Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Cup Finals
Boston @ Chicago
Franky
“Oh, this is so exciting.” Melissa looked around the owners’ box in Rebels Arena and gave a small wave to Sean, who had stopped at the bar and was talking to his brother, Theo. “Now, which one is your aunt?”
“Harper, the CEO.” I gestured to the knockout blonde, still vivacious at almost sixty, seated in the front row with Rebels GM, Ryder Calloway.
“Well, she’s my step-aunt. My stepmother Violet is her half-sister, so that’s step-half-aunt, I suppose?
But I’ve known her and my aunt Isobel all my life because Dad played his entire career with the Rebels. ”
Mel posed a few more queries about other people in the box—executives, spouses, former players. The place was packed. Everyone wanted a piece of the Rebels during the Finals.
I shifted in my seat, looking for a modicum of comfort from the back pain.
These chairs weren’t designed for women carrying the weight of a whale, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
In a little under three weeks, our baby would be here and I thought she should be here to see her father achieve the ultimate goal of his career. They could win the Cup tonight.
The puck dropped at 7:31pm and it wasn’t long before Jason was in the fray.
He blocked so many shots, it was a wonder he wasn’t in goal.
The man was rock solid in that back third, and by the time the first period was over, the teams were at a cagey draw.
No one was getting by Jason Isner when he was on the ice.
I loved seeing that—Jason’s solidity, strength, and protectiveness of his players and that net.
He would be like that with our baby.
Maybe even with me.
He had said he loved me, that I was too stubborn to accept what was staring me in the face. It wasn’t stubbornness. It was fear, plain and simple.
The game headed into the first break, just as Rosie sat by me.
“Think I’d better use the restroom.”
Melissa touched my arm. “Need company?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” A twinge in my abdomen pulled me up short. “Ooh.”
“You okay?”
“It’s just indigestion.”
Rosie looked at me skeptically. “Indigestion? No one wants to hear that from a woman at thirty-six weeks pregnant.”
“It’s thirty-seven and three days, and I’m sure it’s fine. I had one of those mini tacos—oh!” That didn’t feel like indigestion. That felt like a baby on the move.
I levered myself upright. “I’m just going to walk around for a bit. It’s probably Braxton-Hicks.”
“You just said it was indigestion. I’m going to text Violet.
” Rosie started stabbing at her phone while I stepped outside the owners’ box.
Walking helped, distributing the discomfort to my extremities.
It couldn’t be labor—it was too early, and I had been careful, not wanting to upset Jason or interfere with his game preparation.
Another dull ache. Maybe I should head to the bathroom. Yes, that was what I should do.
Theo was at the door, just as I reached it. “You okay, Franky?”
I gripped his arm, probably because he had raised it right when I needed it. Something about his expression gave me pause.
Outside the owners’ box, I saw Violet and my dad approaching. “Hey, Franks, are you okay?”
Suddenly it was very wet. “I think my water just broke.”
Violet exchanged a quick look with Theo, who had possibly already predicted this when he offered his arm to me a moment ago. The man had fathered five kids, after all.
“Yep, I can see that.” Violet placed a hand on my back. “Let’s sit you down—Harper!”
A minute later, I was sitting in one of the roomy leather chairs in the box while Harper and Remy ushered people out.
“You-you can’t make people leave,” I managed above the discomfort. “It’s Game 6!”
Violet scoffed. “Don’t worry, all those hangers-on can find another box to watch it in. I’ve called for an ambulance, but the streets are pretty backed up out there.”
“Stupid hockey,” I murmured.
“Pays the bills,” Violet said.
I barked out a laugh, but it was snatched away on a wave of pain. More than that—what I recognized now as a contraction. Had I had one before? Maybe. I needed to start timing them.
A few minutes later, Rosie sat down beside me. “How are you feeling, sis, or is that the dumbest question ever posed to a heavily pregnant woman with indigestion?”
“I’ll live. I’m going to head to the hospital …” I gripped the armchair and tried to stand only for another wave to take me down.
That was pretty close to the last one, perhaps five or six minutes?
I sank into the armchair again. “I don’t know if I can make it to the hospital.”
Harper’s voice rang out. “The team doctor is on his way, honey.”
“Don’t tell Jason.” I looked up at her, then at all of them. “The game is too important, and he needs to be out there.”
I couldn’t believe my stupidity. This morning, I applied the science—irregular, weak twinges of discomfort with no other verifiable symptoms of labor—and self-diagnosed with Braxton-Hicks.
It was too early for the real thing, and it hadn’t felt like it, or at least how everything I read told me how it should feel.
Books! What good were they to me now? I was in labor, stuck in a hockey arena during Game 6 of the Finals!
“My OB,” I panted to Violet. “Maybe she can come here.”
“I’ve already called her, sprite,” Dad said.
“Dr. Sykes is here,” Harper called out.
But the first face I saw wasn’t the Rebels team doctor. It was a bearded ice warrior.
Jason.
“What are you doing here? You should be in that rink!”
He smiled. “It’s still the break, Doc.”
“You’re playing … great.” I barely got that last word out as the pain took hold and turned me into a blithering fool. “Your blocking stats are stellar.”
His grin vanished at witnessing my distress. “That’s what happens when you have a baby to look forward to, but your woman won’t see sense.”
“You play better?”
“You play like everyone’s the enemy.”
Oh Jason. This was what I had done to him. Pissed him off to the extent he saw red on the ice.
“Glad I could help,” I muttered.
“Jason, if you don’t mind,” another deep voice cut in. “Hi, Ms. St. James—”
“It’s Dr. St. James,” Jason cut in.
“Sure,” the team doctor said indulgently. “I’m also a doctor and—”
“Have you ever delivered a baby?” Jason again.
“Let the man get a word in!” Another sharp pain walloped me.
The doctor touched my arm. “I think we might want to lie you down on the floor, Dr. St. James.”
“It’s Franky. I think we’re about to get very personal.”
Moments later, I was flat on my back with a cushion under my head, and my thighs splayed. Luckily most everyone had left the box and all who remained were the people who mattered: Jason, Vi, Rosie, my dad, Harper, and Dr. Sykes.
“I’d say you’re approximately six to seven centimeters dilated, Franky,” the team’s doctor said.
That was much further along than I expected—and definitely too late for me to leave this room and expect a good outcome.
Jason’s brow was as lined as a corduroy swatch. “That’s almost there, right?”
“It’s close,” Dr. Sykes said, sounding worried.
I patted his arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t blame you if something goes wrong—”
Jason exploded. “Screw that! I will blame everybody in this room if this does not go the way I expect! You had better make sure my baby and my woman are okay.”
“Jason.” I grasped his hand. “This could take a while longer. You could play an entire period, maybe win the whole thing, and be back in time for the delivery.”
“Harper,” he called out without averting his burning eyes from my face. “Do I need to go back on that ice?”
My aunt responded, clear as a bell. “I’ve already informed Coach that you are otherwise occupied.”
I groaned.
Jason leaned in and whispered, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”