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She turns slowly, eyes locked on mine. “My water just broke.”

Riley nearly drops her tea. “Now?”

Lo looks down then back up. “I was asking for Ezra. What if the baby is jealous?”

I blink. “Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking.”

She is not joking … about the water or the crazy thoughts that started in her third trimester.

And suddenly, I’m handing Riley her mildly traumatized newborn, grabbing the hospital bag we’ve packed and repacked a dozen times, and shouting for her to meet us there because, apparently, Monday mornings are nowgo-time.

* * *

I drive like I’m training for Daytona, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping hers.

She’s breathing through contractions, trying to act like she’s got this under control. Which, of course, she does. Because my wife is tougher than half the defensive lines I’ve played against. But she’s also doing thattight-lipped-smilething she does when she’s in pain but doesn’t want me to worry.

“Hey,” I murmur, brushing her hair back as we stop at a red light. “You’re not alone, okay?”

She nods then groans. “I just basically pissed myself in front of the world. Next time,youget pregnant.”

What comes out of my mouth next? “I’ll piss my pants at the next game on national TV to prove it.”

She looks at me likeWTF, and then we both start laughing.

* * *

Four hours later, after she’s consumed more ice chips than humanly possible, three near emotional breakdowns—me, not her—and one stern nurse who threatened to sedate me if I didn’t stop pacing …

I hear it.

That soul-deep roar from the woman I married proving further that she is the strongest person I know.

Then a sharp cry, loud enough to split my heart wide open.

“Is it …?” Lo whispers through tears.

“Congratulations.” The doctor smiles, holding the baby up. “It’s a boy.”

And just like that, my knees damn-near give out.

They lay him on her chest, and he’s this tiny, squirmy, perfect little thing with Lo’s mouth and my ears, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more holy than the way she looks at him.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs.

I lean in, arms around them both, trying to breathe through the swell in my chest. “You did good, Lo.”

She looks up at me, tired, and glowing, and strong, so fucking strong I feel weak beside her. “You’re still good with the name?”

“None other would suit him,” I whisper against her sweat-glistened forehead.

She smiles. “Daniel Ryan, you are so loved.”

I can’t speak. I just nod and kiss her, my hand cupping the back of her neck, our baby boy warm between us.

We stay there like that until they take him for what they say is necessary testing, and it may be, but it’s torture for her, and I see that so clearly.

A nurse with a clipboard asks, “Have you decided on his name?”

“Daniel Ryan Brooks.” She turns and smiles at me. “Thank you for that.”

Before we got married, I silently warred with the fact she would have to change her name. I didn’t want her to. She was adamant when she said we were sharing a last name. I told her then I’d take hers. It took a beat for her to realize I wasn’t joking.

Lips against hers, I whisper, “It’s the only name that has ever made sense.”