Page 88 of The Game Plan
After last night’s emotional outburst, I managed to sleep in later than normal. By the time I make my way into the kitchen, Grant’s been gone for a few hours. As I pour a cup of coffee, I grab the Post-it note sitting on the counter.
My nose burns as I blink away the tears. I refuse to spend all day crying like I did last night. As I blow on the coffee, a sensation buzzes deep in my bones. Something feels off with my body—not bad, just strange. Maybe it’s the six hours I slept on the couch last night. Abandoning my morning coffee, I decide to move and stretch, then go for a walk before settling in to get ahead on schoolwork and watch the game. I need to keep my mind from spiraling.
Lacing my shoes, which has become a workout itself, I slip in my earbuds and waddle my ass down the steps. With my swelling and large belly, my balance has been off, so I take each step carefully.
The complex is quiet right now, but it won’t be long before everyone is bustling around, getting ready to tailgate for today’s home game. Once upon a time, that would’ve been me. I’d spend the morning getting dressed in my red, white, and powder blue. Fixing my hair in a perfect style to not only look cute, but keep me cool in the hot Texas air. I’d head to whichever house was having a pregame party before walking to the stadium to cheeron the team in the student section. Once the game was over, we’d head to another house party and…
Oomph.
I stop short, pressing a hand to my side as my stomach tightens.
Wincing, I inhale sharply.
Okay…okay. Another Braxton Hicks contraction.
But I’ve had those before, and never have they stopped me in my tracks.
I resume my steps, moving slower than before. My mind is a whirlwind of activity as I convince myself that I was having a strong false labor contraction. I know Dr. Sinclair said it could be any time now, but there’s no way I’m going into labor this soon. I was only a centimeter or two dilated yesterday.
Rounding the backside of the property, I decide to head back toward my building instead of weaving through the green space like I normally do. I left my phone at home since the pockets on these maternity shorts are almost nonexistent.
Another contraction hits harder. Only this time, the pain is lower, tighter, forcing me to brace my hand against a crosswalk post to keep my knees from buckling. I don’t have any way of timing these contractions, but something tells me these aren’t Braxton Hicks.
Shit.
Panic floods my veins as I quicken my steps as best I can. So much for staying calm. My heart races as I near my building. I climb the stairs, clutching the railing like it’s my life support. The second I’m inside, I drop my keys and head straight to the bathroom as I’m hit with a wave of nausea.
Before I can empty the contents of my stomach, the unmistakable gush floods my pants. I blink down at the floor as I stare at the puddle.
“Oh my god.”
I grab the counter, eyes wide, as a tremor hits me. “It’s happening. Holy shit, this is it.”
My heart pounds so powerfully I can feel the pulse in my ears as my hands shake as I reach for the phone I left on the bathroom counter.
I need to call Grant.
But he’s coaching.
Labor can take hours. He spent hours preparing for this game today, and I don’t want to distract him when we have time.
Another contraction rips through me, and I double over, breathing as steadily as I can. But, fuck me, thesehurt.
Scrolling through my apps, I tap on my rideshare app. Screw it, I’ll call Grant as soon as I get a ride to the hospital. I type in the hospital's address and notice a car is a few minutes away.
I strip out of my damp clothes, throw a towel on the ground, and promise myself I’ll scrub the floor later as I rush into my bathroom. Once I slip on a clean pair of panties and a maternity dress, I grab the hospital bag. Last night, I double-checked and packed everything, but I still open my bag one more time, making sure I have the essentials—robe, non-slip socks, comfy clothes, baby clothes—while tossing in my everyday items like my toothbrush and charger. My hands fumble over everything, stomach cramping as I throw the bag over my shoulder.
Grabbing my phone, I open my messages app and find the one person I think can help me right now.
Sooo my water broke. I’m heading to the hospital now.
The bubbles of her reply come instantly.
Bret: Holy shit. Okay…I’ll meet you there from the stadium.
I can feel her nerves through her message. I don’t have time to dwell on it, though. I close out of our messages and try calling Grant. It rings, but he doesn’t answer, which I assumed would happen. Hanging up, I type out a text.
My water broke and I’m having contractions…I have no clue how far apart they are, but it looks like baby girl is coming today.
