Rosie looked at me skeptically. “Indigestion? No one wants to hear that from a woman at thirty-six weeks pregnant.”
“It’s thirty-seven and three days, and I’m sure it’s fine. I had one of those mini tacos—oh!” That didn’t feel like indigestion. That felt like a baby on the move.
I levered myself upright. “I’m just going to walk around for a bit. It’s probably Braxton-Hicks.”
“You just said it was indigestion. I’m going to text Violet.” Rosie started stabbing at her phone while I stepped outside the owners’ box. Walking helped, distributing the discomfort to my extremities. It couldn’t be labor—it was too early, and I had been careful, not wanting to upset Jason or interfere with his game preparation.
Another dull ache. Maybe I should head to the bathroom. Yes, that was what I should do.
Theo was at the door, just as I reached it. “You okay, Franky?”
I gripped his arm, probably because he had raised it right when I needed it. Something about his expression gave me pause.
Outside the owners’ box, I saw Violet and my dad approaching. “Hey, Franks, are you okay?”
Suddenly it was very wet. “I think my water just broke.”
Violet exchanged a quick look with Theo, who had possibly already predicted this when he offered his arm to me a moment ago. The man had fathered five kids, after all.
“Yep, I can see that.” Violet placed a hand on my back. “Let’s sit you down—Harper!”
A minute later, I was sitting in one of the roomy leather chairs in the box while Harper and Remy ushered people out.
“You-you can’t make people leave,” I managed above the discomfort. “It’s Game 6!”
Violet scoffed. “Don’t worry, all those hangers-on can find another box to watch it in. I’ve called for an ambulance, but the streets are pretty backed up out there.”
“Stupid hockey,” I murmured.
“Pays the bills,” Violet said.
I barked out a laugh, but it was snatched away on a wave of pain. More than that—what I recognized now as a contraction. Had I had one before? Maybe. I needed to start timing them.
A few minutes later, Rosie sat down beside me. “How are you feeling, sis, or is that the dumbest question ever posed to a heavily pregnant woman with indigestion?”
“I’ll live. I’m going to head to the hospital …” I gripped the armchair and tried to stand only for another wave to take me down.
That was pretty close to the last one, perhaps five or six minutes?
I sank into the armchair again. “I don’t know if I can make it to the hospital.”
Harper’s voice rang out. “The team doctor is on his way, honey.”
“Don’t tell Jason.” I looked up at her, then at all of them. “The game is too important, and he needs to be out there.”
I couldn’t believe my stupidity. This morning, I applied the science—irregular, weak twinges of discomfort with no other verifiable symptoms of labor—and self-diagnosed with Braxton-Hicks. It was too early for the real thing, and it hadn’t felt like it, or at least how everything I read told me how it should feel.
Books! What good were they to me now? I was in labor, stuck in a hockey arena during Game 6 of the Finals!
“My OB,” I panted to Violet. “Maybe she can come here.”
“I’ve already called her, sprite,” Dad said.
“Dr. Sykes is here,” Harper called out.
But the first face I saw wasn’t the Rebels team doctor. It was a bearded ice warrior.
Jason.
