Page 133 of Overtime
Now the one being jostled is me, but I can’t focus on anything but Aran. He drops his stick, gloves, and mask wherever they fall, picking himself up to leave the net. His teammates intercept him, more of them pouring from the bench beside us and turning into a mass of the same colors. I lose sight of him for a solid moment while he’s enveloped by bodies.
But then he pushes his way through, skating away from the main celebration. And he keeps going.
“Oh, he’s coming this way.” Meg shifts us around to allow me space. “Go, Maddie.”
I park myself against the barrier separating us from the corridor by the team bench. Aran pushes the half door open with his knee pads, and then, without a word, we’re kissing. He has to stretch to reach me, and I grab on to his sweaty face to steady us. I don’t care that the fence is digging into my belly in a super uncomfortable way. I kiss him like this is our living room and we have all day, open mouthed, tongue and all, gambling that my long hair may not be hiding any of this from onlookers or cameras.
He groans, and that’s when I pull away, our lips making a smacking sound. Aran wears that little smile that is only mine, the one that lights up his eyes brighter than the lights in the rafters.
And out of the million things I could say, what tumbles out is “I’m pregnant. Now go get your cup, champ.”
His jaw drops.
Much later, when we watch the footage from the award ceremony, the whole family gets a kick out of how the great Aran Rodriguez openly weeps for the cameras. What fans andreporters alike don’t know is that the real reason for the tears is because he’s really wanted to be a dad.
ARAN
I hate the hell out of hospitals. My sole life goal after winning a Stanley Cup last year was to not step foot in one ever again. I kinda forgot that’s necessary when your wife is pregnant with your child.
“Easy there, big man. It’s all going to be fine,” says Max Cassiano from the vantage point of having gone through this already.
Grunting is all he gets from me.Hewasn’t kicked out of the labor room for making both wife and staff too nervous. I’d scream that it’s discrimination against big, intimidating-looking guys, but I did pass out once her contractions started.
Thankfully, no one out here knows that’s what happened. They all think I was just escorted out, and that’s all they’ll ever know. I’ll make sure of that.
First, I have to survive this horrible wait. My mom’s been calling these nine months a dulce espera, and for the most part, it’s been pretty damn sweet. Maddie suffered no complications other than bizarre cravings she’d wake me up in the middle of the night for—pickles and frozen strawberries with chocolate drizzle was a popular one.
It was also completely awing and humbling to watch her body grow our child more and more with every passing day. I wish I could’ve shared that burden somehow, but I’ve made sure she’s been extremely pampered—bathing together in our massive tub was also a popular one.
But now? This isn’t a sweet wait. This is a horrible wait. Excruciating. My mind keeps running through every damn scenario where this can go wrong, and in all of them, I can doexactly jack shit to prevent it. My clothes are soaked through in more sweat than if I was in the middle of the playoffs final. I’ve never been more scared in my life.
The two people I love the most in my whole life are fighting without me because all I can physically do is sit in a tiny hospital chair, doing breathing exercises like I’m the pregnant woman.
My mom rubs circles on my back, and I think Dad’s retelling the story of the birth of one of my sisters, or maybe it’s mine, for the millionth time. I can’t focus on his words. Luz keeps flagging every staff employee who walks by to see if they can get us some news. Olivia’s flying over, and Meg and her husband are taking care of their kids and the Cassiano-Rodriguez brats. I clasp my hands and pray harder than ever before.
“Mr. Rodriguez?”
Dad shuts up, and I look up. A nurse pokes her head out from the door to the room where my wife has been delivering our baby with her mother’s support.
“Yes?” My voice sounds nothing like me. I don’t care.
“Would you like to come in and meet your son?”
“A son?” I blink. Hard.
We kept this as a surprise. It hits me now: I have a son.
“Congratulations, big man!” Cassiano grabs me by the shoulder.
“Oh no, I’m not sure the world is ready for a second Aran.” My older sister grins down at me from the hallway.
One by one, the rest pass along their congratulations. Little by little, I manage to rise from my chair. My legs shake like a newborn calf’s as I follow after the nurse. I’m vaguely aware of Maddie’s mom stopping me for a hug. My attention is solely trained on my wife, hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, her cheeks and nose redder than a ripe strawberry, and a big smile contrasting the tears trickling from her sparkling eyes.
And then there’s a tiny bundle in her arms.
I rush over, braking by the bed as if I’m on skates.
She looks up. “Aran.”
