Chapter 35 Maverick
Maverick
Four or so months later . . .
There are a handful of things in life you never forget.
The first time you hear your name chanted in a stadium.
The moment the woman you love says yes to your proposal even though I was a sweaty, nervous mess—and half convinced she was going to tell me no.
And now?
Now I’ll never forget being woken in the middle of the night by those six magical words:
“Hey, babe? My water just broke.”
At first, I think I’m dreaming. Or hallucinating from the spicy Thai food she insisted we have for dinner to induce labor.
But then I hear it again—calmer than I expected, considering the gravity of the sentence.
“Wake up, Callum.” I’m being jostled. “My water just broke.”
I jolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted. “What? Are you sure?”
She’s no longer in bed with me; rather she’s standing beside it, clutching a towel between her thighs and with an oddly serene look on her face. “No, I pee myself for fun. Yes I’m sure.”
And just like that, everything goes into high-speed slow motion.
My body moves fast—grabbing the bag, the keys, putting on socks I’m pretty sure don’t match—but my brain is lagging ten steps behind, panicking about everything from traffic to contractions to the fact that I still haven’t installed the car seat properly even though she’s reminded me five hundred times.
“Okay. Okay. We’re good. We trained for this.” I say the words like it’s a playoff game and she’s my teammate about to score the winning goal.
Annabelle calmly grabs her toothbrush. “Babe. Less sports metaphors.”
Right. Gotcha.
My ass leaps into my throat. “How far apart?”
“Five minutes. Maybe six? I don’t know—who cares?”
Who cares? I Care! I panic, futzing with the stopwatch on my dumb phone, fingers not cooperating. “Five, five minutes!”
“We’re fine, Callum. Breathe.” She gives me that slow, deep-breath thing they taught us in birthing class while I have a silent meltdown in the hallway.
She’s calm.
I’m panicking like someone lit my jersey collection on fire.
She squeezes my hand on the way out the door, jaw tight, eyes shining with something wild and fierce and beautiful. “Let’s go meet our son,” she says.
Fuck Yeah.
We’re doing this.
Right.
Got it.
Since I doubt I have the ability to responsibly drive us to the hospital, we take an Uber—plus, it’s easier than walking to the parking garage, finding my car, weaving through the structure, easing into traffic, keeping us alive while Annabelle has contractions . . .
Nope.
Uber it is.
The second we get into the car, the driver—a man named Diego with a top hat air freshener and jazz music softly crooning from the speakers—glances in the rearview and says, “Heading to the hospital?”
Annabelle smiles through a contraction. “Yup.”
“You folks having a baby?”
“Yup.” I nod emphatically, sweating through my hoodie. “As in, she’s currently having contractions. You should probably go fast.”
He signals like a gentleman and politely merges into traffic. “Cool, cool. Not my first labor ride.” He smiles at me through the mirror, unfazed.
“You’ve done this before?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Had one baby born in the back seat—had to charge them extra because of the mess. Hospital’s fifteen solid minutes, you lucked out. No traffic.”
Annabelle grips my thigh with claws of steel.
“Diego,” I say, voice an octave higher. “Would you mind skipping a few traffic laws today. Not all of them. Just the boring ones.”
Like stop signs and yellow lights.
Annabelle lets out a long breath. “Callum, I’m fine. That contraction was only thirty seconds.”
Diego nods slowly. “Do you need water? Paper towel?”
Paper towel? Why would we need—oh.
Ohhhh. Duh.
“No water,” I say, a ball of nerves. “No towel. Just drive. Please, please, for the love of all things holy, drive!”
He smiles patiently. “Is this your first?”
Annabelle laughs, hand on her belly. “What gave it away?”
Diego chuckles. “It’s always the dads that panic. Moms usually know what’s up.”
“I am not panicking,” I lie. My left leg is vibrating like a phone on silent. “I’m calm.” Perfectly calm.
Beside me, my wife giggles out a groan. “You’re so calm.”
“Was that sarcasm?”
The ride feels like a fever dream. Annabelle is a trooper, timing contractions on my phone while I try not to vomit into the Uber-branded barf bag.
Diego starts narrating street names like we’re in a documentary: “Turning onto North Ninetieth Street. You’ll notice the hospital is approximately four minutes away, depending on the light. ”
Annabelle’s breathing picks up. She exhales a long breath, relaxing between contractions, and reaches for my hand.
“You’re doing great,” I whisper, brushing hair off her forehead.
“Better than you,” she whispers back.
By the time we pull up to the emergency entrance, we’re both perspiring, slightly delirious, and so wildly prepared we feel underprepared.
I fling the door open to the Uber and shout, “She’s in labor!”
Crickets.
I half expect a team of nurses to descend with a wheelchair and confetti cannons. Instead? Not a soul lingering outside to save me. Nothing.
“Babe,” Annabelle says from the back seat, gripping the handle above her head. “Maybe don’t scream.”
How the Fuck is She so Calm?
“Sorry,” I hiss through my teeth. “I’m new.”
The automatic doors slide open as if God heard my summons of distress and wanted me to make a dramatic entrance. I mean—Annabelle. ’Cause she’s the one in labor, not me.
A nurse strolls out pushing a wheelchair with one hand as if we have all the time in the world to chill, holding a clipboard in the other, like this is a casual Tuesday.
“We’re having a baby.”
The nurse doesn’t burst into action as I’d hoped she would. “Yeah? So are three other people. Get in line.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes At Me and eases herself into the chair like she’s checking into a spa, not about to birth a whole person.
Me? I’m jogging alongside like a puppy trying to keep up, carrying the hospital bag, my phone, and her water bottle, yelling “I Got It!” every three feet as shit falls out of my hands.
“This is it,” Annabelle mutters dryly as we roll into triage.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her again with a pant, juggling a bag of protein bars I packed, her heating pad, and the paper towels from Diego’s Uber.
“You’re doing too much,” she fires back.
When the nurse finally gets us checked in and wheeled into Labor and Delivery, I almost kiss her feet.
Inside the room, things go from zero to emotional-hostage situation real fast.
One minute Annabelle’s shimmying into a hospital gown while vowing to sue me, my DNA, and every ancestor responsible for my swimmers—the next, she’s clutching my hand, sobbing about how much she loves me and how I’m her soulmate.
Nurses buzz around. A doctor appears. Someone hands me a hairnet. A hairnet?
Annabelle is cursing in two languages, possibly inventing a third.
“It’s game day!” I shout.
No one cheers.
Annabelle shoots me a death glare.
The nurse just side-eyes me like she’s this close to sedating me instead of the woman currently threatening to break my fingers with her grip . . .
Annabelle is mid-contraction, teeth bared, eyes locked on mine like she’s trying to laser-burn my soul. “You breathe that loud again and I will put this IV pole through your chest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She’s terrifying.
“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’”
“Yes, sweetheart. Light of my life.”
Then there’s a whirlwind of activity. Beeping. Gloves snapping. A tray of shiny, alarming instruments appears from nowhere. I am not ready for this.
“You’re doing amazing,” someone says—I think it’s me, though it could be the ghost of my confidence leaving my body.
And then.
And then.
Holy shit, there’s crying.
Not Annabelle this time.
Not me, either—although I’m close.
But a brand-new, real, actual baby wailing because someone dared to interrupt his nap schedule before he had a chance to see his crib.
“Here’s your healthy, beautiful baby—” the doctor begins.
I squeeze Annabelle’s hand. We both look up, expectant, exhausted, a little feral.
“—girl!”
“Wait.” I blink. “What?”
Say that again?
“A girl?” Annabelle blinks. “Are you sure?”
We look down at the doctor at the same time, in synchronized exhausted disbelief.
“A girl?” we chorus, eyes locked on the swaddled bundle in the nurse’s arms carrying the ultimate plot twist in my direction.
“I already ordered the little football jersey with my number on it,” I mutter, dazed, as the nurse hands over the baby.
She’s tiny.
Pink.
A little furious about being born. Her fists are balled up tight beneath her chin like she’s ready to throw hands with the entire world. Wisps of dark hair peek out from beneath her striped hat, and her nose? Scrunched as if she’s about to start wailing.
A perfect bitty burrito of attitude.
Just like her mother.
Annabelle’s laugh is half a sob. “She’ll be so pretty in that jersey.”
And just like that, I’m holding the entire universe in an angry little bundle.
“Hi, baby girl,” I breathe, stunned. “We didn’t see you coming.”
Everyone’s hearts melt.
But mostly mine.
Her tiny fingers curl around my pinky as she lets out a grumpy little squeak, and I swear I’ve never heard anything more powerful or adorable in my life.
Holy shit.
I have a baby.
“I think her name should still be MacGyver,” I say solemnly, gazing into her round face.
Annabelle scowls as she reaches for her daughter. “Stop.”
“She looks like a MacGyver,” I protest. “Scrappy. Determined. Possibly plotting her escape already.” This child is definitely going to be walking and running and climbing out of her crib sooner than most babies. I can tell she’s a genius.
Smartest baby in the hospital.
Her mother isn’t so sure as she coos, “Awww. Baby girl looks like she’s about to poop.”
“Which proves my point—strategic and efficient. Definitely a MacGyver.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Is that going to be her actual name?”
“Absolutely not,” Annabelle says. “No. He’s delirious. We’ll have to workshop it, we were expecting a boy.”
The baby squeaks again, her tiny nose scrunching like she’s got opinions and none of them are good.
“Were you going to name a boy MacGyver?” the nurse wants to know as she helps Annabelle with her IV.
“No,” Annabelle says at the same time I say, “Yes.”
They both roll their eyes.
Our baby girl squeaks again—tiny, grumpy, perfect.
“See?” I beam. “That’s my girl. She approves.”