Page 127 of What if It's Us

Bodhi has arranged three empty beer cases in a pyramid and drawn faces on them in sharpie to simulate “Triplet Dad Mode.” And there’s a fiercely competitive diaper-changing relay, Griffin versus Harrison, about to begin except the diapers are on watermelons and duct-taped at the seams. I start to laugh again and feel a weird, electric fizz in my chest.

Fuck, this is amazing.

And as crazy as it is, it could all be so much worse.

I try to keep my cool as the gifts start circulating. I rip open Oliver’s hockey-bag first; inside is a full set of custom onesies, each emblazoned withFuture Penalty Box Residentin bold silver letters. Two of which are sparkly.

“Sorry.” Oliver shrugs. “Ella told Scarlett to make sure she bedazzled two of them because…well…”

“Ella,” we say in tandem.

“I love it. Thanks, man.”

The next package is a toddler helmet, dipped in glitter, “For when your girls play roller derby,” Harrison assures me. After that comes a hilariously oversized baby monitor, the kind with two-way video and a military-grade intercom, which August claims is for “Screaming into the void in solidarity, or you know, spying on your children like tiny criminals.”

“Thanks August.”

The next package—still inside a duffel bag—contains a breast pump.

Uuh…

“Is this…?”

“Dude, I thought it was a protein shake blender,” Barrett confesses. “I got confused in the baby aisle and panicked. You said Marlee’s into late night smoothies so, you know…thought I could help.”

The guys laugh at Bear’s expense but he takes it all in stride. I know sometimes Barett Cunningham can be a cranky douche but today, I see him as nothing but a loveable teddy bear.

“Thanks Bear. This might actually come in handy.”

We go through bags of diapers, a plastic sippy cup painted to look like a Gatorade bottle, and fuck if I know how they came up with it, but a full baby sleep sack stitched to resemble a referee’s jersey. The tag readsTo train them young in the ways of injustice.

Those assholes.

Really though, this is amazing. I keep expecting the floor to drop out, for the room to get cold, or the noise to turn sour, but the longer it goes, the more I believe this is real. That these guys that I call my friends, my teammates, my brothers, really are this ridiculous and that they’re actually happy for me. I don’t care how many years I’ve known these guys. I never saw this one coming.

Harrison shoves drinks into everybody’s hands before we play ‘Pin the Puck on the Baby’. Then we cut and eat a cake shaped like a diaper—which is deeply upsetting given the chocolate filling on the inside—and then they make me give a heartfelt speech I didn’t know I’d been preparing for my whole life:

“Wow. Fuck,” I start, wiping my hand down my face and staring back at my teammates. My family. “I never thought I’d say this, but I hope my kid ends up with teammates like you guys. Weird, chaotic, overly involved but…loyal. And hilarious. And the worst at wrapping presents. Thank you so much for…for all of this,” I say, gesturing around the room. “Marlee would be beside herself if she were seeing this right now.” My eyes grow huge and I gasp just before I say, “And I hope you won’t mind doing all of this again because I want to throw Marlee the biggest most bad ass baby shower I can because she fucking deserves it.”

“Hell yeah, we’ll help you,” Oliver says.

Harrison scratches his head. “But maybe next time we’ll get the ladies involved too.”

I smirk and nod in agreement. “Good idea.”

The guys cheer and Griffin fires a confetti cannon I’m positive he isn’t cleared to use indoors. And I just stand here in the middle of it all, icing tape on my shirt and another cupcake in one hand, thinking, fuck. These kids are gonna be so loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MARLEE

27 WEEKS

I’m perched on the exam table like a beached whale. My huge belly round and taut beneath my maternity shirt. Ledger is seated beside me on a tiny chair that’s clearly not built for someone of his size, his knees practically at his ears as he flips through a baby magazine like it's a playbook.

“‘Ten Ways to Soothe a Colicky Baby,’” he reads aloud. “Number one: Remain calm.” He rolls his eyes and chokes out a laugh. “Wow. Groundbreaking.”

I snort in response. “You know, you might want to keep that one handy for middle-of-the-night freak-outs.”

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