Every muscle in my body went rigid, my very bones locking up. “What happened?”
“It’s Maisie,” she said quickly. “She called me over a few minutes ago. I’m packing her hospital bag now. She thinks she’s in labor.”
“What?” I snapped the question out so loudly that Gage frowned at me from a few feet down. “She’s not due for another three weeks, Mom.”
“I know,” CC rushed out. “She said she didn’t want to worry you unless it was real, but I think it’s real enough that we’re heading to the hospital. Just to be safe. It could still be a false alarm, but?—”
“Shit.” I dragged a hand down my face, trying to find oxygen to pull into my lungs, but the air in the rink seemed to be devoid of it. “Why didn’t she call me?”
“She didn’t want to bother you until after the game,” CC said softly. “It’s Brody’s tournament and we know this is likely nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, throat tight. “That sounds like her. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Enjoy the game.”
She hung up and I glanced up at the clock. Twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes that felt like twenty years. Twenty years of absolute agony.
I forced myself to sit, my eyes on the ice but my brain miles away, running through flights and worst-case scenarios. My legbounced restlessly. Brody scored a goal, but I barely registered it. I reared to my feet with the rest of the parents though, shooting him a grin and two thumbs up, but still. This was torture.
When the buzzer finally blared, the crowd went insane. Parents cheered, kids hugged, the team swarmed the ice. I clapped, whistled, and smiled, but it was all muscle memory. My son was a champion again, and I was already mentally on my way home.
As soon as the team left the ice, I went to meet Brody in the locker room. The kid was beaming, face flushed red beneath his helmet. “Dad, did you see?”
“I saw, buddy,” I said, crouching in front of him to unclip his pads. “You were unreal out there.”
He grinned, his little chest puffed up with pride. “Can we get milkshakes again like last time?”
I swallowed hard, desperately not wanting to disappoint him, but I was on edge, waiting for my mother to call back. “We might have to take a rain check on that, champ.”
A flicker of a frown crossed his features, but then a teammate clapped him on the shoulder and his attention was diverted from me to his friend. Gage wandered over, a towel around his neck and a smirk on his face. “What’s up, Cal? You look like someone just told you your house burned down.”
I took a deep breath. “CC called. Maisie’s in labor. Or she might be. They’re heading to the hospital to find out.”
Gage’s eyes widened. “Holy hell. Go. Don’t worry about any of this. I’ll handle everything here. Take Brody, grab your stuff, and get on a flight.”
“I don’t even know if?—”
“Go,” he repeated, clapping me on the back. “You’ll regret it if you don’t. Go be with her.”
That was all it took. I’d made a promise to help him chaperone, and honestly, that was the only reason I hadn’t already left, but I knew he would manage. Some other dad could step up for a change.
I looked down at my son when his friend took off, his face so much like hers and so much like mine at the same time, and my chest tightened. “Come on, bud. We’re going home.”
For the second time in my life, Maisie was about to bring a Westwood into the world—and this time, I wasn’t missing a damn second of it. The minute Gage shoved us out of that locker room, I had my phone out, my fingers flying across the screen.
We’d flown up with the team on a packed commercial flight, and the family jets were all over the map. Mine was at home, but I knew it would need a refuel. Sterling’s was in Napa, Jameson’s was in upstate New York, and Harrison’s seemed to be somewhere over the Atlantic.
Every pilot I called said the same thing—no go on an immediate pickup. We raced back to the hotel. We were supposed to have been leaving in the morning anyway, so our stuff was already packed. I’d been expecting a late night celebrating. We grabbed our things and left.
Brody trailed behind me, still in his team jacket, clutching the trophy Gage had thrust into his hands. “Are we really going home right now, Daddy?”
“Yup,” I said, checking flight times on my phone. “Your little brother might be coming, bud. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you that as soon as you got off the ice, but my head is a little messed up right now.”
His eyes went wide. “He’s comingnow?”
“Maybe.”
We sprinted through the terminal, me juggling our duffel bags, his gear, both our boarding passes, and feeling the kind of adrenaline that could fuel a space launch. A flight to SanFrancisco was leaving in thirty minutes. It was tight but doable. I’d bought the tickets on instinct, overpaid by a mile, and now, I was just praying for no delays.
