Page 118 of The Final Faceoff
Then she winces. Every alarm bell in my body explodes at once.
I launch out of bed like someone just fired a slapshot at my skull. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Are you okay? Are we doing this? Is this it?”
Hailey gives me a long, exhausted look, like she’s deciding whether to laugh or throw the nearest object at my head. “Jesus, Leif, calm down.”
“Calm down?” I gesture wildly at her very pregnant belly. “I am not a doctor, but that looks like a contraction. I’m calling the hospital.”
She groans, flopping back against the pillows. “You are not calling the hospital at—” she checks the clock, “—this ungodly hour.”
I grab my phone anyway. “Tell that to my fragile emotional state, Hailey.”
She laughs—until she doesn’t. Her whole body tenses, fingers curling into the sheets.
I freeze. “Hails, that was close to the last one.”
She exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “They might be close.”
Might be?
I throw my hands in the air. “Okay, yeah, this feels like information you should have led with instead of casually brushing off my concerns like I’m some kind of lunatic.”
She arches a brow. “You are a lunatic.”
“That’s not the point, Hailey.”
She waves me off, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off a minor inconvenience, not, you know, actively experiencing contractions. “It wasn’tthatbad.”
I glare at her. “You literally winced like someone stabbed you.”
She glares back. “I have been stabbed before.”
Pause—a long pause.
I open my mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “. . . we’re going to circle back to that statement at a later date.” I shove my hand through my hair, my brain a tangled mess of panic and every single baby book fact I should have memorized but did not. “Okay, uh, how long between contractions? That’s a thing, right? Timing?”
She checks her phone, squinting at the screen. “That one was . . . probably eleven minutes from the last one. I don’t think all of the pains are contractions.”
I nod like I understand what that means.
I do not.
“So, uh, do we—should we—” I snap my fingers, trying to will my brain into action. “What’s the rule again? Five minutes? Seven minutes?”
Hailey smirks, eyes half-lidded, far too amused at my suffering. “You really should have read those books, Crawford.”
Oh, I read them. I just forgot every single detail because my woman is possibly, maybe, definitely having my baby. I point at her. “You distracted me. That’s on you.”
She laughs, and I start pulling clothes on, throwing random things into a duffel bag like a sleep-deprived madman. I hear her inhale sharply. Then a sound—low and rough, like she’s trying to bite back pain.
I freeze.
Turn.
Hailey grips the sheets, her knuckles pale. This one’s worse. I can see it in the way she sways slightly when it finally eases, her lips parting on an exhale.
Go time.
I go full goalie mode. Hyper-focused. Laser locked. I grab her hand. “Breathe, baby. Just like we practiced.”
