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Nolan, unbothered, slides the plate of nachos onto his lap.
Callie springs into action, phone out. “Okay, nobody panic!”
“I’m already panicking,” Fork Guy says, standing next to me, eyes glued to my belly. “Are you gonna name it after me? You never answered my texts.”
I laugh through a contraction, clutching my belly.
The suite turns into organized chaos—Callie’s on the phone with someone from the Mariners, a doctor, someone, I don’t know. All I can focus on is the pain ripping through my lower back and the pressure. I tore my ACL senior year pitching. Childbirth? A whole different beast.
“Think the stadium will let us use the suite bathroom for a delivery?” Fork Guy asks, scanning the room.
I roll my eyes. “Unless the baby’s a Mariners mascot, probably not.”
When the final out is called and the crowd erupts, I’m one hundred percent sure I’m in full-blown labor—and the suite has turned into a sweaty, hilarious circus of nerves, snacks, and too many opinions.
Mila, Jaxon’s mom, sits beside me and squeezes my hand. “I had Jaxon in the elevator at my hotel.”
“Not reassuring,” I pant through another contraction. “I want a hospital room. Is that so much to ask?”
“No,” she says. “But if this baby’s like his dad, we might not make it.”
“Great,” I gasp. “All I wanted was a hospital room. Instead, I get nacho crumbs and Fork Guy as my midwife.”
So here I am, about to give birth at T-Mobile Park, surrounded by snacks, chaos, and more love (and carbs) than any girl could ask for.
CHAPTER 46
CLEAN UP HITTER
CAMDYN
A batter in the fourth position of the lineup.
The next few hours are a blur but there I am, feet in stirrups, about to push a baby out of my body while Fork Guy tries to sneak into the delivery room.
Everything reeks of antiseptic and lemon air freshener. Jaxon, still in his uniform, paces beside my bed, looking like he’s stressed the fuck out, and I want to yell, you think you have problems, bro?
“You okay?” he asks for the twelfth time, voice soft and shaky.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, even as a contraction slices me in half. “Seriously, I’m okay.”
He laughs nervously. “Your face says otherwise.”
I’m about to insist I’m fine when the door bursts open and Fork Guy appears, holding a balloon bouquet and rocking a hospital gown over his clothes—backwards, naturally.
“Am I too late?” He nearly drops the balloons. “Is the miracle child here? Is it crowning? Wait—do babies actually ‘crown’ or is that a Game of Thrones thing?”
The nurse gives him a look that could sterilize surgical tools. “Sir, are you family?”
“Duhhhh.” Fork Guy nods so hard his eye patch (still a thing, now with a Braves logo and a cartoon stork) slips sideways. “I brought ice chips and emotional support.” He flashes a Ziploc bag of ice and a king-sized Snickers bar.
Jaxon rubs his eyes. “What are you even doing here?”
Fork Guy drops his voice, suddenly earnest. “Childbirth is a team sport. I thought maybe I could help. I’ll be the hype man. You know, cut the cord, maybe catch the baby if it comes out fastball style.”
“He’s not catching the baby,” I say, in case the medical staff is even considering it.
The doctor enters, scanning the room with practiced calm. “Only two support people are allowed in the delivery room. Dad, and…?” He looks at Fork Guy and I swear he wonders if I have two husbands. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve gotten that look, but it’s not.