Page 46

Magnolia Sebring

The energy in the stadium is electric—part nerves, part adrenaline, and a lot of hope. From the suite above the field, the roar of the crowd washes over us. I press a hand to the glass and search for Alex—steady and sure, eyes locked on the ball.

Grand Final game.

We made it.

Or at least, I have. Still pregnant. Still intact. Still not in labor.

Yet.

Malie claps beside me, vibrating in her seat every time Alex touches the ball. “He’s on fire tonight,” she says, nudging Alexander, who responds with a proud grunt.

I smile, trying to match their excitement. But beneath the flowy hem of my blouse, my hand drifts to the top of my belly again. Cramping. Persistent. Not unbearable—but more than simple nerves.

It started this morning, dull and low. Now it’s sharper and more insistent.

Still. This is the biggest game of my husband’s career. I won’t be the woman who cried labor over a few stubborn Braxton-Hicks contractions.

I shift in my seat, inhale slowly, and try to focus on the field.

The baby’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.

The pain sharpens halfway through the second quarter.

It’s no longer mild cramping. It rolls through me in waves—low and sharp. I press my knees together and shift my weight, trying to breathe through it the way every birthing class told me to.

But this isn’t a drill.

Malie catches the movement, her brows furrowing. She leans closer. “Are you all right, lo’u afafine?”

I nod. Lie. Then another pain hits, stealing the breath right out of my lungs, and I grab her wrist. “I think I might be in labor. But I’m not sure.”

Her eyes widen, flicking to my belly, then back to my face. “How close together?”

“They were every ten minutes or so. Now it’s more often––every five to six.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because this game is so important to Alex. If it’s false labor, I don’t want him walking off the field for nothing.”

Malie looks at me, silent for a moment. Calculating. Then she nods. “All right. Let’s get up quietly and leave with no fuss.”

She leans toward Alexander and murmurs something in his ear.

He stiffens. “What’s going on?”

“She might be in labor,” Malie says, calm as ever. “We need the car.”

Alexander blinks once, then lets out a quiet “Bloody hell,” under his breath. “Right. I’m on it,” he says, standing. “I’ll swing the car around. Don’t let her give birth to our grandchild in the elevator.”

I glance at the other wives, the press staff, the retired players sipping drinks in the corner. No one notices as Malie helps me to my feet. We walk, not making a sound.

“We should send word to Alex,” she says once we’re in the hallway.

“No, not yet. Let’s get to the hospital. If this is the real thing, I promise I won’t let him miss it. But if it’s not––”

“He won’t be happy about this.”

“I know.”

But I hope—more than anything—that it’s not time. I don’t want to steal the grandest moment of his career.

The sliding doors of the hospital whisper open, and Alexander guides me in, Malie by my side. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as we reach the desk. “I called Dr. Meera Shah to let her know I was coming in. Magnolia Sebring. I think I may be in labor.”

The woman behind the desk nods, already rising to her feet. “Let’s get you into a room and checked out.”

She leads us down a hallway, the soft squeak of her sneakers the only sound until we reach a small exam room. I change and Malie helps me onto the bed.

A few minutes later, a staff member comes in. “Let’s have a check and see what’s going on,” she says, putting on an exam glove.

She does the exam and I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

When she’s done, she peels off her gloves with a quiet snap and offers a reassuring smile. “You’re four centimeters dilated. Officially in early labor. Time to get you admitted to a birthing suite and call Dr. Shah.”

Four centimeters. I swallow hard, a surge of adrenaline mixed with relief pulsing through me. This is real.

Malie squeezes my hand, and I nod, not trusting my voice.

“My grandchild is on his way.”

Another contraction begins and I begin deep-breathing through it. “He sure is.”

They wheel me through another set of doors into a private birthing suite. The TV already has the game on as though it was waiting for me.

Halftime.

Alex is probably in the locker room right now, hydrating, making adjustments, talking strategy.

My heart lurches.

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

Malie tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“I need someone to go by the house and pick up my bag. Do you think Elias would mind doing that for me?”

Alexander laughs. “Elias doesn’t mind doing anything for his teine.”

“I should text Violet.”

Malie nods. “You’d better or she’ll never forgive you.”

The contractions ramp up as we watch the game––sharp, insistent–– and I squeeze Malie’s hand.

Malie nods at Alexander. She says nothing, but I see the silent communication between them. They’re respecting my decision to not pull Alex out of the game, but both are concerned about him not being here.

“The game will be over soon,” I say. My voice is steady, but my skin prickles with worry.

Alexander glances at the screen and then at me. “Second half is starting. It’ll be over soon.”

From the birthing bed, as I clutch the sheets, I watch my husband dominate the pitch. He is such a powerhouse.

Contractions come and go, often and fiercely, growing stronger. I reach for the remote to turn the volume up, and the announcers’ voices bleed through the pain. “The Wall dominates the game, and it’s easy to see why his team was desperate to have him back.”

I close my eyes when another pain begins and Alexander kisses the top of my head the way I always thought a loving father would. “Game’s nearly over, love. Alex will be here soon.”

Malie stands beside the bed, rubbing my back in slow circles. “Let us worry about getting our son here. You just worry about getting our grandchild here.”

The contraction hits again, steady this time, deeper than before. My breath hitches. It’s pain with purpose—marching toward something life-changing.

I press my hand to my bump. “Your daddy will be here soon. You just stay nice and comfy in there a while longer.”

Malie leans in. “I’ve been thinking about our best move. I think we should call Julia. Communication with Alex through Nate will be the fastest. It’s in the team’s best interest for Alex to stay and milk the attention. Management will drag their feet taking him out of the spotlight.”

“My contractions are getting harder, so I think getting him here as quickly as possible is a great idea.”

I hand over my phone, and a few moments later, she lifts it to her ear. “Julia? It’s Malie Sebring, Alex’s mum. Magnolia’s in labor. We’re at the Women’s Hospital. Can you ask Nate to find Alex the minute the game ends? Don’t go through management—just send Nate. He’ll get to him faster.”

I close my eyes as another contraction rips through my body, and my hand fists the blanket.

“Good girl,” Malie says, holding my hand. “You’re doing a beautiful job.”

Time passes in a blur. I’m six centimeters at my next exam and the pain is growing—sharper, steadier. I focus on the game playing on the television. It’s the second half now. Alex is on fire—commanding, explosive. The stadium is a wall of noise.

The final whistle blows and Alex’s team wins. Chaos erupts on the screen. Teammates are tackling each other in celebration. Confetti rains down.

A reporter pulls Alex aside for an interview. He’s smiling, flushed, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead.

“Massive win tonight for you, Alex. Congratulations. And congratulations on becoming a father, too.”

Alex laughs, breathless, running his hands through his wet hair. “Not yet but any day now.”

The reporter shakes his head, holding a finger to his earpiece. “No, mate. Your wife is at the Women’s Hospital. In labor. It’s happening now.”

The shift in Alex is instant. His smile fades. His eyes widen.

“ What ?”

The camera captures everything—the way he jerks back, tosses the mic, and sprints off the field. The crowd roars as he runs, teammates shouting his name. Security barely gets out of his way.

My heart races.

“Well,” Malie says with a sigh. “I think it’s safe to say he knows and is on his way.”

My hand shoots to my belly when another contraction hits. “I’m in so much trouble.”

“He’ll forgive you,” Malie says. “Eventually. As long as he makes it here before the baby comes.”

We both laugh—nervous, breathless, full of love.

My phone rings, and I’m certain it’s him before I look at the screen.

I swipe to answer. “Hi?—”

His voice is tight, breathless. There’s no anger, just raw panic. “You’re in labor? Why didn’t you send for me?”

“I wasn’t sure. I’ve been cramping all day, but I didn’t want to pull you out of the biggest game of your life over a false alarm.”

“How much are you dilated?”

“Six centimeters.”

“ Six centimeters ! Bloody hell, favorite. You’re over halfway and I’m not even there. I would’ve dropped everything to be there with you.”

“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.”