"Mel said Sloane told the doctors I'd be 'out of the picture.' She didn't want me to know she was hospitalized."
"Tucker—"
"I fucked it up, Mom. I fucked everything up and now she won't even let me near her."
"You didn't fuck anything up. You're in a plane right now, leaving a game, risking your career to be with her. That's not fucking up."
"She doesn't want me there."
“But you’ll be there anyway,” Mom's voice is firm. "You'll sit outside her room if you have to. You'll wait as long as it takes. That's what love is, Tucker. Showing up even when it's hard."
After we hang up, I sit in the dark cabin, watching clouds pass below.
The flight attendant stops to relay a message from my Uncle Tim, who says the players’ association is still not budging on their emergency family leave protocols. I should have been paying more attention to that struggle. Should have had Brian on the horn, following up, getting public.
I shouldn’t have to be threatened with getting fired in front of the whole fucking team when there’s a life-threatening baby emergency.
The league thinks it’s me being soft.
Right now, I don't care.
Right now, all I care about is getting to Sloane.
I should have known something was wrong. Should have pushed harder when she pulled away. Should have stayed in Pittsburgh instead of going on this goddamn road trip.
I should have chosen her sooner.
Odin is waiting at the private aviation terminal when we land.
"How is she?" I ask as soon as I see him.
"I don't know, man. I just got the call from Dad twenty minutes ago." He grabs my bag. "Let's get you there."
The drive to the hospital in Odin’s SUV takes fifteen minutes but feels like fifteen hours. My big brother doesn't try to make conversation, just drives fast and gets me there.
He pulls up to the main entrance. "You want me to come in?"
"Yeah." I don't want to be alone when I find out how bad this is. He doesn’t say a word, but hops out and tosses his keys to the valet.
We walk through automatic doors into a bright, sterile lobby. The information desk is straight ahead—a tired-looking woman in scrubs behind a computer.
"I'm looking for Sloane Campbell," I say. "She was admitted earlier today."
The woman types. "Are you family?"
"I'm the father. Of her babies."
More typing. Her expression doesn't change. "I'm sorry, sir. She's on a restricted visitor list. I can't give you any information."
The words don't make sense at first. "What?"
"The patient has restricted her visitor list. You're not on it."
"Those are my babies. "
"I understand, but without the patient's permission?—"
"Can you just tell me if she's okay? If the babies are okay?"
