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“You didn’t leave me much choice, Poppy. It was either that or have them prep a delivery suite next to the locker room.”
The doctor smiled, tapping Poppy’s leg and having her lean back while she snapped some gloves on. “Why don’t you head into the bathroom? I just want to see where we are before we head out to the hospital, okay?”
With my arm around Poppy’s waist, I helped her into the suite’s restroom and Poppy did her best, leaning up against the counter while Dr. Beal examined her. “Goodness,” she said,eyebrows climbing up her forehead. “You’re already at a five, my dear.”
Oh yes. I knew what this meant. Centimeters. Learned that one in the class, where I also discovered—to my chagrin—what a mucus plug was. Could’ve gone the rest of my life not knowing it, but it was honestly shocking what I’d gotten used to at this point.
Poppy’s face went white. “I am? Does this mean I can’t get my epidural?”
Immediately, she started crying, and I brushed the hair back off her forehead, trying my best to calm her.
“You’ll be just fine, sweetie,” Dr. Beal said. “Let’s just get you somewhere?—”
The doctor was cut off as another contraction rocked Poppy and she made a low moaning sound that made me want to tear my chest out. Her hand was squeezing mine so tightly, I had to turn away and hide the slight wince of pain.
Honest to God, I thought she was going to break my fucking hand.
Dr. Beal whispered something to Poppy and then left the bathroom. I saw her talking to Greer and Lydia. Lydia was gesturing wildly, and they both had concern on their faces.
“What are they talking about?” Poppy asked, leaning her forehead against my shoulder.
“I don’t know, angel. But you’ll be just fine.”
“You snuck my doctor into the game,” she said. Her eyes were still wet from tears, and underneath her smile, I saw worry and fear.
I cupped her face. “I’d do a lot more than that to make sure you’re safe.”
Poppy melted into me, clutching at my shirt while another contraction rolled through her. She breathed through it while I rubbed her back.
Dr. Beal came back into the room. “Okay. New plan. A concert just let out across the street, and there’s an accident onthe highway we need to use to get to the hospital, so we’re moving to plan B.”
Poppy was breathing hard when the contraction was done. “What’s plan B?”
The doctor smiled. “Well, you have two choices. We can use one of the ambulances here for the game and hope you can get past the traffic. Or … Poppy, how do you feel about being the first person to have a baby at a football stadium? There are EMTs on hand for the game, they’re ready to assist and could take you in after the baby is delivered.”
“What?” I gasped. “I was joking when I said I’d prep a room.”
Dr. Beal cocked an eyebrow, and if she didn’t look so calm, I might have lost my fucking mind right there. “There are worst places to have a baby, trust me. I think we’d do just fine if it comes to that.”
And that was how we found ourselves thirty minutes later, in a treatment room turned into a makeshift delivery suite. Security and medical staff from the team escorted us into the lower level, and with Poppy’s hand gripping mine, her entire freaking family trailing behind us, I wondered how the absolute hell this was actually happening.
The room itself wasn’t bad—they’d loaded us up with clean towels and sanitized a cushy, expensive-looking examination table, plastic covering the floor underneath, and Dr. Beal used a long table along the wall to set up her equipment. She scrubbed her arms in a sink and pulled a gown from her purse to wear over her Voyagers gear.
On the table, Poppy did her best to weather the contractions, but they rolled through her body in a way that left her panting and sweaty. More than anything, I just wanted to take it away for her.
Outside the room, eighty-seven Wilders waited, and I tried my best to ignore the fact that we were at a football stadiumand Poppy was about to give birth where her brother got massages.
“I hope they burn this table when I’m done with it,” she groaned. Another contraction wracked her frame, and she turned toward me, gripping my hand while I tried to coach her to breathe. Dr. Beal spoke to the EMTs stationed in the room with us, an older Black man and a blonde who looked so young, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-one.
“You got it, angel,” I told her. “You’re doing so fucking great.”
“It hurts,” she whimpered as the contraction came down.
“I know, love. I know.” I brushed my lips over her sweat-damp forehead, only releasing her hand to get a wet washcloth for her forehead.
When I laid it on her skin, she sighed, but the relief was short-lived because there was another contraction right on the heels of the last one.
“We’re close,” Dr. Beal said. “This little one really wants to come meet you two.”
