by Sarina Bowen
“What?”
“I’d just sat down on the toilet. Then whoosh! Weirdest thing ever.”
“Wow.” He smiled into the phone even as the reality of the situation set in. “Okay, you need to get to the hospital.”
“I know. I called you first. Now I’m calling a car.”
He heard a voice in the background.
“Actually, Nate is calling me a car. He’s panicking. Hang on.” Mike heard her speak sharply to Nate. “No! Do not call 911. That’s ridiculous. This isn’t an emergency!”
“Want me to handle it?” He had two car companies on speed dial for this very purpose. And the dog-eared pregnancy book on their bedside table at home had warned that contractions would kick in pretty hard after her water broke.
“I’ve got it. Seriously. Just figure out when you can get on a plane for home.”
“I’ll do my best, baby! Hang in there. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” There was a click and she was gone.
He stood there a moment longer, phone in hand, just trying to catch up with the sudden U-turn his day had just made. Then he spun into action. “Becca!”
She came running. “What is it?”
“Lauren went into labor. I need to get home.”
Becca gave an excited little shriek, and pulled a tablet out of her bag. “I’m on it. Give me five minutes to find you a flight.”
“What’s this I hear?” Silas asked, walking up and giving Mike’s shoulder a squeeze. “Is this the call I think it is?”
“You’re playing tomorrow night in Toronto. You ready?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll go tell Coach.” Silas jogged off, a smile on his face. The team would call up a third goalie from Hartford to fly to Ontario as Silas’s backup. The team would survive without him for a game. He had more important business to attend to.
Mike turned around to find his carry-on. He’d forgotten about the two stuffed toys clutched in his fist. But now he marveled at them. The pig was pink and silly, the bulldog a little more serious, with big eyes.
He knew a good omen when he saw one.
• • •
It took him five hours to get to New York, and another hour in traffic to NYU’s hospital. She’d texted him her room number on the labor and delivery ward, but the place was a maze, and he ran through the corridors feeling like an idiot.
Finally he found room 412, popping his head inside to find Lauren in a bed wearing a hospital gown and a freaked-out expression. “Hey!” he said, dropping his duffel and sitting on the edge of the bed. “What did I miss?”
“I’m so happy to see you,” she said, grabbing for his hand. “You didn’t miss much. They keep checking me, but I haven’t made it to ten centimeters.” She pointed at an IV bag which dripped a clear fluid into her wrist. “That’s Pitocin, to move things along.”
“All right.” He kissed her forehead. “How’s your pain?”
“Well . . .” she sighed. “I don’t know why I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,” she panted.
He removed her suit jacket and hung it on a hook. “Do you want the anesthesiologist?”
“I think I do. Oh . . .” she gasped. “Here we go again.”
As he watched, her face creased from pain. She took a deep breath and blew it out.
“I got you,” he said uselessly, pulling her big belly against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his back and groaned. He rubbed her lower back, and she seemed to relax a little.
Eventually she sat back and let out a sigh. “I think that was four minutes since the last one.”
A nurse ran in. “Oh, hello there!” she greeted Mike.
He shook her hand and introduced himself. “She says she’s ready to talk to the anesthesiologist about an epidural.”
“I’ll just page him,” the nurse offered.
“I thought if I didn’t get it yet, the baby might wait for you,” Lauren said, sighing against her pillows.
“Why?” It killed him to think of her in pain because of him. “Hey, I like your game jersey.” He fingered the hospital gown, which had bunnies on it.
She gave him a weak grin. “Thank you for being funny right now. I’m freaking out. I hate freaking out.”
“You are going to be fine. And so is the baby.” He kissed her forehead two more times, just for luck. “But if you want the drugs, just go for it. There’s no championship cup for suffering.”
“I know,” she mumbled against his shirt. “Mike, can I just say that I’m really happy you’ve done this before? At least one of us knows what’s happening.”
“Aw.” He put his chin on her shoulder and reached his arms around, stretching to rub her very swollen belly. “That’s not why I’m unafraid.” He rubbed his new baby through her taut skin. “We don’t need to know anything, because there are a dozen doctors and nurses on this floor who do this every day.”
“Mmm.” She relaxed against him for a couple of minutes. Then he heard her suck in her breath.
Beneath his hands, her tummy grew even tighter as the contraction hit. Wow. The human body was astonishing. “Breathe, baby.”
She exhaled in a great gust. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“I know.” Though he didn’t really. And the last time he’d sat in a hospital room with a laboring woman, he wasn’t even legal to drink. All he remembered from that experience was Shelly screaming at him, and then his first sight of Elsa’s tiny face, red and wet and shrieking right after she was born.
It wasn’t terrifying until they’d handed him that tiny baby, and he realized that nothing would ever be the same. From that point on, he was responsible for three lives, not just his own.
Fast forward almost a decade and a half, and he knew now that this right here was the good stuff. Responsibility is the flip side of joy.
“How are we doing today?” a smooth-faced doctor asked on his way into the room.
“Well, I’m feeling pretty good,” Mike joked. “You?”
“Ouch,” Lauren panted.
The younger man grinned. “That sounds about right. I’m Dr. Phelps, the anesthesiologist. Do you want to talk about an epidural?”
“Let’s skip the talking,” Lauren panted. “I’ll take it.”
Dr. Phelps smiled again. “All right. I’ll be back in a few minutes with my cart.”
Doctors and nurses came and went as Lauren breathed through contractions, waiting for her body to push the puck toward the goal. The only scary moment was when the anesthesiologist asked Lauren to brace herself against Mike’s chest and hold still so he could perform his procedure.
Mike held tightly to her body and stared pointedly at the doctor who was busy inserting the needle into the spine of the love of his life. Careful, he inwardly threatened.
But it went fine, and Lauren was able to relax as her pain became more manageable.
Mike left the room only once to make some calls. He let Lauren’s mother know the baby was coming. He called Hans to make sure he’d made it to the house to stay the night with Elsa. Their favorite manny was living in a different Brooklyn neighborhood with his boyfriend, but he frequently came over for practice sessions with Elsa, or just for dinner.
When the OB decided Lauren was ready to push, a lovely nurse came to perch at Lauren’s side. Mike’s job was to hold one of her knees for each contraction.
It was two in the morning. He and Lauren had both been up for twenty hours. She grimaced with every push, and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Yet she’d never looked more beautiful to him, and he’d never been more at peace. It was pitch dark outside the hospital window. In spite of the presence of the doctor and the nurse, he felt as though he and Lauren were cocooned here together. A championship team of two.
“It burns,” Lauren panted.
“The baby is crowning,�
�� the doctor announced. “Do you want to feel the head?”
“No,” Lauren gasped. “Let’s just finish this up.”
The doctor laughed. “Two more good pushes and you’ll hear your baby cry. Ready?”
Tears welled in her eyes during the next contraction.
“Almost, honey,” he whispered, wiping sweat off her forehead with his shirt sleeve.
But she didn’t seem to hear him. She closed her eyes and dug deep and bore down. He braced her heel in one hand and rubbed her back with the other.
“That’s it!” the doctor encouraged. “I have your baby’s head in my hand. One more push and you’ll know if it’s a boy or a girl.”
A boy. Mike thought of the blue bulldog in his duffel bag, and just knew.
Lauren made a low noise from deep in her chest and tensed her face.
A minute later the doctor said, “Baby boy, time of birth two thirty-seven A.M.” The nurse handed him a towel. “Come and cut the cord, Dad.”
The next sound he heard was a thin little cry. Lauren closed her eyes and smiled. And the room went a little blurry.
• • •
Later, Lauren wouldn’t be able to remember the next hour. She was just too tired. The moment she heard her son cry, she relaxed against the pillow and let everyone else take over.
The doctor wasn’t done with her, either. He said something about the placenta and some stitches. She put her feet in the stirrups when they asked her to and let the doctor and nurse do all the work. In the corner, Mike stood with a pediatrician, smiling over the baby scale. “Eight pounds!” her husband chuckled. “No wonder you were early.”
“Good Apgar score,” the pediatrician said, and Lauren closed her eyes.
The baby’s cry sounded angrier now. “I’ve got you,” Mike said, his low voice the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. “I know Mommy just spent a whole day squeezing your head. But that part’s over.”
She was too tired to laugh.
When she opened her eyes again she saw Mike seated in a chair under the window, the swaddled baby nestled in one arm.
The nurse patted Lauren’s hand. “Would you like to try to nurse him? He’s sucking on your husband’s fingertip like a champ.”
“Sure,” Lauren slurred.
The nurse helped her sit up.
“I have to hand him over already?” Mike complained. Then he gave her a huge smile, the kind that shook her out of her exhausted daze. “He looks just like me.”
The nurse laid the baby right across Lauren’s deflated stomach. For the first time she looked down into the red, wrinkled face of her son, who looked back at her with blinking eyes.
She didn’t realize she was crying until Mike grabbed a tissue and dabbed her face. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m just so happy he’s here.”
“That took a long time,” the nurse sympathized.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Mike agreed, giving Lauren a private grin.
Her new baby opened his little mouth and clamped it over her nipple when the nurse guided his head into place. Lauren watched with wonder while his little mouth began to work.
“Look at ’im go,” Mike encouraged.
The nurse got out of the way, and Mike sat down beside the bed. He propped an elbow on the bed and smiled up at her. “Can I take your picture?”
“God no,” she said quickly. “I’m a mess.”
“Please? I won’t show anybody, Lo. It’s just for us. We’re not afraid of messes, right?” His big dark eyes begged.
“Okay, yes.”
He grinned and pulled out his phone. “If only we’d won the Cup, we could have had one of those shots with the baby inside it.” He aimed the camera lens at her. “You’ll just have to have another one next year.”
Exhausted from labor, Lauren groaned.
“Both of you say ‘cheese’!”
The eye roll she gave him was captured for a photo that would end up on the mantel in their bedroom for decades to come. Messes and all.
Don’t miss the first book in the
Brooklyn Bruisers series
ROOKIE MOVE
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Continue reading for a preview.
In the HR office, Leo filled out approximately seven thousand forms. There were contact forms and health forms. Tax documents. A public relations survey—favorite charities and past experience. The stack of paperwork was endless.
Yet if Coach Karl had his way, he’d be on the next plane to Michigan.
When Leo took a break to raise his agent on the phone, the man confirmed that Coach Karl could send him back to the minors at his whim. “They have to honor the financial parts of your contract,” he said, “so you’ll make the big bucks for two years, no matter what. But they don’t have to keep you in Brooklyn. They can stash you in the minors.”
“That’s the worst that can happen?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” the agent hedged. “I mean, if the new coach really hates your guts, he could prevent you from being traded to another team that wants you. But that would be both expensive and extreme.”
Jesus. “Good to know,” he grumbled.
After that uplifting conversation, and his hour in the HR office, Becca brought him a shiny box. “Here,” she said. “Everyone on the team gets a party favor.” He lifted the lid to find a large, sleek, nearly weightless titanium phone. At least he assumed it was a phone. “I’m going to port your number onto the Katt Phone . . .” She covered her mouth. “Whoops. That’s our nickname for them. The real name is the T-5000. Anyway—you’ll carry this for as long as you’re a member of the team.”
“Okay.” If only he knew how long that would be.
“The big app on the front page will always know everything about your schedule—where to be, and when. When you’re traveling, we push local weather and traffic information to you, as well as cab company numbers and restaurants. The floorplan of every hotel where you’ll stay. Your room number. Everything.”
“Got it,” Leo said, fingering the device’s cool edge. Talking on this thing would be like holding a large slice of bread up to the side of his face. But that was a small price to pay to join the team.
“There’s a narrow light strip all around the phone that changes color when it wants your attention,” Becca continued. “You’ll see. If the edges of the phone glow yellow, there’s an update you need to see. If it glows red, there’s an emergency, or an important change of plans.”
“Groovy.”
“And one more tip?” Becca offered. “When you ask the phone a question, if you say Nate’s name first, you’ll get a priority hyper-connection. So don’t just say, ‘What time is the jet leaving?’ Say, ‘Nate, what time is the jet leaving?’”
“Got it.”
“That feature will even swap you onto another cell phone network if you don’t have enough bars. It’s awesome. If a bit egotistical.” She whispered this last bit, and Leo grinned. “Well.” She clapped her hands once. “Let’s get you to the players’ lounge.”
She led him past a big open room which was set up for a press conference—with a table at one end and rows of folding chairs lined up all the way to the back of the room. Beyond that, she opened another door to reveal a large lounge area, with sofas and a pool table. It was a gorgeous, comfortable room, and it was full of hockey players wearing suits and purple ties—the team color for the Brooklyn Bruisers.
Several heads turned in his direction, and Leo was confronted with the reality that this should have been a really exciting moment for him—meeting his new NHL teammates. But Coach Karl had robbed him of that joy. In order to become a true member of this team, it would be an uphill battle against all of Karl’s objections.
He didn’t know if it was possible, but he’d die trying.
And hey, he comforted himself, scanning the
guys in this room, at least if Karl succeeds at tossing your ass by the end of the day, you’ll never have to wear a purple tie.
“Gentlemen,” Becca said, clapping her hands. A couple of conversations stopped, heads turning in their direction. “This is Leo Trevi, a forward, and Mr. Kattenberger’s newest trade.”
There was a murmured chorus of “yo” and “welcome.”
“Hey, man.” A player waved from the sofa, and Leo recognized him as the team’s current captain, Patrick O’Doul. At thirty-two years old, he’d been scoring for this team long before Nate bought it and brought it to Brooklyn. They’d had a difficult couple of seasons, but it wasn’t O’Doul’s fault.
“Hey,” Leo said. “Glad to be here.” He wanted to be a member of this team so fucking bad. But walking into this room wasn’t a moment of victory—it was more like the preparation for battle. Knowing that didn’t make Leo feel like the friendliest guy in the world.
“He doesn’t have a locker yet,” Becca said. “Will you do any rearranging? Or shall we give him the, um, open spot?”
O’Doul transferred a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, gazing up at Leo with his hands at the back of his head. Maybe he affected an easy disposition, but Leo could still see him sizing up the new guy, looking for weakness. “Put ’im in the open spot,” he said finally.
Until that moment, Leo hadn’t properly appreciated the fact that getting a crack at the NHL was like being the recipient of a donor organ—someone else had to suffer to give him his big break. Hopefully he wouldn’t be offering up a lung to some other soul before the day was out.
“The publicist will arrive shortly to brief everyone on the press conference,” Becca said. “Until then, make yourself at home.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“So where you from?” O’Doul asked lazily.
“Here. Grew up in Huntington on the North Shore. Been watching this team forever. When I was five is the first time my dad got season tickets to the . . .”
O’Doul held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t say it. Kattenberger doesn’t allow anyone to speak the old franchise name.”
