“That’s it!” the doctor says. “Good push, Heather. Keep going.”
I collapse back against the pillows, gasping for air.
“You’re doing amazing,” Grant says, brushing my sweat-soaked hair back from my face. “So fucking strong. I’m so proud of you.”
Another contraction comes, and I push again. And again. And again.
Time loses all meaning. There’s only the pain, the pressure, Grant’s hand in mine, and his voice in my ear telling me I can do this.
“One more big push,” the doctor says. “Come on, Heather. You’re almost there.”
I gather every ounce of strength I have left and push. The pressure is overwhelming, unbearable, and then suddenly it releases.
And I hear it.
A cry. High-pitched and loud and absolutely perfect.
“He’s here!” the doctor says, lifting a tiny, squirming baby into view. “You did it, Heather. He’s here.”
My vision blurs with tears. Grant’s hand tightens around mine, and when I look up at him, I see tears streaming down his face too.
“Our son,” I sob. “He’s really here.”
The nurses move quickly, cleaning the baby and checking him over. Every cry he lets out makes my heart swell bigger and bigger until I think it might burst.
“He’s perfect,” one of the nurses says with a smile. “Ten fingers, ten toes, and a very healthy set of lungs.”
She wraps him in a blanket and brings him over to place him carefully in my arms.
I look down at my son for the first time, and the world stops.
He’s so small. So perfect. His little face is scrunched up, his eyes are closed, and his tiny fists are waving in the air. His head is covered with dark hair, and his skin is pink and warm.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “My sweet, sweet boy. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Grant leans over my shoulder and brings his hand up to gently touch the baby’s head. His fingers are so big compared to our son’s tiny skull, and he’s so careful, almost reverent.
“Look at him,” Grant says. “Heather, look at what we made.”
I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop the tears from falling. This tiny person, this perfect little human, came from us. From our love.
“He’s beautiful,” I say.
“He’severything.” Grant’s voice is thick with emotion. “You did so well, Hurricane. I’m so proud of you.”
I look up at him, at this massive, tattooed goalie who looks absolutely terrified and awestruck as he gazes at our son. His eyes are red from crying, and his hand is still trembling slightly where it rests on the baby’s head.
My heart feels so full I can barely breathe.
“I love you,” I tell him.
He kisses me then, soft and sweet. “I love you too. So damn much.”
He looks back down at our son, and his expression shifts into pure, overwhelming love.
“This is my whole world now,” he says quietly. “You, April, and this little guy. Hockey matters, yeah, but this matters most. This is everything.”
A soft knock at the door breaks the moment. Margo peeks her head in, with April right beside her.
