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Chapter Twenty-Four

M y dad is right. Finding out the gender of your baby is an incredible thing. It’s also super hard to hold in your hand without peeking. And it’s not the kind of news you want to share over a video call or the phone.

Which is why my dad rented an RV and drove my ass—along with my mom, sister, aunt, uncle, and grandparents—twenty-two hours to Portland for Wyatt’s second pre-season game.

“Your doctor said not to fly. He said nothing about relaxing in a tour bus,” my dad said when he explained his spur-of-the-moment gesture to my mom.

He also insists we call it a tour bus because RVing makes him feel old.

It’s an RV.

“You think he bought it?” my dad asks? He was hovering as I spoke with Wyatt, biting his knuckles to keep from blurting out that we’re here.

Those tailgaters Wyatt was talking about?

We’re one of them. And that jersey he saw?

There are lots of them around. My dad bought one from a vendor on the corner when he went out to rustle up some food.

The guy tried to give it to him for free, something that happens a lot with my dad.

I’ve always found that strange because it’s not like my dad can’t afford to pay for things.

People get starstruck, I guess, and gestures like free coffees or knock-off jerseys with your son-in-law’s name are how they show appreciation.

We chill in the RV, as well as on the makeshift porch my dad set up for our picnicking until an hour before game time.

My dad called in a favor with Jerry to have the video screen guys put up the gender at the first timeout.

It’s crazy to think that the only people who know if my baby is a boy or a girl are my doctor, Jerry, and the video tech running master control.

Since we brought my Grampa Buck along for the game, we take the ADA entrance so he doesn’t have to leave his wheelchair.

The elevator dumps us out on the suite level right by our box, so we’re not lingering out in the corridor for long.

My mom and Rose get my grandpa set up so he has a clear view while I text Tasha our location.

She’s in a different suite on the other end of the stadium, but when she gets my message, she and her girls make their way over to join us.

“Okay, folks. Here’s how this is going to work,” my Uncle Jason says, drawing our attention to the counter in the back of the suite. He sets two buckets on the counter and holds up two rolls of raffle tickets—one blue and one pink.

Are we really about to gamble on my baby’s gender?

“It’s a twenty-dollar buy-in, and you can pick a blue ticket or a pink one. Whatever the gender is, I’ll draw the winning ticket from that color bucket. You can enter as many times as you want, and the winner gets the whole enchilada.”

My stomach growls in response to my uncle’s choice of idioms, but I’m soon distracted by the sudden flash of cash every member of my family seems to have brought along for this game.

“Hey, do I get to play?” I fish out a twenty from my wallet and wave it in the air until my uncle acknowledges me.

“I don’t know. You might have some special intuition that gives you an edge, being the mom and all. Reed? What do you think?”

My eyes zip to focus on my dad, and he twists his lips in thought before lifting his chin a touch.

“What color would you pick?” my dad asks, his eyes dimmed with suspicion.

My brow crinkles.

“If I really have some special power and I say my opinion out loud, isn’t that like securities fraud or something?” I reason.

“ Hmm .” My dad rubs his chin and continues to stare at me.

“Ugh, fine! I think it’s a boy. I think I’m having a boy.

I want to buy a blue ticket. Happy?” I hold my twenty out for my uncle to take, but he consults my dad through a mutual glance for a few seconds.

Suddenly, the two of them laugh, and my uncle takes my cash, then scribbles my name on a blue ticket and drops it in the bucket.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” My uncle chuckles.

“Right? She thinks this family can produce a boy,” my dad adds. “No way she has special insight.”

I know they’re joking, but also, ouch! Maybe I do have insight. Maybe that is a thing, mother’s intuition and all that. Maybe?—

“I’ll take ten blue tickets, please,” my grandpa says, craning his neck as he holds two hundred-dollar bills over his shoulder.

The laughing stops when he throws in his two cents, or two hunny, rather.

“That’s interesting,” my uncle says, rubbing his chin.

“Are you serious? His intuition counts more than mine?” I’m baffled by the logic, but I give up and decide my grandfather is simply adding to the pot. And when I move to sit in the seat near him, he reaches to his right and pats my knee.

“When we win this bet, the cash is yours, sweetheart,” he says.

I hold his gaze for a second, my lip inching up on one side as his does the same.

“Thanks, Grampa,” I say.

He winks and mumbles what sounds like “a bunch of idiots,” and the two of us laugh until the Cyclones take the field for pre-game.

“What about me?” My sister waves a hand from the first row of seats.

“Do you have twenty bucks?” my uncle asks.

She shakes her head.

“Then maybe you can save up for the next family baby pool,” he laughs out.

Ellie’s brow furrows, but when our eyes meet, I mouth that I’ll share my winnings. She seems happy with that, popping her ear buds back in and turning her attention to the field.

“I love that he does that,” my dad says over my shoulder. He reaches over and points out to the field, where Wyatt is taking his time to talk to every player and shake their hands.

“I wonder where he got that from?” It’s something my dad was always good at when he played. He does it still, at practice with the high school kids, and when he’s playing a charity exhibition.

“I didn’t teach him that, though. He just knows to do it.”

Sometimes, I really wish there was a way for my father and Wyatt’s to meet. I wish I had known my late father-in-law. I would have thanked him for making such a great son.

We stand for the national anthem as a local Portland guitarist plays, and my gaze zeroes in on Wyatt’s profile—his helmet clutched behind his back, his broad shoulders, and the slight curl of his hairline along his neck.

He hasn’t had a cut in a while. Superstitious things.

He told me he’d cut it when the season ended.

As the anthem finishes, Wyatt turns, first reaching to his left to pound the fist of one of his receivers, then walking down the line of players to hug Whiskey before resting his helmet on his head and popping in his mouthguard.

I should sit down so I’m out of sight, but something is pulling me to stay on my feet.

I want him to know I’m here—now, before the reveal.

I want him to go out there knowing he has me behind him, in person.

I stay on my feet as his gaze scans the crowd.

The closer he gets to our suite, the warmer my body becomes, until eventually our eyes lock.

“Did he literally spot you?” Tasha tugs my arm down to urge me to sit.

I giggle and hold up a hand.

“Yeah, he felt my presence, I guess.”

Tasha scoffs out a laugh, but she simply doesn’t get it. Wyatt and I are bound together with something so strong it can weave through thousands of people to connect us.

Wyatt shades his eyes from the lights as he holds up his hand in return, then flattens his palm on his chest. I do the same, then blow him a kiss that he catches.

We get the ball first, our return team setting Wyatt up with good field position at the thirty-seven-yard line.

My man seems to have an extra hop in his step as he bounds out to the huddle, tossing his arms around his teammates next to him before clapping to break.

That extra energy results in a twenty-yard pass to the sideline for a first down.

The quick plays keep coming at a fierce pace, the Denver defense barely set by the time Wyatt has the next play running.

It’s a great mix of running and passing, and Wyatt drives the team down the field for a touchdown in seven plays.

“Listen to this,” my dad says over my shoulder. I tilt my head for better hearing as my father cranks up the television in the suite so we can hear the commentary.

“Blake, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’ve seen a quarterback come out this hot for a preseason game, well, ever,” the announcer says.

“I agree, Tom. Wyatt Stone may have been an unknown a few months ago, but he’s someone people are watching now.

And they’re paying attention. Credit goes out to minority owner, Jerry Caswell.

I’ve known him for a long time, and he has a knack for finding diamonds in rough places. He may just have one with Wyatt Stone.”

“That’s our boy!” My dad turns the television down and moves toward me to hug me from behind. I grab his forearm around my neck as my body fills with butterflies.

Then the in-game hostess takes over the video screen with some familiar words.

“What a great Cyclones drive! What fans may not know is that quarterback Wyatt Stone is going to be a dad!”

The stadium erupts with cheers, and my cheeks burn hot.

The camera is going to point to me, and I’m afraid I’m going to look like a weeping cherry.

I cover my cheeks with my palms and bite my lower lip as my grandfather reaches to his right and pats my knee.

I should have dressed better for this instead of the oversized Cyclones long-sleeve tee and leggings, but things are starting to fit weird.

Maybe this moment should have been different, celebrated at home.

I could have waited. Wyatt would have understood.

“Well, Wyatt. We have some news for you today.”

Oh, God. Here comes the camera.

My face is on the screen a second later, so there’s no going back now.

I keep my palms over my mouth, partly to stave off the sudden desire to vomit.

My gaze lands on Wyatt as he stands with his hands folded over his head, his helmet on the bench behind him, his body rocking side-to-side with obvious nerves.

The graphic video begins, and tears prick my eyes as a cartoonish baby football player starts running down field, carrying the ball to the end zone and spiking it before slowly pulling off its helmet.

There’s either going to be a whole lot of hair, pink cheeks, and extra-long lashes to look like a girl, or a mini version of Wyatt staring at me.

“It’s a boy,” I whisper, knowing it in my gut. My words come out a half second before the reveal, and then I’m looking at the cartoon version of my son— our son—on the video board as thousands of strangers cheer.

Wyatt’s hands fall to his chest as he slowly turns to face me, the camera back on my tear-stained face, my dad shaking my shoulders behind me, my mom clapping at his side.

Tasha hugs me sideways before I lean to my left and kiss my grandfather’s cheek.

Taking a deep breath, I wave to the camera and form a heart with my hands.

The camera shifts to show Wyatt doing the same, and when I see the tears falling down his face, I know Denver is in for a rough day.

Today, my baby daddy is going to be impossible to stop.