Page 51 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
BEAU
A few months later
The last time I felt this specific flavor of panic, we were down five points in a conference final and our starting goalie was on his third Red Bull with a side of what I now know was an undiagnosed panic attack.
That was nothing. This is worse. This is the inside of a hospital at two in the morning, half the city’s sodium vapor lights still humming off the parking lot outside, the only entrance unlocked is guarded by a nurse with the bone structure of a Balkan hitman and the patience of a DMV clerk.
We come in like a three-pronged invasion, Finn darting ahead with the paperwork, Grey behind pushing the world’s most indignant wheelchair—Sage perched on it like a queen on her siege engine, face set to make my day, I dare you —and me running interference, which mostly means apologizing to bystanders as our wheels crunch over their toes.
Sage is making noises like a car that won’t start and swears even the floors here are “calibrated to tilt at maximum inconvenience.” The front-desk nurse, who is built like a relay champion and is only on the clock because the hospital would fall apart without her, asks for Sage’s insurance card and, upon receiving it, gives us the same look one might offer a group of men who just rolled up with a bomb.
It takes exactly six seconds before someone recognizes us. The triage nurse is first, but she plays it cool, only a microflinch when she says, “Sorensen?”
Then a guy pushing a cleaning cart, who stops dead, blinks, and says, “Is this the Storm’s whole top line?”
Finn grins and says, “We got called for tripping.” Which is a dumb joke, but everyone laughs anyway. I try to smile, but my face is stuck in a rictus that feels more like a pregame fight than a birthing class. Sage glares at me. “Stop being famous,” she hisses. “You’re embarrassing me.”
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that sentence.
But then, if I had a dollar for every time I embarrassed someone, we wouldn’t need the team insurance.
The nurse directs us to the elevators with the enthusiasm of a prison guard leading a chain gang, and we herd down the hallway, which is lined with motivational posters and, for some reason, a mural of a baby giraffe.
The elevator is silent. Sage is breathing through her nose, every exhale a slow hiss.
Finn pulls out his phone and starts googling ways to coach labor when you’re not the one in pain , but is immediately derailed by an ad for pineapple pizza and spends the rest of the ride muttering about whether pineapple is an acceptable thing to eat during delivery.
Grey is stoic, which is to say, his jaw is set to granite and he hasn’t blinked since the lobby.
The maternity ward is brighter than the rest of the hospital.
The lights are fluorescent, probably powered by the latent terror of everyone who has ever had a child.
The walls are painted in an approximation of soothing, which is apparently just the same hospital beige with less blood on it.
The first thing I notice is the smell: a cocktail of antiseptic, baby powder, and a background note of human suffering.
A nurse checks us in, takes one look at Sage, and says, “How far apart?”
Sage snarls, “Less than this conversation,” and the nurse nods in a way that suggests she’s seen all kinds. She asks if Sage wants a room with a view. Sage says she wants a room with a bed and a vat of electrolytes.
The nurse says, “Follow me,” and takes off at a brisk walk.
Grey steers the chair like a shopping cart with a bad wheel, which results in a brief sideswipe of a water cooler, then a dead stop in front of a double door.
Finn helps, kind of, but he’s already back on his phone, googling whether epidurals are safe for triplets or just overkill.
I want to help, but my hands are full with the go bag and a balloon bouquet that I regret buying as soon as I see the It’s a Boy in blue letters floating at eye level. I try to hide it behind my back, but the nurse clocks it and says, “Statistically, that’s a bold call,” before ushering us in.
We’re the only ones in the waiting area, unless you count the army of plush toys on the nearby shelf, which I do, because some of them look like they could take me.
I set the bag down, try to flatten my hair, and then realize I haven’t stopped sweating since we left the house.
I take Sage’s hand and say, “You’re crushing this,” and she gives me a look that could curdle breast milk.
Finn sits on the far side of the room, cross-legged, and begins reading aloud the Ten Most Surprising Facts About Labor and Delivery .
The first is that labor can last anywhere from two hours to three days, which nearly results in a homicide on the spot.
The only thing Sage hates more than being late is being made to wait, so when the nurse returns and says, “Doctor’s running a bit behind, but let’s get you settled,” I see the vein in Sage’s temple begin to throb.
The nurse, who has seen worse, wheels Sage to a room that is both too big and too small, and within thirty seconds the lights are up, the curtain is drawn, and Sage is on the bed, tapping her fingers in a staccato that matches the fetal monitor’s nervous little bleep.
I pull up a chair and do my best calm dad face.
Grey begins unpacking the bag, which he has somehow organized by category and color, and lines up snacks, hydration packets, and three different pairs of birthing socks in perfect order on the counter.
I didn’t even know we brought birthing socks.
Finn stands at the foot of the bed, rocking on his heels, phone in hand, and says, “Apparently, some people bring speakers and make a playlist, like for the big game.”
Sage says, “If you put on ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ I will kill you with my mind.”
For a while, nothing happens, and the room settles into a rhythm.
Sage’s breathing becomes the metronome, and the monitor’s beeping is background music.
I check my watch every three minutes, then check my phone to see if the time has changed, then check Sage’s face for signs of impending disaster.
I try to hold her hand, but she keeps swatting me away, so I settle for smoothing the blanket over her knees and getting her ice chips.
I want to say something reassuring, but all I can think of is, “This is just like practice, you know?” Which gets a snort from Finn and a groan from Grey.
After what feels like an hour, but is in reality eleven minutes, a second nurse comes in.
She is young, perky, and either oblivious to our celebrity or too professional to show it.
She checks the monitor, asks Sage how she’s feeling, and then asks which of us is the father.
All three of us answer at the same time, which leads to a moment that can only be described as a diplomatic incident.
The nurse’s eyebrows go up so high they might achieve orbit.
She says, “Oh! All right. Power in numbers.” She writes something on the whiteboard, then asks if Sage has a birth plan.
Sage says, “Yes, it’s: ‘Get them out of me.’”
Grey fills out the paperwork, hands so steady you’d think he was a surgeon, not a defenseman.
A hospital volunteer comes by with a basket of mini-muffins, a stack of Welcome to New Life!
brochures, and asks for a selfie with the all-star dads.
Grey says, “Later,” but the volunteer hangs around anyway, lurking near the vending machine and pretending to read the nutrition facts.
Finn takes a muffin, pockets two more, and starts listing low-sugar snack ideas for postdelivery.
He seems to be in a fugue state. I think about making a joke, but the only thing that comes to mind is, “How many Storm players does it take to change a diaper?” and the answer is probably more than three.
The minutes crawl by, and the tension climbs with every one.
At some point, Finn’s phone dies and he switches to the hospital’s public iPad, which he immediately puts in dark mode and spends ten minutes setting up his own password.
Grey calls the doctor’s office three times and receives three different explanations: stuck in traffic, emergency in OR, paperwork delay.
Sage shifts from mildly annoyed to openly hostile, and I have to admit, it’s impressive how long she goes before breaking.
Finally, after one particularly sharp contraction, she lets loose a string of profanity that includes three words I have never heard before.
The nurse reappears, takes one look at Sage, and says, “Wow, you’re progressing fast.” She checks the monitor and says, “We might be close.” I have never seen Grey pale out before, but the color leaves his face so quick, I’m tempted to slap him back to normal.
“Is it time?” I ask, already halfway out of my seat.
The nurse says, “We’ll get the doctor. Maybe start breathing.” I start hyperventilating on the spot.
Finn stands up, his hands shaking, and says, “Did you know the world record for fastest human birth is forty-two seconds?”
Sage says, “You’re not helping,” but her voice is a little softer now, as if the reality is finally louder than the fear.
The nurse wheels Sage out of the room, says, “Let’s get you prepped,” and the rest of us are left standing there, holding the bag (literally), a basket of mini-muffins, and our own collective sense of doom.
Finn says, “I thought it would take longer.” Grey says nothing, just clenches his jaw and grabs the bag.
I run a hand through my hair, which feels like it’s thinning by the second, and say, “We better follow her.”
Finn looks at me and says, “You lead. You’re better at this.”
Which is news to me, but I’ll take it.