Page 117 of The Final Faceoff
She smiles, sleepy and sweet. “What if we gave her two middle names?”
I tilt my head. “You got something in mind?”
She bites her lip, then says softly, “Celeste Noa.”
Noa.
I know that name.
She told me once—years ago, in one of those deep, late-night conversations that stretch until morning—that if she ever had a daughter, she wanted her name to carry something strong, something meaningful.
Noa. It means motion, movement, freedom.
“She’s gonna be strong, Leif,” Hailey murmurs, reading my thoughts. “She’s gonna make her own way.”
“Just like her mother.” I swallow hard, because fuck if I don’t already know that. I slide my hands up to her belly again, my thumbs brushing in slow, reverent strokes.
“Celeste Lorena Noa,” I say quietly, letting it sink in.
Then, I press a slow kiss to Hailey’s stomach and murmur against her skin, “Celeste Lorena Noa Crawford.”
Hailey inhales sharply, her fingers tightening in my hair.
And just like that—we know.
That’s her name, our daughter’s name. I look up, catching the shine in Hailey’s eyes, and something in my chest pulls tight.
I reach for her, pulling her down into my lap, cradling her close. “That’s her,” I whisper. “That’s our girl.”
She buries her face in my neck, sighing, relieved and content all at once. “Yeah. That’s her.”
I stroke her back, swaying slightly, rocking us both. We’re ready for our little girl. She has a place in this world, a place in my heart, a place in my arms. Soon—so soon—I’ll finally get to hold her. And when she finally gets here, she’ll know she was loved before she even took her first breath.
ChapterForty
Leif
Overtime, But Make It Forever
I have faced breakaways in overtime. I have stood between the pipes in Game Sevens. I have taken a puck to the ribs at ninety miles per hour without flinching. But nothing—nothing—has prepared me for this moment.
Hailey. In labor.
I wake up to the sound of her grumbling. Not groaning, not gasping—grumbling.
“What the fuck,” she mutters. There’s a rustling of blankets, then an annoyed huff.
I crack open one eye. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks an ungodly hour. It’s two forty-two in the morning.
I roll over, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “Hails?” My voice is scratchy, thick with exhaustion. “What’s wrong? Are you having trouble sleeping, babe?”
She’s sitting up, glaring at her stomach like it personally betrayed her. “Braxton Hicks. Again.”
My brain struggles to boot up—because, again, it’s two forty-two in the morning—but something about her tone pokes at my subconscious. We’re no longer in the Braxton stage. We’ve graduated to the “hospital bag in the car” stage. The “be ready at any second” stage.
“You sure?” I ask, watching her a little too intently now.
“Pretty sure,” she says, but there’s hesitation in her face, a twitch of doubt in her expression.
