Page 129 of Beloved Beauty

And now she’s giving me forever.

Chapter 38

Magnolia Sebring

The energy in the stadium is electric—part nerves, part adrenaline, and a lot of hope. From the suite above the field, the roar of the crowd washes over us. I press a hand to the glass and search for Alex—steady and sure, eyes locked on the ball.

Grand Final game.

We made it.

Or at least, I have. Still pregnant. Still intact. Still not in labor.

Yet.

Malie claps beside me, vibrating in her seat every time Alex touches the ball. “He’s on fire tonight,” she says, nudging Alexander, who responds with a proud grunt.

I smile, trying to match their excitement. But beneath the flowy hem of my blouse, my hand drifts to the top of my belly again. Cramping. Persistent. Not unbearable—but more than simple nerves.

It started this morning, dull and low. Now it’s sharper and more insistent.

Still. This is the biggest game of my husband’s career. I won’t be the woman who cried labor over a few stubborn Braxton-Hicks contractions.

I shift in my seat, inhale slowly, and try to focus on the field.

The baby’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.

The pain sharpens halfway through the second quarter.

It’s no longer mild cramping. It rolls through me in waves—low and sharp. I press my knees together and shift my weight, trying to breathe through it the way every birthing class told me to.

But this isn’t a drill.

Malie catches the movement, her brows furrowing. She leans closer. “Are you all right, lo’u afafine?”

I nod. Lie. Then another pain hits, stealing the breath right out of my lungs, and I grab her wrist. “I think I might be in labor. But I’m not sure.”

Her eyes widen, flicking to my belly, then back to my face. “How close together?”

“They were every ten minutes or so. Now it’s more often––every five to six.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because this game is so important to Alex. If it’s false labor, I don’t want him walking off the field for nothing.”

Malie looks at me, silent for a moment. Calculating. Then she nods. “All right. Let’s get up quietly and leave with no fuss.”

She leans toward Alexander and murmurs something in his ear.

He stiffens. “What’s going on?”

“She might be in labor,” Malie says, calm as ever. “We need the car.”

Alexander blinks once, then lets out a quiet “Bloody hell,” under his breath. “Right. I’m on it,” he says, standing. “I’ll swing the car around. Don’t let her give birth to our grandchild in the elevator.”

I glance at the other wives, the press staff, the retired players sipping drinks in the corner. No one notices as Malie helps me to my feet. We walk, not making a sound.

“We should send word to Alex,” she says once we’re in the hallway.

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