Page 47

“You won’t get any being married to the biggest star in rugby.” Malie reaches over to change the channel, but the screen shifts only to another sports network blaring the same news. She sets the remote down with a sigh. “They won’t let one second of this go unreported. It’s news.”

We aren’t even allowed to keep our baby’s arrival private.

The nurse returns. “Let’s check and see what kind of progress you’re making.”

She pulls on gloves, and I wince at the pressure.

“Seven centimeters,” she says with a nod. “You’re moving right along.”

The door bursts open, and suddenly he’s there—sweaty, flushed, eyes wild with panic and relief. His jersey is half untucked, cleats still on, like he ran here straight off the field without stopping for breath.

“Alex—”

He’s at my side in two strides, crouching down, his hands wrapping around mine. He lifts them to his mouth, kissing my fingers, then my knuckles. “Are you okay, babe?”

“I’m fine. At least as fine as I can be with a small human preparing to push its way out of my body.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, voice low, almost breaking.

I squeeze his hand. “There’s no way I would ask you to leave the game for a maybe-baby.”

“I’d leave any game for you,” he says without hesitation. “Every time. No question.”

I look at him—mud-streaked and magnificent––and know he would do anything for me.

For us.

Malie and Alexander step out, giving us this moment to share only between us. And everything shifts, becoming more urgent.

I’ve chosen to do this without medication, and as the contractions ramp up, so does the intensity. Each one is a wave that crashes through me, stealing my breath, forcing every ounce of focus inward.

Alex is by my side, holding my hand, brushing damp hair from my forehead. His voice is the anchor I cling to.

“You’re doing so good, favorite. Keep breathing.”

Fully dilated now, the nurse gives me the go-ahead to push. I nod, biting down on a groan. It’s harder than I thought it would be—this primal, punishing rhythm of work and will.

My body shakes, slick with effort, and Alex presses his forehead to mine. “You can do it. You’ve got this.”

And I push—not just through the pain but through every fear I’ve ever had. Through every moment that brought me here.

For him.

For us.

For this.

The door swings open again, this time with purpose.

“How are we doing, Mum?” Dr. Shah asks.

I grit my teeth through a contraction and breathe out the pain. “I need to push.”

Dr. Shah steps in, snapping on gloves as the nurse behind her ties her gown. “Nice work, Magnolia. You’re almost there. Baby’s head is crowning, so this is almost over with.”

Alex stands by my head, holding my hand. He hasn’t let go since he arrived. “You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’re almost there, babe.”

The doctor nods. “All right, let’s meet this little one.”

The medical team bustles around the room, adjusting lights and prepping supplies. Someone makes a comment about the game, about Alex’s performance on the field.

“You just won a Grand Final and now you’re about to have a baby. Big day for you.”

Alex grins, but his focus never leaves me. “Best day ever.”

The nurse helps me pull my legs back, and it’s time. The pressure is overwhelming. Raw. Unrelenting.

And I push.

I cry out, my grip on Alex’s hand tightening. He whispers encouragement against my ear, soft and steady, grounding me. “I love you, favorite. You’re doing an amazing job. You’re so strong.”

The nurse counts, and I push again.

Time blurs into a haze of sweat, groans, and effort. The pressure crests again and again.

Finally, the doctor’s voice cuts through. “One more, Magnolia. He’s almost here.”

I bear down, channeling every ounce of strength I have left. There’s a shift. A release.

A cry.

A loud, healthy, perfect cry.

The doctor lifts him into the air, grinning. “It’s a boy!”

A sob breaks loose from my chest. Alex leans down and kisses my forehead, then my lips.

The nurse places our son on my chest, still slick and squirming. Thick black hair covers his head, and strong lungs announce his arrival to the world without hesitation.

I cradle him close, my gown pulled open so his skin can rest against mine. He settles almost instantly.

Alex strokes the damp hair on our son’s head. His voice breaks when he speaks. “Hello, Lex.”

“Alexander Bjorn Sebring IV,” I whisper. “Welcome to the world.”

The next stretch of time passes in fragments—nurses bustling, soft murmurs, warm blankets. My body is trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the weight of him in my arms and the way Alex keeps pressing kisses to my forehead.

Eventually, they take Lex from my chest, and the nurse helps me sit back against a pile of fresh pillows.

Someone adjusts the blankets over my legs, and I vaguely register the sting of stitches, the hum of postpartum care—but it all feels far away, softened by the baby-shaped wonder across the room.

They bring Lex back, and Alex eases into the bed beside me. Our son makes a soft noise, rooting, I think, and the nurse helps guide him to my breast. Skin to skin again.

Alex settles in, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other supporting our son as he latches on to my breast for the first time.

Peace settles over us.

Soft. Silent. Sacred.

We stay that way for a while—just the three of us. Wrapped in silence, in love, in awe of everything we’ve become. We marvel at every tiny twitch of his nose, every soft sound. Our fingers intertwine over Lex’s tiny body, and I let myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time in hours.

“I saw what you endured when you gave birth. You’re a bloody warrior.” There’s awe in his voice. And love. It wraps around my heart.

“All that pain, and not one part of him looks like me. It’s like my genes didn’t even try.”

“His nose looks like yours.”

I shake my head. “Thanks for trying to make me happy, but no, that’s your nose, too.”

“Sorry, babe. I tried, but he is my little twin.”

A light knock sounds at the door, and Malie peeks in, Alexander behind her.

“I’m sorry. We’re anxious. Is it a good time?” she asks.

Alex glances at me and I nod. “Come in and meet your grandson.”

They step inside, and Malie’s hands fly to her mouth when she sees him, tears spilling over without restraint. “He’s beautiful.”

Alexander approaches with quiet pride on his face. He leans closer and clasps Alex’s shoulder. “You did well. Both of you.”

Malie bends to get a closer look at Lex, her voice cracking. “Alex, he looks just like you did when you were born.”

Alex smiles, wide and shameless. “Then I was a good-looking baby.”

I look up at Malie. “Do you want to hold him?”

“I’m dying to.”

I nod, heart squeezing as I pass my son into the arms of the woman who raised the man I love. She cradles him, rocking in that effortless rhythm only grandmothers seem to know. “Talofa, la’u pele, Tinā matua is here.”

Alex’s eyes mist despite his effort to hide it. “She said, ‘Hello, my beloved, your grandmother is here.’”

Alexander leans over Malie’s shoulder, admiring his grandson. “Strong little bloke.”

For a few precious minutes, everything is suspended—pain, press, pressure. There’s just love. And the quiet awe of new beginnings.

When they step out to give us space, Alex climbs onto the bed beside me, and I lay my head on his shoulder.

“What now?” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead, his voice soft but certain. “Now we figure it out together. Day by day. Sleepless night by sleepless night.”

I smile, letting my eyes fall closed. “We’re a family now.”

“We always were,” he says. “but there are more of us now.”

He rests his hand over mine—both of us holding the smallest Sebring between us—and for the first time in my life, I’m certain I’m where I’m meant to be.