But the idea of her still wanting space . . . the idea of her doing all this on her own . . . it makes me feel like punching something. I’ve tried to be patient, tried to give her space and still be there for her when she needs me. It’s a lot. It’s a damn good thing I have hockey to distract me.
The season is still in full swing, but before long, it’ll be coming to an end. We’ve done well, but it doesn’t look like we’ll make the playoffs, which should disappoint me. But since Ana’s due date is in June, I’m oddly relieved by this fact. I wouldn’t want to try to juggle the Stanley Cup playoffs and a new baby at the same time.
Watching these little ones skate around, I find it easy to remember myself as a kid. I grew up without much, but I always had hockey. And now, now that I’m getting older . . . I want something steady in my life. I want Ana. And our baby.
Realizing that the charity director is trying to get my attention, I skate over toward where she’s standing with a clipboard at the edge of the ice.
“If you could get everyone’s attention and have them gather around,” she says with a smile. “Your voice is louder than mine, I’m sure.”
I nod. “Sure thing.”
Skating toward center ice again, I call out to the guys that it’s time to wrap up. Soon, dozens of miniature hockey players and the other coaches are skating toward the exit where she waits, still holding her clipboard.
“Good job out there today, everyone,” she says. “Hockey is a sport that requires mental toughness, determination, and focus. And the most important quality of all—someone who won’t give up.”
As I listen to her talk, I realize the same could be said about my relationship with Ana—determination and not giving up are things I’m good at. But then I remember Becca’s advice . . . that if Ana wants space, I’ll need to respect that. It might suck, but it’s true. I can’t force myself on her.
But even if she doesn’t want a relationship with me, she can’t legally keep my child from me. Pursuing legal custody isn’t a road I want to venture down. I want her to choose me—to choose us. But if she won’t? I may have no choice but to take that test and get the court involved.
Because after interacting with these kids today? There’s no way in hell I’m going to miss out on the chance to be a dad.
26
* * *
Game Time
Ana
“Ouch.” I groan and rub at a tender spot in my lower back. I’ve been puttering around the kitchen for the past hour, cleaning compulsively to take my mind off of how weird I’ve felt all morning. Well, weird is probably the wrong word. I’ve felt crampy and had a backache for the last two hours.
I take a deep, shaky breath, and touch the firm bump of my belly.
Contractions. I guess that’s what these are.
My heart hammering, I reach for my phone.
“Hello?” Grant’s deep voice offers me some temporary peace.
“Hi,” I say, intensely relieved. “I’m so glad you answered.”
“We’re on break. Are you all right?” He sounds a little out of breath. I knew he’d be at practice.
“I think I’m going into labor.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. Before I can check the connection, I can hear Grant speaking to someone nearby. It’s muffled, but I can make out “have to leave now” and “tell Coach.”
“I’m on my way,” he says gruffly into the phone.
In the background, I hear the familiar rustle of his hockey bag. Strange how comforting that sound has become. It’s a sound I used to associate with Jason, but now all I can think about when I hear it is the early morning sounds of Grant getting ready for practice before I manage to force myself out of bed.
“Thank you,” I whisper, lowering myself to the floor. The cool tile helps me feel a little more control in this otherwise bananas situation.
I can’t believe it’s happening already. There’s still a week to go until my due date.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“I’m okay,” I say weakly, but with a smile. “I think as long as you get here within the next twenty minutes, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll make it in ten. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”
“Okay.” I let out a grateful breath.
For as long as it takes Grant to drive from the training facility to my apartment, we stay on the phone. Alternating between breathing exercises and joking about my live-in caretaker, Hobbes, slacking on his job, Grant keeps me focused on the present. Meanwhile, Hobbes has curled up against my thigh, his tail wagging excitedly. He sniffs my belly and looks up at me curiously. Hobbes may be more ready for this baby than I am.
In record time, Grant walks through the door. He’s on his knees before me, even before Hobbes can jump up to greet him.
“Hey there,” he murmurs, tucking loose, wild strands of hair behind my ears.
“Hi.” I smile. “We should go.”
“Where’s your hospital bag?”
“By the front door.”
Grant helped me pack a bag for the hospital a few weeks ago when he stopped by for a visit. He also brought me a pie on that visit. He’s been so good to me, even when all I’ve done is repeatedly push him away.
“It’s going to be okay,” he reminds me, sensing my nervousness. He helps me off the floor, leading me to the door and helping me slip my comfiest flats onto my swollen feet as Hobbes circles our legs anxiously.
“I’ll be back for you,” Grant tells him, leaning down to ruffle his soft fur.
Then Grant grabs my bag, which contains a robe and slippers, some toiletries, an extra phone charger . . . the works. Plus diapers and baby outfits I picked especially for the occasion. I’ve been ready for this moment for a while now, but somehow with each passing second, I feel less prepared than ever.
The stairs prove to be tricky, so Grant gently lifts me into his arms. I must weigh double what I did when we first met, so this is no easy feat, yet he carries me down the stairs as if I weigh no more than my ten-pound pup. I nuzzle my nose into his shoulder, breathing in his scent, which I’ve come to associate with safety and comfort.
My water breaks in the car, a sensation I really don’t know how to describe. Becca explained it to me like a bubble popping, but that doesn’t quite capture the truly bizarre emptying I feel. It’s anything but reassuring.
I reach out to grab Grant’s hand, who rubs my knuckles comfortingly. He’s on the phone, notifying the hospital that we’re on our way.
A nurse in scrubs stands waiting outside the emergency room entrance, wheelchair before her. Grant parks the car, walks around to my side, opens the door, and lifts me into the chair in under ten seconds. Then I’m being whisked down the hall, but everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. The colors of nurses’ scrubs . . . the sounds of quiet conversations . . . the smell of disinfectant.
All my senses are heightened. But instead of trying to focus on what’s happening around me, my attention is on what’s happening inside my body.