Page 145 of Shots Fired

“And why did you have to wear gray sweatpants today?” I snap, clutching my back because the heat pads that are supposed to relieve pain are doing nothing but pissing me off. “You know I struggle to be mad at you when you wear gray sweats.”

His cocky smile emerges, and all I want to do is wipe it from his face. “Why do you think I wore them? I like to think of them as my mid-labor body armor.”

He tips his head to the birthing pool as I drop mine to his chest.

Archer wraps his arms around my lower back and rubs it gently. “The doctors said you could use the water whenever you’re ready.”

I sob into his shirt. “Mum never warned me that labor was this bad. Why did she lie to me?”

The soft beating of his heart causes me to breathe a little slower as Archer continues to hold me against him.

“It’s not too late if you want me to call her. I know she’s only downstairs, waiting anxiously for news.”

I peer up at my husband. He looks and smells incredible, unlike me, who has been laboring for the past ten hours with very little to show for it. Only the puke stains on the oversize Blades top I’m wearing serve as evidence of my struggle.

Shaking my head, I grind my teeth and pull at his shirt when another contraction hits me. “No. We stick to the original plan. Unless anything goes wrong?—”

He tips my chin back up to look at him, confidence the only emotion on his face. “I don’t want you to even start thinking about going down that route. Nothing is going to go wrong.”

“How do you know?” I rush out, another wave of panic slamming into me when I remember the doctor said I was only four centimeters dilated. I have another six to go. There’s no way I can sustain this; the pain is only going to get worse.

Of their own volition, my arms flop down to my sides, any energy I had remaining almost completely depleted.

Archer drops one hand into mine and slowly walks us across to the corner, where the birthing balls are kept.

He lowers me gently onto a green one and then takes a seat on a blue one opposite, this time holding both my hands in his.

We bounce on them slowly, just as we’ve done time and again in our apartment. He even brought one to the last game of the playoffs—which they lost, thanks to Tommy fucking Schneider—just to make sure I was comfortable.

“Look at me, Darcy.” His voice is gentle but demanding.

Lifting my eyes to his, I can feel the tears of overwhelm as they begin to surface, but none spill onto my cheeks.

Jesus, I’m too exhausted to cry.

“Nothing bad is going to happen because I’m here. I know I’ve said a thousand times that I’ll never let anything hurt you or Emily, and that’s because Imean it.” He bites out the final two words of his statement, trying to hammer home his point. “My life is nothing without you in it.”

There’s a quick tap on the door before a female doctor and nurse enter, and I spin back around to face Archer.

He nods at me reassuringly, squeezing my hands in his.

“Okay, Darcy.” The doctor begins speaking, tapping the bed with her hand before pulling on surgical gloves.

“They’re latex-free, right? My wife has an allergy,” Archer quickly asks.

She smiles over at him. “Yes, Mr. Moore. We have it in our notes, and the previous doctor informed me too. Please don’t worry.”

Archer’s shoulders drop an inch as he stands and helps me off the ball.

“If I can ask you to come and lie down on the bed for me in the usual position, we can check how far along you are.”

I buckle over the bed just as I reach it, groaning into the mattress while Archer stands behind me, practically holding me upright.

“The contractions are definitely getting stronger and closer together.” Archer speaks for me. “She’s exhausted.”

When I try to swing a pathetic leg onto the bed, Archer takes my entire weight, and he carefully lifts me onto it. I don’t miss the swoonworthy look the nurse gives him.

I internally roll my eyes. First it’s the phlebotomist, now my nurse.