Wild for You

by Kendall Ryan

  “I wasn’t sure if sex while pregnant would work,” I say. “It seemed unlikely with another . . . being in the room.”

  “True.” Grant laughs, smoothing my hair from my cheek and neck. “Third parties aside . . . I think you wear it well.”

  “The belly?” I ask, incredulous.

  “You’re sexy as hell.” He sighs, touching his lips to mine. “It’s been tough.”

  “Has it?” I laugh, my eyebrows raised.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I’m sure I have some idea,” I whisper against his lips.

  We kiss then, long and slow and perfectly in sync. It’s the kind of kiss that I doubt I’ll ever forget.

  “I have a gift for you too,” I say once we part.

  “You do?” His voice is surprised.

  “I’d get it for you, but I don’t think I’ll be moving from this spot for a minute.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the dresser.”

  Grant plants a firm kiss against my forehead before he vaults out of bed, younger now than I’ve ever seen him act. I watch him (well, his muscular butt) as he saunters over to the dresser, finding the box and lifting it.

  “This?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He looks at it for a minute, reading the sans serif type on the front, and then on the back, and then on the front again.

  After what feels like a year has passed, I speak up. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a DNA test?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he asks, sounding confused but not irritated.

  “Well, don’t you want to know if she’s yours?” I ask, tapping my fingers across my swollen belly.

  He stares for a prolonged moment before setting the box down on the dresser and climbing back into bed with me. “I hate to say this after you’ve already spent money . . . but I don’t need that thing,” he says softly, his fingertips resting lightly on my arm, drawing inscrutable patterns.

  “Why not?”

  “I just . . .” He sighs, thinking for a moment before he shrugs. “I don’t care. She’s yours. And that’s good enough for me.”

  “You don’t . . . care?” I brace myself for the impossible hurt I know is about to hit me.

  “I don’t. I’m going to love and care for this child, regardless of whether she’s mine or someone else’s. It doesn’t matter to me. She’s your baby, Ana, and I plan to protect and care for both you and your child for as long as you’ll have me.”

  For the umpteenth time today, tears well up in my eyes, a fountain of gratitude pouring from me. What am I supposed to say to that?

  “Okay,” I whisper through the tears.

  “Okay.” Grant chuckles, reaching over to the bedside table to grab a tissue. He wipes my wet cheeks and my nose with a tenderness I almost can’t believe for such a large man.

  “In that case . . . can you do one more thing for me?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

  “Anything.”

  “Can you help me get up so I can go pee?”

  His broad shoulders vibrate with a deep, echoing laugh. “You bet.”

  25

  * * *

  Change of Heart

  Grant

  “Don’t say a word,” I grumble, lacing up my skates.

  Jordie raises both hands in surrender. “Not saying a thing.” He grins wickedly. “Other than . . . you look so pretty.”

  I flip him the middle finger. I got a black eye during our last game. Fucking Vancouver Rebels. Hooligans, the whole team. And since the director of the charity organization thought I would, and I quote, scare the children, I’m now wearing fucking makeup to cover it.

  Apparently, between my unkempt beard and the black eye, I’m a scary motherfucker these days. And so when I arrived for the Little Rookies camp today, the director marched me straight back into the dressing room and grabbed something from her purse, all but shoving me into a metal folding chair. I didn’t realize it was makeup until she was halfway through. I opened my mouth to protest, but she went right on dabbing and blending until the bruise under my eye had mostly vanished.

  “Dude, get over here.” Morgan, our backup goalie, cackles like a hyena. “Cap’s wearing makeup.”

  I grimace at them. “Apparently, my appearance was going to frighten the kids.”

  Jordie chuckles. “Yeah, but now you’re a six-foot-four dude with a grizzly-ass beard who also wears makeup, so what’s worse?”

  “Fuck off, Jordie.”

  He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

  We take our places on the ice, which quiets down my teammates, although I’m sure I haven’t heard the last of this. I’m assigned to work with the younger group of kids, so I head over to the far end to get my station set up.

  The ice has been configured in stations with foam pads sectioning it off into quadrants, and there are nets positioned in each corner to create more scoring opportunities. It makes me wish a program like this existed when I first started.

  Watching a dozen five- and six-year-olds waddle and scoot their way out across the ice in full hockey gear puts a smile on my face. The feeling is so foreign, because I haven’t smiled since Ana moved out two weeks ago.

  “Hey, mister!” one of the little boys with two missing teeth calls, gazing up at me.

  “Yeah?” I bend down so I can meet his eyes through the cage on his helmet.

  “What happened to your face?”

  I chuckle. “Nothing, kid, I’m fine. You want to practice shooting the puck or what?”

  “Yeah!” he shouts and toddles off toward the net, barely avoiding tripping over his own stick along the way.

  I skate behind him, trying not to get hit in the nuts with any stray sticks or pucks.

  There’s not much actual instruction with this age level, just some occasional praise and a lot of picking kids up off the ice when they fall. I spend the next forty-five minutes working with the group while my mind wanders to Ana and my unborn baby. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking of the baby as mine.

  No matter what some DNA test or piece of paper might say, I know how I feel about Ana and the child growing inside her.

  The parents who raised me didn’t do so out of biological obligation, and that didn’t make them any less my mom and dad. As a result, I never felt the need to go looking for my birth parents. I understood the reasoning of why some people feel compelled to, but I’ve never had that urge.

  All I want is for Ana to give me a shot at a future, because I’m pretty damn certain we could be the real deal if she’d only try.

  Holding her in my arms the other night, and the feel of her belly between us. Watching her fall apart when I brought over the rocking chair her mother used when she was a baby. And then, God, making love to her after—it was an incredible night.

  But the idea of her still wanting space . . . the idea of her doing all this on her own . . . it makes me feel like punching something. I’ve tried to be patient, tried to give her space and still be there for her when she needs me. It’s a lot. It’s a damn good thing I have hockey to distract me.

  The season is still in full swing, but before long, it’ll be coming to an end. We’ve done well, but it doesn’t look like we’ll make the playoffs, which should disappoint me. But since Ana’s due date is in June, I’m oddly relieved by this fact. I wouldn’t want to try to juggle the Stanley Cup playoffs and a new baby at the same time.

  Watching these little ones skate around, I find it easy to remember myself as a kid. I grew up without much, but I always had hockey. And now, now that I’m getting older . . . I want something steady in my life. I want Ana. And our baby.

  Realizing that the charity director is trying to get my attention, I skate over toward where she’s standing with a clipboard at the edge of the ice.

  “If you could get everyone’s attention and have them gather around,” she says with a smile. “Your voice is louder than mine, I’m sure.”

  I nod. �
�Sure thing.”

  Skating toward center ice again, I call out to the guys that it’s time to wrap up. Soon, dozens of miniature hockey players and the other coaches are skating toward the exit where she waits, still holding her clipboard.

  “Good job out there today, everyone,” she says. “Hockey is a sport that requires mental toughness, determination, and focus. And the most important quality of all—someone who won’t give up.”

  As I listen to her talk, I realize the same could be said about my relationship with Ana—determination and not giving up are things I’m good at. But then I remember Becca’s advice . . . that if Ana wants space, I’ll need to respect that. It might suck, but it’s true. I can’t force myself on her.

  But even if she doesn’t want a relationship with me, she can’t legally keep my child from me. Pursuing legal custody isn’t a road I want to venture down. I want her to choose me—to choose us. But if she won’t? I may have no choice but to take that test and get the court involved.

  Because after interacting with these kids today? There’s no way in hell I’m going to miss out on the chance to be a dad.

  26

  * * *

  Game Time

  Ana

  “Ouch.” I groan and rub at a tender spot in my lower back. I’ve been puttering around the kitchen for the past hour, cleaning compulsively to take my mind off of how weird I’ve felt all morning. Well, weird is probably the wrong word. I’ve felt crampy and had a backache for the last two hours.

  I take a deep, shaky breath, and touch the firm bump of my belly.

  Contractions. I guess that’s what these are.

  My heart hammering, I reach for my phone.

  “Hello?” Grant’s deep voice offers me some temporary peace.

  “Hi,” I say, intensely relieved. “I’m so glad you answered.”

  “We’re on break. Are you all right?” He sounds a little out of breath. I knew he’d be at practice.

  “I think I’m going into labor.”

  There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Before I can check the connection, I can hear Grant speaking to someone nearby. It’s muffled, but I can make out “have to leave now” and “tell Coach.”

  “I’m on my way,” he says gruffly into the phone.

  In the background, I hear the familiar rustle of his hockey bag. Strange how comforting that sound has become. It’s a sound I used to associate with Jason, but now all I can think about when I hear it is the early morning sounds of Grant getting ready for practice before I manage to force myself out of bed.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, lowering myself to the floor. The cool tile helps me feel a little more control in this otherwise bananas situation.

  I can’t believe it’s happening already. There’s still a week to go until my due date.

  “Are you okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “I’m okay,” I say weakly, but with a smile. “I think as long as you get here within the next twenty minutes, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll make it in ten. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”

  “Okay.” I let out a grateful breath.

  For as long as it takes Grant to drive from the training facility to my apartment, we stay on the phone. Alternating between breathing exercises and joking about my live-in caretaker, Hobbes, slacking on his job, Grant keeps me focused on the present. Meanwhile, Hobbes has curled up against my thigh, his tail wagging excitedly. He sniffs my belly and looks up at me curiously. Hobbes may be more ready for this baby than I am.

  In record time, Grant walks through the door. He’s on his knees before me, even before Hobbes can jump up to greet him.

  “Hey there,” he murmurs, tucking loose, wild strands of hair behind my ears.

  “Hi.” I smile. “We should go.”

  “Where’s your hospital bag?”

  “By the front door.”

  Grant helped me pack a bag for the hospital a few weeks ago when he stopped by for a visit. He also brought me a pie on that visit. He’s been so good to me, even when all I’ve done is repeatedly push him away.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he reminds me, sensing my nervousness. He helps me off the floor, leading me to the door and helping me slip my comfiest flats onto my swollen feet as Hobbes circles our legs anxiously.

  “I’ll be back for you,” Grant tells him, leaning down to ruffle his soft fur.

  Then Grant grabs my bag, which contains a robe and slippers, some toiletries, an extra phone charger . . . the works. Plus diapers and baby outfits I picked especially for the occasion. I’ve been ready for this moment for a while now, but somehow with each passing second, I feel less prepared than ever.

  The stairs prove to be tricky, so Grant gently lifts me into his arms. I must weigh double what I did when we first met, so this is no easy feat, yet he carries me down the stairs as if I weigh no more than my ten-pound pup. I nuzzle my nose into his shoulder, breathing in his scent, which I’ve come to associate with safety and comfort.

  My water breaks in the car, a sensation I really don’t know how to describe. Becca explained it to me like a bubble popping, but that doesn’t quite capture the truly bizarre emptying I feel. It’s anything but reassuring.

  I reach out to grab Grant’s hand, who rubs my knuckles comfortingly. He’s on the phone, notifying the hospital that we’re on our way.

  A nurse in scrubs stands waiting outside the emergency room entrance, wheelchair before her. Grant parks the car, walks around to my side, opens the door, and lifts me into the chair in under ten seconds. Then I’m being whisked down the hall, but everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. The colors of nurses’ scrubs . . . the sounds of quiet conversations . . . the smell of disinfectant.

  All my senses are heightened. But instead of trying to focus on what’s happening around me, my attention is on what’s happening inside my body.

  Grant’s hand is on my shoulder, keeping me tethered to the here and now, an anchor in this wild storm. I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

  And that’s when the pain starts.

  Oh my God.

  I never thought it would be like this. The contractions are brutal now, tearing through me in unrelenting waves. I cry out, unable to contain the sheer panic rolling through me.

  “Grant—”

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

  “But I don’t know—”

  “You’re doing everything right. You’re in good hands. You’re safe. The baby’s safe.”

  With my eyes scrunched closed, I can’t process how or when it happens, but somehow I’m on the hospital bed. The nurses hook me up to an IV, trying to keep me still as I writhe in agony. Grant whispers something about an epidural in my ear, and I nod violently.

  I hear him speaking to the nurse, and a few minutes later, I’m informed that the anesthesiologist is here to administer the epidural.

  Thank you, Lord.

  Grant steps back at the nurse’s request, and I feel several warm hands turning me onto my side. I open my eyes, meeting Grant’s stormy gaze from across the room. He takes a deep breath, encouraging me to do the same. Together, we breathe.

  In, two, three, four.

  Hold, two, three, four.

  Out, two, three, four.

  And again.

  When the nurses help me lie back, the epidural administered, I feel calmer. More capable. As Grant’s eyes lock on mine, I can see the complete trust and admiration in them. He stays by my side as the nurse checks my progress.

  “You’re dilated to a seven already. Good job. We may be ready to push in another hour or two.”

  I nod, unsure how in the world I’m going to do this. It’s all moving so fast.

  Grant stays at my side, stroking my hair, murmuring encouraging things, holding my hand.

  Suddenly, I’m so thankful that he’s here and not traveling for an away game. I always knew that was a possibility, and told myself I’d be fine with that, that
I could handle it. But I know in this moment that was a lie I told myself. I’m so freaking glad he’s here.

  A little while later, the nurse checks me again and announces that it’s time. The doctor is paged, and my hospital room buzzes with activity.

  When the doctor enters the room, I don’t even have time to get nervous, because suddenly everything is ready and it’s go time.

  “On the next contraction, I want you to start pushing,” she tells me.

  I nod, anxious and excited in equal measure. I’m going to meet my baby. I’m going to meet my daughter.

  Pushing is exhausting. I can’t feel anything below my waist, thank God, but these are the longest two hours of my life. I’m quietly sobbing with sheer fatigue by the end of it, sweaty and almost defeated feeling until . . . finally.

  One last push, and my baby is here. A tiny, choking cry and an approving nod from the doctor tell me the same thing. We did it.

  She’s placed on my chest, and when I blink away the tears, it’s almost impossible to believe this fragile little baby is really mine, that I’m a mother now.

  Emotion wells in my throat, and when I look up to meet Grant’s eyes, his are overflowing with tears. I’ve never seen him cry, and the sight of him so emotional makes my heart squeeze. Watching this big, powerful man practically melt with emotion does something to me.

  When the nurses take the baby to clean her off and swaddle her in a blanket, Grant leans over my hospital bed and gathers me in a hug. “You’re amazing, Ana. She’s beautiful.” His deep voice is filled with admiration and awe.

  I swallow a fresh wave of tears. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you, Grant.”

  He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

  His statement makes me wonder if he worked out something with his coaching staff about not traveling for any more games until the baby came. But before I can consider it further, the nurse brings my daughter back, and I secure her in my arms.

  Grant sits in the chair next to my bed, brushing his calloused fingers against her miniature, flushed ones.