I set the food down on the coffee table in the center of the room and pull up an ottoman so I can sit across from her. “I want to answer you, but I can say for certain I have no idea what I did.”
She gives me a “really” look, complete with a disapproving head tilt. “Your press conference?”
My press conference? I rewind what I said to the reporters for no less than the tenth time since I left the stadium
Interception… got the win… oh! The pregnancy! I didn’t talk to her about us announcing it. That must be it.
“I’m sorry I told them about the pregnancy. They knew and?—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Damn. I thought I had it. Okay, so after that was…
“Are you mad about what I said about traveling to the Miami game?”
“Yes, I’m mad!”
Wait… she’s mad I want to stay with her? For the birth of our child? “You’re mad that I said I was going to stay with you?”
“Yes!” she yells, like I should realize this. “You’re not missing a game!”
“If my son is being born, yes, I am.”
She gives me a raised eyebrow. “Maddox…”
“Gabrielle...”
Many times in our stubborn standoffs, I’ve relented. Sure, I love the build-up, but most of the time if it’s going to make her happy, I’ll stand down. This one I won’t. Because I love this woman who will one day be my wife, but I’m not quite sure what she’s thinking right now.
“You’re going to miss the biggest game of the season?”
“It’s not the biggest game of the season,” I defend. “The media wants to make it out to be the biggest game of the season because it’s a championship rematch but it’s not even in my top five games notebook. In reality, Miami did a fire sale after the championship last year. They’re going to be lucky to win six games. If we can’t beat them because I’m not there, then there’s bigger problems in our locker room.”
“Still,” she says, but I can tell she’s already scrambling. “You only have so many games a year. You shouldn’t miss one.”
“Yet I’m going to.” I sit back for a second and watch her eyes jumping. Her tell. Between that, and the way she’s grabbing at words makes me know this is bigger than just where I’m going to be on November 1. My first instinct in the moment was to think she didn’t want me there for some reason, but she’s said out loud that she’s nervous for the actual birth, so I don’t think that’s it. No. This is something deeper. Something that’s been festering.
I lean in to take her hands in mine. “Can I ask a question?”
She tries to put on a stubborn face, but I can also tell by how her shoulders slightly slump, she knows she’s going to lose. “Yes.”
“Don’t you want me there? In the room with you when you deliver to help support you?”
I know those narrowed eyes. I’m about to be right, and she knows it. “Yes…”
“And don’t you want me to have the experience of being there when our son is born?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Humor me.”
“I hate you. And of course I do.”
I laugh as I realize that everything is going to be okay. “No you don’t. But it’s cute you think you do.”
I rub my thumb over the tops of her knuckles. Even though I have a feeling I know what this is about, I want her to tell me in her own words. “Talk to me Gab. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Gabi isn’t one to pick fights. In fact, this might classify as our first official one, and I’m not even sure it counts for that. But I do know her well enough to know that this didn’t come out of the blue. And if I’m right, this has been building since we first saw those magic words on the pregnancy test.
