When I finally stand, Coach Anderson is pushing through the celebration, his face serious despite the win.
"Clay! Clay!" He grabs my shoulders. "Your wife's water broke. She's on the way to Memorial Hospital."
The world stops. The roar of the crowd fades to nothing.
"What?" I shout over the noise.
"The baby's coming!" he yells back. "Go!"
I don't remember getting to the locker room. Don't remember stripping off my gear. Jonesy appears at my side, still in half his equipment.
"I'm driving you," he says. "You're shaking too much to handle a car."
He's right. Adrenaline from the win combined with panic has my hands trembling so hard I can barely lace my shoes.
"She's two weeks early," I say, the fear finally hitting me full force. "It's too soon, right?"
Jonesy grabs my bag. "Babies come when they come. Let's go."
We bypass the press, ignoring the confusion as we bolt through the back entrance. My phone vibrates—Mad's OB-GYN.
"Maddison ordered me to call you. She's doing fine," she says. "Contractions five minutes apart. The baby looks strong."
The baby. Our son. We found out at the twenty-week ultrasound but kept it private, our little secret in a world where nothing stays personal.
"Tell her I'm coming," I say, sliding into Jonesy's Jeep. "Tell her not to have him without me."
Jonesy drives like we're being chased, weaving through traffic while I grip the door handle so hard my knuckles turn white. My mind races with every worst-case scenario. Premature lungs. Breathing problems. NICU stays.
"He'll be fine," Jonesy says, reading my mind. "Maddie's already at nine months. My sister had twins at thirty weeks, and they're monsters now. Ten years old and already in hockey."
I nod because apparently, I've lost the ability to speak.
The Stanley Cup. My son. Both arriving on the same night. Life is funny that way.
I hearMad before I see her—a sharp cry cutting through the hospital corridor as a contraction hits. The nurse points me to room 312, and I burst in, sweating and fucking palpitating.
"Sebastian!" Her face crumples with relief when she sees me. Her hand reaches out, and I take it, pressing it to my lips.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
"Your son" —she gasps as another contraction builds— "has your timing. Middle of the Stanley Cup?—"
Her words cut off as pain takes over. I feel helpless, holding her hand while she struggles through it.
"That's it," I say, falling into the same rhythms I use with rookies during tough practices. "Breathe through it. You're stronger than the pain."
When the contraction passes, she glares at me. "I hate you right now. This is your fault."
I kiss her forehead, not taking it personally. The doctor warned me about labor talk. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."
"Did you win?"
"Yeah, we won."
She smiles through her exhaustion. "Good. I didn't want to have missed the game for nothing."
The next two hours blur into a cycle of contractions, breathing, and Mad alternating between cursing my existence and clutching my hand. I feed her ice chips, wipe her face with cool cloths, and remind her how incredible she is.
