Page 155 of Heartbreak Hockey

I shake my head. “He’s an adult. If he doesn’t want to be here, I’m not gonna force him. I’ll send him a text now and then so that he knows he’s welcome and hope that he doesn’t block me.”

“All right. At least let me give you a cheer-up blow job.”

But my phone rings again and a blow job might not be on the docket this afternoon. It’s Bea. “Sandra’s in labor, Merc,” she says. “We’re all headed to the hospital.”

“What? What’s going on?” Jack grins his sunshine smile and I’m enraptured.

“We’re about to have us a Baby Meyer.”

* * *

“What are the rules of this house, Jack?” I bellow across said house. It looks like someone robbed the place. I whacked my head on one of the open cupboard doors when I came around the corner. I close them, annoyed, growing increasingly annoyed when there’s no answer.

Now I have to look for him so that I can chastise him.

Tearing through the house, I find him. Correction. I findthem.

Jack has passed out horizontally on the bed. His black t-shirt is rumpled, and his hair appears more golden splayed against the navy sheets like it is. A half-filled bottle has rolled onto its side and leaks into the sheets one drip at a time.

Beside him, Stanley’s on his back, his periwinkle blue eyes darting around, his fists balled, legs and arms punching and kicking the air at random intervals. This one was born with a full head of dark lettuce, convincing Jack that he was destined for the NHL.

I’m able to kiss Jack’s forehead without stirring him, proving I was right about him being over-exhausted and that he should just lie down for thirty fucking minutes. Even in sleep, he exudes the care-free energy I knew him to have the moment I set eyes on him. He’d forgotten it for a little while, but it never left him.

Stanley makes little noises, reminding me that he’s still hungry and I’d better get that bottle back in his mouth soon or he’ll raise holy hell. I scoop him and the bottle up.

“I told Daddy he was tired. C’mere, little one.”

I haven’t dared call Jack “Daddy” out loud yet, especially with the way it makes my heartbeat. Well, not when he’s been awake to hear it anyway. He’ll probably like it and he is Stanley’s parent now no matter how wildly this came about. The first time he held Stanley at the hospital—was that two weeks ago already?—he was gone. I got to witness the moment he fell in love with our boy. It’s not something that asks permission or cares about the weird-ass timelines that humans create in their heads for this kind of thing.

But as I was saying, I’m not afraid that Jack won’t like being “Daddy”. He’ll fucking love it. It’s more to do with how I know he’ll immediately call me Stanley’s dad like I’ve given permission for it by knighting him with a fatherly moniker. I don’t know if I’ve earned that title yet. Will this boy be furious someday that his older half-brother adopted him and decided he was his dad?

Ugh. I don’t know. I’m struggling with it.

Stealing the baby and his bottle, I swaddle him and take him downstairs, putting the sports channel on for background noise. I’m too tired to pay attention.

Stanley’s just finishing his meal when elephant-sized clamoring disrupts the afternoon tranquility and Jack’s stumbling into the living room, still half-asleep. “Fuck, Merc. I’m so damn sorry. I lost him. I lost our child and I don’t know where—” He stops mid-sentence blinking his long lashes at me.

“You mean this baby?” I laugh.

“Not funny. You coulda told me you were takin’ him.” He rubs his eyes and plants himself on the other side of the sofa where he half pouts, half falls back to sleep.

“You were asleep, baby. Close your eyes. You need it.”

“How come you’re not as tired as I am?”

“I am. Believe me. Just more years of practice at hiding it.”

He mumbles something inaudible and has drifted off before he can answer properly. Stan’s out too so I find a movie on Netflix to watch, and this is it folks, this is my new definition of fucking perfect. My heart is full. I’m content. This is where the credits roll as I sail off into the sunset with my beloved.

Sorry folks, this episode of the Meyer-Leslie Bunch is over. Everyone can go home now.

Ding-Dong!

Wait, hold on. The fucking doorbell.

I sink my head back into the cushion. What fresh hell does the universe have for me now?

Toting Stanley in the crook of my left arm, I head to the door. A delivery dude is standing there with a box that has all kinds of holes poked into it. It’s tied with a gorgeous red bow, and I’d detect the scent of that damn Tom Ford cologne anywhere.