“I know you would have and it would’ve been unnecessary. I’m still hours away from the baby coming. This way, you got to finish the game and be here for the birth. You didn’t have to give up one for the other.”
“I’m on my way,” he says. “Traffic’s a nightmare, but I’ll be there as soon as I can be. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The TV is on mute, but the ticker at the bottom scrolls one headline over and over.
SEBRING STORMS OFF FIELD AFTER HUGE WIN—RUSHING TO WOMEN’S HOSPITAL AS WIFE IS IN LABOR.
I stare at it, breath catching. My heart clenches in a strange mix of relief and irritation. “Ugh. I wanted privacy.”
“You won’t get any being married to the biggest star in rugby.” Malie reaches over to change the channel, but the screen shifts only to another sports network blaring the same news. She sets the remote down with a sigh. “They won’t let one second of this go unreported. It’s news.”
We aren’t even allowed to keep our baby’s arrival private.
The nurse returns. “Let’s check and see what kind of progress you’re making.”
She pulls on gloves, and I wince at the pressure.
“Seven centimeters,” she says with a nod. “You’re moving right along.”
The door bursts open, and suddenly he’s there—sweaty, flushed, eyes wild with panic and relief. His jersey is half untucked, cleats still on, like he ran here straight off the field without stopping for breath.
“Alex—”
He’s at my side in two strides, crouching down, his hands wrapping around mine. He lifts them to his mouth, kissing my fingers, then my knuckles. “Are you okay, babe?”
“I’m fine. At least as fine as I can be with a small human preparing to push its way out of my body.”
“You should’ve told me,” he says, voice low, almost breaking.
I squeeze his hand. “There’s no way I would ask you to leave the game for a maybe-baby.”
“I’d leave any game for you,” he says without hesitation. “Every time. No question.”
I look at him—mud-streaked and magnificent––and know he would do anything for me.
For us.
Malie and Alexander step out, giving us this moment to share only between us. And everything shifts, becoming more urgent.
I’ve chosen to do this without medication, and as the contractions ramp up, so does the intensity. Each one is a wave that crashes through me, stealing my breath, forcing every ounce of focus inward.
Alex is by my side, holding my hand, brushing damp hair from my forehead. His voice is the anchor I cling to.
“You’re doing so good, favorite. Keep breathing.”
Fully dilated now, the nurse gives me the go-ahead to push. I nod, biting down on a groan. It’s harder than I thought it would be—this primal, punishing rhythm of work and will.
My body shakes, slick with effort, and Alex presses his forehead to mine. “You can do it. You’ve got this.”
And I push—not just through the pain but through every fear I’ve ever had. Through every moment that brought me here.
For him.
For us.
For this.
