Interlinked | Leah Williamson

By the time May had almost folded into June, the pace of their lives had slowed just enough to let the bigger conversations breathe. Leah was wrapping up the season - still laser-focused on matches, but able to be more present at home too - and Maddie, ever the planner, had thrown herself headfirst into the process. Not just emotionally, but logistically. Meticulously. Like she always did when something mattered this much.

They'd spoken about everything. More than once.

They'd sat cross-legged on the sofa with laptops and notes, flicking through fertility clinic options. They'd talked to professionals, counsellors, and Maddie's agent. They'd had long, tearful-but-happy conversations at 2 a.m. about timing and logistics and what they were most scared of and what they were most excited about.

And then, Maddie had flown to New York for three days to sit down with Rob and the head creatives at her agency.

Because Maddie's body was her job. And pregnancy would change that in ways no contract had ever properly accounted for. But instead of defensiveness or dismissal, she'd been met with support. Conversations about how her career could adapt, not pause. Maternity shoot opportunities. Editorial pivots. Space to rest if she needed it. It wasn't perfect - but it was possible. And that was all she needed to know.

So, five weeks in, they were at the clinic again.

And it was needle day.

Not a one-off jab kind of day. This was Maddie's fifth round of ovarian stimulation injections - gonadotropins, specifically - which she'd been doing at home every night to encourage her ovaries to produce more mature eggs. Daily subcutaneous injections in her lower stomach, rotated each evening, usually with Leah acting as nurse and emotional support bodyguard in equal measure.

And now they were back at the clinic with Dr. Rachel Bell, their lead fertility consultant and, frankly, one of Maddie's new favourite people on the planet.

Rachel was in her early forties, wore Doc Martens with every outfit, had five tattoos, a son at drama school, a daughter who'd just finished secondary school, and a sense of humour that managed to completely disarm every fear Maddie had brought in on day one.

"Alright, you two," Rachel said, closing the door behind her and plopping down on the little wheeled stool in the corner of the consult room. "Injection five. You're practically pros... or masochists."

Maddie laughed nervously, hopping up onto the paper-covered exam table while Leah pulled a chair up beside her and sat with one hand already resting on Maddie's thigh.

"Pros," Maddie said, but her voice was tight.

Leah squeezed gently. "She barely flinched last time."

"I flinched," Maddie muttered. "Don't lie."

"Yeah, but you didn't bite me again, so I counted that as progress."

Dr. Rachel smiled as she wheeled closer, flipping through Maddie's chart. "Well, your hormone levels are looking really promising, and your scans this week showed a solid follicular response. Four good-sized follicles. That's... brilliant for you."

"Is it?" Maddie asked, brow raised. "Because it kinda feels like being bloated and hungover and full of bees."

Leah tried not to laugh. "She's been nesting in the fridge. Like literally. Just standing in front of it."

"I've eaten five tubs of olives in two days," Maddie added. "My blood is probably brine."

"Well," Rachel said, snapping her gloves on. "Brine is fertile. That's not science, but I'm gonna say it anyway."