Page 93

CLEAN UP HITTER

CAMDYN

A batter in the fourth position of the lineup.

T he next few hours are a blur but there I am, feet in stirrups, about to push a baby out of my body while Fork Guy tries to sneak into the delivery room.

Everything reeks of antiseptic and lemon air freshener. Jaxon, still in his uniform, paces beside my bed, looking like he’s stressed the fuck out, and I want to yell, you think you have problems, bro?

“You okay?” he asks for the twelfth time, voice soft and shaky.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, even as a contraction slices me in half. “Seriously, I’m okay.”

He laughs nervously. “Your face says otherwise.”

I’m about to insist I’m fine when the door bursts open and Fork Guy appears, holding a balloon bouquet and rocking a hospital gown over his clothes—backwards, naturally.

“Am I too late?” He nearly drops the balloons. “Is the miracle child here? Is it crowning? Wait—do babies actually ‘crown’ or is that a Game of Thrones thing?”

The nurse gives him a look that could sterilize surgical tools. “Sir, are you family?”

“Duhhhh.” Fork Guy nods so hard his eye patch (still a thing, now with a Braves logo and a cartoon stork) slips sideways. “I brought ice chips and emotional support.” He flashes a Ziploc bag of ice and a king-sized Snickers bar.

Jaxon rubs his eyes. “What are you even doing here?”

Fork Guy drops his voice, suddenly earnest. “Childbirth is a team sport. I thought maybe I could help. I’ll be the hype man. You know, cut the cord, maybe catch the baby if it comes out fastball style.”

“He’s not catching the baby,” I say, in case the medical staff is even considering it.

The doctor enters, scanning the room with practiced calm. “Only two support people are allowed in the delivery room. Dad, and…?” He looks at Fork Guy and I swear he wonders if I have two husbands. I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve gotten that look, but it’s not.

Fork Guy raises his hand, grinning. “I’m basically family. I’ve been through everything with them.”

Jaxon shakes his head, chuckling, but the nurse is already herding Fork Guy out the door. “You can wait in the lobby, sir. There’s a vending machine.”

Fork Guy winks at me. “If you need me, I’ll be outside, manifesting a safe delivery and a left-handed slugger. Go, team!”

The door clicks shut behind him. Jaxon sits beside me and squeezes my hand again. “It’s for the better he’s out there.”

I nod, knowing what he means. Fork Guy snuck into our first ultrasound and nearly got himself arrested when he asked to see the ultrasound tech’s wand.

“You know,” I say, “this kid’s never going to believe our stories.”

Jaxon kisses my forehead, his eyes bright. “We’ll have Fork Guy to prove it.”

I laugh, even as the next contraction hits. Out in the hallway, I hear Fork Guy announcing to everyone he’s about to be an uncle.

Nobody corrects him.

The thing about childbirth nobody tells you: it’s equal parts terrifying, painful, and completely absurd. I’m somewhere between a contraction and a hallucination when Fork Guy’s voice floats through the wall: “Let’s go, Bush Girl!”

The nurse sighs. “Is he always like this?”

Jaxon wipes sweat from his forehead and grins, exhausted. “Honestly? He’s toned it down for the hospital.”

Another contraction hits.

I squeeze Jaxon’s hand so hard he yelps. “Baby, I need my hand to make a living.”

“Deal with it,” I hiss. “You got me into this.”

The doctor checks my progress. “Almost there, Camdyn. One more good push.”

Fork Guy’s muffled chanting picks up: “Let’s go, Bush Girl, let’s go!” clap clap

Jaxon shakes his head, laughing through the nerves.

I focus, breathing, pushing, and suddenly there’s this wild, raw silence, broken only by the sharp, brand-new cry of our baby. The world tilts. Jaxon’s eyes go wide and wet.

“It’s a boy!” the doctor announces, lifting up a tiny, red, furious human.

Jaxon lets out a sound that’s half sob, half laugh and looks at me. “You did it.”

The nurse wraps him up and lays him in my arms. He’s warm and real, with a shock of dark hair and lungs like a freight train.

“You did it, baby.” Jaxon kisses my temple, tears streaking his face.

I look at him, overwhelmed. I have no words.

Jaxon touches his cheek. “Hi Maverick.” We decided early on if the baby was a boy, he’d be Maverick Judge Ryan. I loved the name Maverick and Jaxon wanted to honor his longtime coach and mentor, Judge Allen.

“I can’t believe we made a baby,” I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks.

Jaxon laughs and pulls my hand from around his neck, kissing the back of it gently. “I know, right?”

“He looks like my mom,” Jaxon says, laughing at our son who’s staring at us like the doctor handed him to the wrong family.

“He looks confused.”

Jaxon’s shoulders shake. “He’s probably wondering how we’re his parents out of all the people in the world.” He runs his thumb over Maverick’s cheek. “It’s okay, my man. We don’t know what we’re doing but we’ve kept Mookie alive.”

It’s true. We took Mookie when Jameson was drafted because he had a thing for Jaxon’s pillow and it was clear they had some kind of emotional bond.

We’ve kept Mookie alive. Mookie might say otherwise if he could talk.

And there was that one time we didn’t give him treats and he went outside and refused to come in until his bowl was filled.

The nurse steps aside to let us have our moment, but there’s a commotion in the hallway—Fork Guy, having convinced a janitor he’s “family,” pops his head around the door. “Did I miss it? Is he out?” He’s holding a bouquet of plastic forks tied with a Braves lanyard. “Did you name him after me?”

The nurse blocks him with surprising athleticism. “Sir, please stay outside?—”

Fork Guy leans in, whispering loudly, “Name him after me! Or at least let me pick his middle name! I have a list!”

Jaxon laughs, shaking his head. “We’ll call you later when we’re ready for visitors.”

“I brought celebratory pudding cups! And I can teach him how to eat ramen upside down!”

The nurse pushes him back into the hallway. “Sir, do I need to get security?”

He winks at Maverick. “Welcome to the squad, little dude! May your chakras always be aligned!”

The door closes. It’s the three of us—me, Jaxon, and Maverick—swaddled in this perfect, ridiculous, overwhelming love.

I hand Maverick to Jaxon for the first time. He holds him like he’s holding the final out of the World Series, so careful and awestruck.

“Hey, Mav,” Jaxon whispers, “it’s us. Your mom’s a legend, and I’m basically the freaking goat at baseball.”

I snort, exhausted and happy.

Out in the hallway, Fork Guy starts singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” again, this time with what sounds like a janitor on harmonica.

Maverick yawns, scrunches his face, and right then I know this is our forever lineup.

I’ve never felt so much love in my life and I only just met him.

I never thought something so beautiful could exist. Yes, it’s probably the hormones talking, and in a few weeks, sleep-deprived and raging with even more hormones, I might think differently.

For now, I’m staying in this moment and letting it wash over me.

The stadium lights outside are long gone, traded for the sterile hush of the hospital and the quiet miracle cradled in my arms. For so long, being with Jaxon felt like living on borrowed time because I didn’t know how he felt about me.

I used to lie awake, wondering if I was just a chapter in his story, or if I was actually part of the whole book.

But holding Maverick, warm and impossibly small against my chest, something inside me finally settles.

Jaxon’s hand finds mine, steady and certain, and I know without a doubt: this is it.

This is where I belong. Not in the background of his highlight reel, but right here—messy, beautiful, and real. I spent so long questioning my place in his life, but the truth is, I was always meant to be here, with Jaxon and Maverick.

The hospital room dims to a soft glow. Jaxon sits in the creaky recliner, Maverick curled against his chest, and I swear he looks more nervous now than he did in the delivery room. He keeps checking to make sure the baby’s breathing, like Maverick’s going to disappear if he blinks.

“Should he be making that noise?” Jaxon whispers, staring at our son’s scrunched-up, grimacing face.

“It’s called breathing,” I whisper back. “You’re doing great, Dad.”

Before he can answer, there’s a gentle knock, then the door swings open wide enough for Fork Guy to slip in, balancing a tray of pudding cups and—god help us—a diaper bag he’s labeled “Maverick’s First Shit Kit.” He’s even stuck a Braves sticker on it.

“I come bearing snacks and essential gear,” Fork Guy announces, tiptoeing like he’s sneaking into a bank vault instead of a hospital room. “Also, I bribed the night nurse with a Snickers.”

Jaxon tries to shoo him away, but I wave Fork Guy over. Honestly, I could use the entertainment.

Maverick picks that moment to unleash a tiny, but somehow catastrophic, diaper blowout.

Jaxon freezes, eyes wide and attempts to hand him back to me. “Cam?—”

“Nope.” I stifle a laugh. “It’s your turn. Fork Guy, help him.”

Fork Guy’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas. “Diaper-changing is a team sport. I’ll talk you through it. Step one: don’t puke on your own kid.”

Jaxon lays Maverick on the bassinet, hands shaking, and Fork Guy assumes the role of official diaper-change commentator. “Alright, remove the old diaper, careful—don’t let the poop get on your hands.”

Jaxon peels the diaper off and shakes his head, as if he regrets this decision already. “Jesus Christ, how does something so small do this?”

“I have four younger brothers. It’s normal.

” Fork Guy grins and I think to myself, in the years I’ve knowing this dude, I never knew he had younger brothers.

“It’s a rookie move to underestimate the power of a baby.

Now, wipes. Plenty of wipes. Imagine you’re cleaning up after a chili cook-off gone wrong. ”

I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, but Jaxon’s locked in. Fork Guy keeps up a running commentary, complete with fake play-by-play and a dramatic slow clap when Jaxon finally gets a clean diaper on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a textbook double play! I see a Gold Glove in your future,” Fork Guy declares, bowing.

Jaxon sags with relief, wipes sweat from his brow, and scoops up Maverick, who is now making that milk-drunk, satisfied noise babies make when they’ve ruined your night and your dignity.

Fork Guy high fives Jaxon. “Well done, team. Next time, we go for speed.”

Jaxon collapses into the chair, Maverick on his chest, and Fork Guy sprawls at the foot of my bed, regaling us with stories about his own “first time” babysitting a baby goat in college. I don’t know why, but this is exactly how I imagined my first night as a mom. My guys, all together.

I close my eyes, laughter still bubbling in my chest, and think—this is what I pictured. Chaos, joy, and a little bit of shit, all wrapped up in love.