Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
"The baby's coming!" he yells back. "Go!"
I don't remember getting to the locker room. Don't remember stripping off my gear. Jonesy appears at my side, still in half his equipment.
"I'm driving you," he says. "You're shaking too much to handle a car."
He's right. Adrenaline from the win combined with panic has my hands trembling so hard I can barely lace my shoes.
"She's two weeks early," I say, the fear finally hitting me full force. "It's too soon, right?"
Jonesy grabs my bag. "Babies come when they come. Let's go."
We bypass the press, ignoring the confusion as we bolt through the back entrance. My phone vibrates—Mad's OB-GYN.
"Maddison ordered me to call you. She's doing fine," she says. "Contractions five minutes apart. The baby looks strong."
The baby. Our son. We found out at the twenty-week ultrasound but kept it private, our little secret in a world where nothing stays personal.
"Tell her I'm coming," I say, sliding into Jonesy's Jeep. "Tell her not to have him without me."
Jonesy drives like we're being chased, weaving through traffic while I grip the door handle so hard my knuckles turn white. My mind races with every worst-case scenario. Premature lungs. Breathing problems. NICU stays.
"He'll be fine," Jonesy says, reading my mind. "Maddie's already at nine months. My sister had twins at thirty weeks, and they're monsters now. Ten years old and already in hockey."
I nod because apparently, I've lost the ability to speak.
The Stanley Cup. My son. Both arriving on the same night. Life is funny that way.
I hear Mad before I see her—a sharp cry cutting through the hospital corridor as a contraction hits. The nurse points me to room 312, and I burst in, sweating and fucking palpitating.
"Sebastian!" Her face crumples with relief when she sees me. Her hand reaches out, and I take it, pressing it to my lips.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
"Your son" —she gasps as another contraction builds— "has your timing. Middle of the Stanley Cup—"
Her words cut off as pain takes over. I feel helpless, holding her hand while she struggles through it.
"That's it," I say, falling into the same rhythms I use with rookies during tough practices. "Breathe through it. You're stronger than the pain."
When the contraction passes, she glares at me. "I hate you right now. This is your fault."
I kiss her forehead, not taking it personally. The doctor warned me about labor talk. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."
"Did you win?"
"Yeah, we won."
She smiles through her exhaustion. "Good. I didn't want to have missed the game for nothing."
The next two hours blur into a cycle of contractions, breathing, and Mad alternating between cursing my existence and clutching my hand. I feed her ice chips, wipe her face with cool cloths, and remind her how incredible she is.
"I can't," she says after a particularly brutal contraction. "Sebastian, I can't do this."
I lean in close, one hand on her cheek. "Look at me. You're the strongest person I know. You've been fighting for this baby for three years. A few more pushes, and he's here."
Her eyes hold mine, and I see the determination take hold.
"Next contraction, push," the doctor says.
When it comes, Maddison bears down with everything she has, her face contorting with effort. I count for her, coach her through it, doing the only thing I can.
"The head is crowning. One more big push, Maddison."
She grips my hand so tight I think she might break it, but I don't care.
With a final, powerful push and a guttural cry that I'll hear in my dreams forever, our son enters the world. His angry wail fills the room, strong and insistent.
"He's perfect," the doctor says, placing him on Maddison's chest. "A little small at five pounds even, but strong lungs, good color."
He's red and wrinkled and covered in whatever that whitish thing is, with a shock of dark hair plastered to his head. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen … next to my wife, of course.
"Hi, baby," Maddison whispers, tears streaming down her face. "We've been waiting for you."
I touch his tiny hand, and his fingers curl around mine with surprising strength. I'm undone. Completely wrecked by this tiny person we created.
They take him to the nursery for standard checks, promising to bring him back soon. Maddison dozes, exhausted from labor but with a peaceful smile on her lips. I sit beside her bed, watching her breathe.
Three years ago, we stood at an altar, our marriage a calculated solution to a PR nightmare. I knew then that I wanted more—wanted her, for real, forever. But I never imagined this completeness. This sense of everything finally being exactly as it should be.
The nurse returns, carrying our son swaddled in a blue blanket. "Here you go, Dad. All clean and ready for some bonding time."
She places him in my arms, and the weight of him—so light yet so significant—nearly brings me to my knees. I sink into the chair, staring at his perfect face. He's calmed now, eyes closed, lips making tiny sucking motions in his sleep.