“I’m fine,” I lied, though my nails dug crescents into my thigh. Another contraction gripped me, hot and merciless, and this time I had to fold forward with a muffled groan.
Clarke gasped. “Oh, my stars! You’re in labor.”
“No, I’m—” A curse tore out of me, startling a kid in a Roasters jersey at the end of a nearby row. “Okay, fine. I’m in labor.”
Clarke went pale, fumbling for her phone. “I’m calling Brooks.”
“He’s not going to answer,” I snapped, forcing myself upright. “He doesn’t keep his phone on him during games.”
“Why would he do that?” she shot back. “You’re having a baby!”
“Clarke.” I panted, a cramp knocking the air out of me. “I can wait. Just . . . let him finish. I can manage another inning or two.”
She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had because another contraction ripped through me, sharper than the last, and I yelped, clutching my belly.
This was not how this was supposed to go. Brooks and I had a plan—a hospital bag packed to the gills, a carefully mapped route, the “Push it” labor playlist loaded onto my phone thatwe’d argued over for hours because Brooks refused to accept that he had horrendous taste in music. And yet, here I was, doubled over between Clarke and section 112, my birth plan unraveling like cheap twine.
But I would be damned if this baby was born six feet from the cotton candy cart.
“Fuck this,” Clarke said, already yanking me to my feet. “We’re not waiting.”
Even through the pain, a startled laugh tore out of me. Clarke hardly ever swore. She was all sweet tea and Southern manners, the kind of woman who saidshootinstead ofshit. Hearing her drop an F-bomb was almost enough to distract me from the fire ripping through my belly.
We hobbled down the stairs, me half-bent over her arm, both of us weaving through the narrow tunnel. The dugout wasn’t far, but the bullpen was closer. And Clarke was single-minded, dragging me along like her life depended on it.
“Hang on, Dani.” My legs shook, sweat dampening the back of my neck. “We’re almost there.”
By the time we stumbled into the bullpen, the guys sitting there shot to their feet, eyes wide. And right in the middle of them—Jared Pink.
He took one look at me doubled over, one arm wrapped tight around my belly, and his face went white. “Holy shit. Dani? Are you—”
“In labor,” Clarke snapped, practically shoving me into the nearest chair. “And we need Brooks. Now.”
Pink froze, mouth opening and closing like he’d just been asked to solve advanced calculus. “Wait, likelaborlabor? The baby is coming?”
“Yes, Jared!” Clarke barked. “Get Brooks on the line now.”
That shook him out of it. “Oh, fuck. Right, phone!”
He skidded to the wall, grabbing the bullpen receiver like it might explode in his hands. His long legs tangled in the cord as he fumbled, nearly tripping over his own cleats. “Coach? Uh, yeah, don’t freak out, but also, you might actually freak out—”
“Give me the phone, Sir Pink-a-lot.” I panted, staggering up enough to snatch the receiver right out of his hand.
Pink yelped and threw his arms up. “Oh, thank God.”
I pressed the phone hard to my ear, another contraction gripping me so tight it felt like my spine might snap in half. My voice came out raw, uneven. “Brooks?”
There was a pause, the crackle of dugout noise bleeding through the line, and then his voice, low and edged with alarm. “Kitten, what’s wrong? Where are you—”
My free hand lifted, weak but certain, and I waved toward the dugout.
Across the diamond, I saw him. Brooks stood at the very edge of the dugout steps, the bullpen phone pressed to his ear, his other hand braced hard against the rail. Our eyes locked across the field—him in his jersey, me doubled over in the bullpen—and the noise of the game, the crowd, everything fell away.
My eyes squeezed shut. “It’s time.”
The line went dead.
Brooks
