Page 137 of What if It's Us

“Dad, I?—”

“It’s alright, Ledger.” He nods, reassuring me. “I’ll be fine. Get out of here. Your girl needs you.”

I don’t wait this time. I turn and follow the guard out of the visiting room where another guard promptly hands me my keys and phone and wallet and then shows me the way out.

I’m coming Mar! Fuck, I’m coming as fast as I can!

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MARLEE

The sound of the Zamboni hums faintly through the concrete walls of the arena. It’s almost comforting…like a sound machine or a fan in the bedroom as I sit at my desk working on final schedules for the next few weeks. I want to get as much done as I possibly can before the babies come so I’m not leaving the team in a lurch with my absence. I’m fully aware there are other staff members who can adequately do the job, but I like to think I’m one in a million around here and without me, the guys on the team would be lost. My enormous belly moves under Ledger’s soft hoodie, which is now stretched to its limits, as I hold a clipboard in my hands reading through the latest equipment inventory.

“New sticks will be delivered from?—”

A sharp cramp stops me mid-sentence and I freeze.

I inhale a deep breath, releasing it slowly while waiting for the pain to pass.

“Okay…rude,” I mutter, brushing myself off when the pain finally subsides. “Probably Braxton Hicks again.”

I’ve had them for weeks.

Doc says it’s no big deal.

I stand to grab a file from the cabinet andthat’swhen it hits me. Only this time…it’s different. Pain wraps around my stomach like a belt cinching too tight, leaving me breathless and gripping my desk.

Shit. That hurts.

Then something else happens. Something new I’m not ready for. A gentle trickle of warmth spreads down my legs.

“Oh fuck. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I look down, oddly hoping that maybe I just peed my pants, but nope. It’s water. Not a ton, but enough.

“NOPE.” I shake my head squeezing my eyes closed as if my water breaking is just an ugly monster under my bed that will go away. “Nope, nope, no?—”

This is not an emergency.

This is normal.

You can do this.

You can handle ten world-class athletes acting like children every day, so you can handle this.

You. Can. Handle. This.

“Lake?” I shout in hopes Layken might still be in her office. She’s supposed to have a meeting with Anaheim General Hospital today but maybe I’ll get lucky and she won’t have left yet. “Layken?”

But my shouts are answered with silence.

Shit.

I grab my phone, hands shaking, because now all the Braxton Hicks have ceased their little charade and are being replaced by the real deal, straight from the fiery forges of hell. With every fractional movement, some crucial ligament I’ve never met before is being ripped apart like Velcro. I punch in Ledger’s number but it goes directly to voicemail.

Of course it does.

Prison, dummy.

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