Page 116 of Hooked On Them

Carter’s eyes widened. “Nora…”

“Not a word.” I was honestly surprised he hadn’t freaked out yet. “Not one single word. They are still not even close enough to go to the hospital.”

I had it committed to memory that they should be five minutes apart, one minute in length, for an hour. Given the traffic in New York, as soon as I hit five minutes, that would be the time to go.

Right now, I was oddly calm. Like that bizarre tranquility during the eye of a hurricane where everything slows down while chaos is about to hit. My body was literally preparing to expel a human being, yet my mind had clicked into some primal, focused state where worry seemed irrelevant.

When I was thirteen, I’d asked my mom about her pregnancies. She’d described birthing me and my sister as being in a maternal trance. I’d laughed then, but I wasn’t laughing now. There was this almost serene understanding between my mind and body that my body knew exactly what to do, even if I didn’t.

“There she is!” Miles spotted me first as we stepped onto the red carpet pathways, skating over, his jersey already reeking of champagne. His smile could have powered the entire arena. “We did it!”

My eyes filled with tears as he wrapped me in a bear hug, lifting me slightly off the ground. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelping as another contraction started. Was this one closer? I couldn’t check my watch or run the risk of him knowing.

“You were amazing,” I managed, my voice only slightly strained.

“Wilson’s the hero tonight.” Miles released me, turning to wave Dominic over.

Dominic skated toward us, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pure joy. “Did you see that? Tell me you saw that shot!”

Making the championship-winning shot during game seven in overtime was not something a hockey fan would miss.

“Like I’d miss the greatest goal in the team’s history.” I reached for him, ignoring the building pressure in my abdomen.

His arms enveloped me, his gear still wet and cold against my skin. I didn’t care. He smelled like ice and victory and home. “I thought about GB the whole game,” he whispered against my ear. “I wanted her first Finals to be special.”

I laughed, though it came out more like a sob. “Oh, it’s special, all right.”

Carter cleared his throat, tapping his watch with meaningful intensity when I caught his eye. I shook my head, not wanting to ruin this moment. It wasn’t like the baby was crowning.

The commissioner appeared on the carpet, the Stanley Cup close behind. The crowd roared again, drowning out my gasp as another contraction hit.

This time I did subtly check my watch, but only so I could time the next one.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the arena announcer’s voice boomed, “please welcome the NHL Commissioner.”

Boos rained down from the stands in the time-honored tradition of hockey fans hating the commissioner regardless of the occasion.

“Tri-State Titans’ fans,” the commissioner began, unfazed by the reception, “after an incredible season and playoff run, it’s my honor to present your team with the Stanley Cup!”

More deafening cheers. Miles skated forward to accept the trophy, and Carter’s arm tightened around my waist. I leaned into him for support as I watched Miles hoist the Cup overhead. The silver trophy gleamed under the arena lights as he skated in a small circle, his face a portrait of pure elation. Then, the commissioner stepped forward again.

“And now,” the commissioner continued, “the winner of the Conn Smythe Trophy, awarded to the most valuable player of the playoffs, Dominic Wilson!”

Tears stung my eyes before the announcer even finished his name. Dominic had spent the entire season clawing his way back through fear, through guilt, and through the wreckage his father left behind. And now, here he was, not just a champion but the MVP.

My heart swelled with pride so fierce it almost hurt because I’d watched every agonizing step of that journey. I’d seen him break, heal, and fight his way into becoming the man our daughter would one day look up to.

The crowd erupted as Dominic skated forward, a mixture of surprise and joy on his face. He took the trophy, raising it high for the fans.

He then handed it off to an official beside the rink, freeing up both hands to accept the Stanley Cup from Miles. With a primal scream that sent shivers down my spine, he raised the Cup overhead, his voice echoing in the arena.

“Do you want to go tell your dad?” Carter nodded toward the Storm’s bench.

My father stood alongside Mateo, Josie, and the Storm’s coaching staff, a look of resignation, pride, and wistfulness on his face. Tonight was his last game as a coach and would be his first night as a grandpa.

I checked my watch; almost seven minutes had passed since my last contraction. “Let’s wait another minute.”

Sure enough, the contraction hit before I reached the seven-minute mark. It wasn’t as strong, but I still dug my nails into Carter’s sleeve.

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