could stop them, a soft murmur as she scrolled through her period tracker. The date on the screen caught her eye. The numbers lined up as they always did—until they didn’t.

They hung in the air, light and casual, as if they meant nothing. Micah continued, wiping toothpaste from her lips, rinsing her mouth, like it was just another day.

But then, she froze.

She checked the app again, swiping quickly over the screen.

No way. It had to be a mistake.

But it wasn’t.

The heaviness didn’t hit her—not right away. She stared at the screen. Something in the back of her brain told her she should be reacting, but all she could do was stand there, staring at the numbers as if they didn’t belong to her.

The girls had insisted on taking her out to celebrate the Reds interview. It was a big deal, a steppingstone in her career, a chance to prove herself and get closer to her dream job with the Yankees.

The night was a celebration to remember. The energy was high, laughter easy, and the drinks flowed without interruption.

But it was also a blur. She knew there had been a guy. He was cute. Funny. But the details of him, of the night, slipped away the more she tried to grab them.

Micah opened her contacts again, scrolling through the list. Her thumb hovered over the name at the bottom—Cute Guy Bar.

She’d saved him like that, no last name, no real detail, just a reminder of a night that now felt like a lifetime ago. Her finger tapped the name, and the number appeared—97926.

Not a full phone number. Just five random digits. Useless.

Micah blinked, shaking herself out of the haze. She couldn’t get stuck here, not now.

The off-season had slowed the world, but not her—the Reds interview was coming, her chance to prove herself in a field dominated by men, and she would not let fear or uncertainty derail her. She set the phone down, opened her laptop, and buried herself in stats and player profiles, sharp and focused, because the rest—the test, the queasy mornings, the unspoken question—could wait.

The hours passed in a blur of stats and preparation. She didn’t notice when the sun dipped below the horizon.

By the time she closed her laptop, exhaustion hit her all at once. She leaned back in her chair, stretching, muscles aching from the tension of the day. She was as ready as she could be.

But there was still that nagging thought—the test.

She glanced at the bathroom door, and for a moment, going to bed seemed easier. But no. She’d promised herself she’d deal with it. It wasn’t going away.

Micah walked toward the bathroom, steps slow. This would be the last time she thought about it today.

There was no turning back.

The test would tell her what she already suspected. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, she’d know soon enough.

Micah stared at the pregnancy test on the counter. Two pink lines—clear, undeniable. They burned into her vision, a contradiction to everything she’d worked for, everything she’d dreamed of.

The test felt like a betrayal, like a buzzer calling the game early—an unwelcome reality she hadn’t asked for. For a second, she thought about throwing it away, but instead, she held it up, as if staring long enough might make the lines disappear.

“No,” she muttered. “This isn’t happening.”

The denial came automatically, as natural as her next breath. She had an interview in two weeks—with the Cincinnati Reds. The job she’d worked toward for years. She had earned this. She had sacrificed too much to let something like this throw her off track.

But the test didn’t care about her plans.

Micah snatched the test, fingers shaking, and shoved it into the trash as if she could outrun its meaning. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the sinking feeling growing heavier in her chest. She inhaled deeply, but the weight wouldn’t budge.

She stared at her reflection—eyes wide, skin pale—like a benched player unsure how to get back on the field. But she would. She had to. This wouldn’t define her.

For the first time in years, everything she’d worked for felt like it was slipping through her fingers, like sand falling through an open hand.

The familiar rush of adrenaline hit, the one that pushed her to compartmentalize when things got tough. She did what she did best. She threw herself into work; convinced herself this was just stress. A fluke. A false positive. She was on birth control. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

For days, she worked relentlessly. She woke early, stayed up late, keeping busy enough to ignore the gnawing feeling in her gut. But she wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet.

Her friends noticed, of course.

Dalia was the first to say something.

“You’ve been off,” Dalia said, eyes narrowing as they sat at their regular coffee spot. “Not your normal ‘baseball-obsessed’ off. What’s going on?”

Micah shrugged, stirring her latte a little too hard. “It’s just the interview. You know how it gets. Pressure, nerves, all that.”

Dalia leaned back, arms crossed, her stare cutting through the deflection. “Right. And the way you’ve been glued to your phone, like it’s about to blow up—that’s just interview prep too?”

 “I’m fine. Seriously. Just… busy.”

Dalia didn’t let up. “You’ve been more off than usual,” she said, her tone softening, but still pressing. “If something’s up, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

“I’m just… nervous about the interview. It’s a big deal.”

Dalia wasn’t convinced. She studied Micah like a coach sizing up a player hiding an injury. Micah’s phone buzzed. Tristan. Of course, she knew something was up.

Micah hesitated, then answered. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

She decided to be brave. “Hypothetically… if someone were late…”

“Oh, hell no,” Tristan shot back.

Dalia leaned in. “Micah, tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m probably joking,” Micah said, her voice tight, strained, like she was forcing the words out. It was a lie. She knew it. Tristan knew it. But neither of them was ready for the truth.

A heavy pause settled before Tristan spoke again, quieter. “Who?”

Micah hesitated. It had just been a night out. A ball game on the TVs. A guy with an easy smile—someone forgettable at the time, but now? Now, he felt like a shadow looming over her.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Micah exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I know some things,” she muttered, but it was weak. A deflection.

Dalia leaned forward, fingers tapping her coffee cup. “Like?”

Micah dragged a hand through her hair, scrambling for details. “There was a guy. He was cute. I don’t remember his name. It was just supposed to be fun.”

“Okay, let’s backtrack,” Tristan said. “Where’d you meet him?”

Micah hesitated, then confessed. “That night we all went out. It was just… a one-night thing.”

“That guy from the bar?” Dalia asked. “Have you talked to him?”

Micah shook her head. “I don’t have his name. Or his number.”

Dalia leaned in. “Well, at least we know where you met him. Maybe he goes there a lot. Maybe someone will remember him.”

The next week was a cycle of pretending nothing was wrong and desperately trying to piece together the truth.

Micah threw herself into interview prep—Reds stats, player profiles, practice interviews—anything to avoid thinking about it. Her phone buzzed constantly with texts from Tristan and Dalia, urging her not to give up, though she insisted she had.

By the fifth day, she lay in bed, phone on her stomach, considering asking the bartender if he remembered the guy. Then she decided she was insane.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, rolling onto her side and forcing her eyes shut.

She didn’t even know if she was keeping it.

The thought came fast, sharp, and terrifying. She wasn’t ready for this.

At twenty-nine, she’d worked too hard, fought too long, sacrificed too much. The idea of a baby—of being responsible for another life—felt alien, separate from the future she’d mapped out.

But she also wasn’t ready to say the alternative out loud.

By the sixth day, the nausea started. Not constant, but enough. Enough to leave her gripping the sink in the morning, staring at her reflection, trying to breathe through it.

She needed to focus. The interview was all that mattered. The pregnancy—this thing growing inside her—wasn’t real yet. Not until she acknowledged it.

And she wouldn’t. Not until after she got the job. That was the deal.

For now, she’d push it down, lock it away, and become the person she needed to be.

When Dalia texted—We should go to the bar. Ask around.—Micah didn’t hesitate: No. It doesn’t matter.

When Tristan followed up—You should at least try to find him.—she ignored it.

She had an interview to ace. Everything else could wait.

And Micah was on fire.

The interview went better than she’d hoped. She walked into Great American Ball Park like she belonged there. The panel threw their toughest questions at her—situational analysis, player knowledge, on-camera adaptability—and she handled them all like she was already in the job.

Leaving the stadium, Cincinnati felt different. Bigger. Full of possibility. This was it. The thing she’d been chasing for years.

Her phone buzzed.

Dalia: We got his number. Bartender remembered you. Pointed him out. You’re welcome.

Micah stopped mid-step, heart stuttering. The number appeared in the next text.

She locked her phone without responding.

For the rest of the trip, she dodged it like a curveball, replaying the interview in her head—until she was back in Chicago, standing in her apartment, staring at her phone.

She sat on the couch, typing and deleting messages, her heart pounding. Finally, she sent: Hey. This is Micah. We met a few weeks ago at the bar. Can we talk?

She hit send, then waited. Minutes stretched into hours. Nothing. The message sat there—unread, or ignored. She checked her signal, checked if it sent. It had.

Exhausted, she stretched on the couch, phone in hand, telling herself not to let it consume her. But as she drifted off, her last thought was a stubborn hope for a reply.

There wasn’t.

The next time her phone rang, it wasn’t him. It was Cincinnati.

Her new job should have been all she thought about. It was everything she’d worked for—officially hired as a Reds sideline reporter. She should have been drowning in research, perfecting her delivery, prepping for the season ahead.

Instead, in the quiet moments, she found herself scrolling. Searching.

It didn’t take long to find him on Facebook.

His name was Matt Donnolly.

A finance banker, based in Chicago. Pictures of him at charity events, group shots with his friends at Bears games, holiday posts with his family. He had a life together, the kind of life that didn’t seem to leave room for a mistake like this.

A mistake.

Micah hated that word, but it didn’t matter now. Then it happened—the blood, a rust-red spot that sent a cold shock through her.

It’s just stress, she told herself. Or travel. But a voice whispered something else, something she wasn’t ready to hear.

She ignored it for days, but the spotting didn’t stop. It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t normal. Her gut told her this wasn’t right.

She made the appointment.

The doctor confirmed it: no pregnancy hormones. Whether it was a miscarriage or stress, she didn’t know. But now, it was nothing.

The doctor’s words echoed in her ears, 'No pregnancy hormones.' She could feel the heaviness lift in one sense, but a new kind of hollow ache settled in its place. It wasn’t just relief—it was the absence of something that could have been. She wasn’t ready for this loss, for the possibility of a life she hadn’t allowed herself to fully imagine. It wasn’t grief, not exactly. More like the ghost of a road she hadn’t walked, but one that would have changed everything if she had. She let the prescription crumple in her hand, her chest tight, not sure if the ache was from the absence of the baby or the dreams that had almost been hers, then weren’t.

And that should have been the end of it.

Until her phone rang.

She almost didn’t answer. Almost let it go to voicemail. But something made her glance down.

Matt.

For a second, she thought she was seeing things.

 Her thumb hovered before she finally swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Micah,” his voice was warm, surprised. “Hey. I’m glad you texted.”

She swallowed. “Hi.”

“Sorry for not getting back sooner—I was on a work trip. But I’d love to grab a drink sometime.”

A few days later, they met at a quiet pub. She’d planned to tell him everything, but as they talked, something shifted. He was kind. Funny. Real. For the first time in weeks, she felt seen.

She almost told him. Instead, she asked, “So, tell me something real about yourself.”

Matt smiled, that same easy grin. “That’s a hell of an opening line.”

She laughed, feeling lighter, like a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying had started to slip away. Maybe this was enough. For now.

When they parted, Matt said, “I’d like to do this again. If you want.”

Micah nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Riding the train home, Micah stared out at the blur of city lights, a flicker of hope cutting through the weight of the past few weeks. She thought of Matt, of the life she’d built, and the one she hadn’t let herself imagine—maybe they didn’t have to be at odds. Her Reds press pass waited at home, a promise kept, but her phone held another kind of possibility. As the train slowed, she sent a text: Thanks for tonight.