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FORTY-FIVE

HANNAH

“Who are you texting?” With a grimace, I clutch my belly and settle on the bed. Goddamn, this hurts just as much as I’d expect it to.

Rather than answer, Millie continues tapping away at her phone’s screen.

“Hello, lady in labor, here. You can’t ignore me.”

When she finally snaps her head up, she at least has the decency to give me a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” She slips her phone into her back pocket and shuffles closer. “How are you feeling? What do you need?”

Even as my stomach tightens with the start of another contraction, I have the wherewithal to sense that Millie is hiding something. “ Who were you texting?”

She looks away, like she really thinks I’ll let this go.

I hit the bed with my palm. “Dammit, Millie. Just tell me.”

“Sara.”

My lungs seize up. Or maybe it’s a contraction. I don’t know. “I told you not to say anything yet. Daniel needs to remain focused. We’ve got hours. You heard the doctor.”

The cramps started this morning. Maybe I should have mentioned it, but I was certain they were Braxton Hicks contractions. There was no way I’d show up at the hospital just to be told I’m having gas pains, so I figured I’d wait it out. And I didn’t mention it to Daniel because I didn’t want him to be preoccupied on the ice.

But minutes after the game started, the cramps got intense, and after Daniel scored, the pain only compounded. Maybe it was the jumping up and down—not that the movement was all that abrupt; let’s be honest, I’m nine months pregnant; if I’d done more than bend my knees and bounce, I would have wet myself—or maybe it was the sharp contraction that hit just as I was sitting, but I was hit with an irrational fear that if I didn’t book it out of there, I’d be giving birth in Bolts Arena. And while I’m sure Beckett would swear that giving birth on any property owned by the Langfields was good luck, I wasn’t going to risk it.

“He scored again.”

“Great,” I grit out. “Now he can go for the hat trick and then come have a baby with me.”

Millie stares at me like I’m a toddler throwing a tantrum. Or maybe just a pregnant woman whom she thinks is being unreasonable. She’s about to patronize me with kind words, hoping to reason with me. I can see it in her eyes. “My brother would never forgive me if I didn’t tell him what was going on.”

“ Millie .” I drag each syllable out as another contraction rolls through me.

Even though I want to yell at her, I take the hand she offers me and squeeze.

“Breathe,” she says, her tone gentle, as if she’s speaking to Vivi.

Is there a single word in the English language more annoying than that for a woman in labor?

I’m trying to take a breath, but there’s an anvil working its way through my body. How am I supposed to suffer through the sensation and remember to breathe? When the pain from the contraction recedes, I fall back against the pillow and glare at the ceiling.

Millie hovers over me, her curly dark hair backlit by the dim lighting above her, and in that same voice she uses with her two-year-old, she says, “You’ve made Daniel the happiest I’ve ever seen him. You are going to be an incredible mother, and I’m so happy you’ll be my nephew’s mom. But I don’t keep secrets from my brother.”

I scowl at her, though my anger has evaporated. “Except when you were banging his coach.”

She laughs. “Touché.”

Ridiculously, I can’t help but smile. “Let’s get some rest before hurricane Daniel arrives.”

She laughs along with me, no doubt knowing exactly what I’m talking about. That man is sure to be in a tizzy until he sets his sights on me, and then he’ll be overbearing until he knows I’m all right.

As I rub my belly, tears prick my eyes. After today, I won’t feel this little guy kicking at my insides anymore. By this time tomorrow, I’ll have a baby in my arms instead. I’m going to be a mom.