Page 150 of Player Misconduct
"That she's the bravest woman I've ever known."
Kendall's eyes well up, and she laughs through the tears. "Stop making me cry when I'm trying to push a baby out."
"Can't help it," I say, grinning. "You're beautiful when you cry."
"You're impossible."
"You love me."
"I really do."
The next hour is a blur.
Contractions. Breathing. Kendall gripping my hand so hard I lose feeling in three fingers. The doctor coaching her through, the nurses cheering her on, me whispering encouragement and praying to every star in the sky that everything goes okay.
And then—
A cry.
High, sharp, indignant—the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
The doctor lifts a tiny, squirming bundle, and my vision blurs so fast I have to blink to clear it.
"It's a boy," she says, smiling.
"A boy," Kendall sobs, reaching for him.
They place him on her chest, and I watch as she cradles him, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking with relief and joy and exhaustion.
"Hi, baby," she whispers. "Hi, Niko. We've been waiting for you."
I lean over both of them, one hand on Kendall's shoulder, the other gently touching the top of Niko's tiny head. He's perfect—red-faced, furious, lungs working overtime to announce his arrival to the world.
"Hi, little man," I whisper, voice breaking. "I'm your dad. And your mom's the strongest person you'll ever meet."
Kendall looks up at me, eyes shining. "We did it."
"You did it," I correct, kissing her temple. "You're incredible."
"We're a team," she says softly. "Always."
Hours later, the chaos has finally settled.
Kendall's in bed, exhausted but glowing, Niko asleep in her arms. I'm sitting beside her in a chair that's too small for my frame, wearing scrubs someone found for me, hair still damp from the world's fastest shower.
The girls came and went—balloons, coffee, chaos, tears, laughter. Penelope arrived with flowers and a press release already drafted ("Mäkelin Family Scores Newest Rookie"). Even Coach Haynes stopped by, gruff but smiling, to say congratulations before heading back to finish the game.
We won, apparently. 5–1.
But I couldn't care less.
Because I won something better.
Now it's just us—me, Kendall, and the tiny human who's changed everything.
I stand, walking to the window. The city lights blur into constellations, and for a moment, I'm back on that rooftop, showing Kendall the stars, telling her about coordinates and fate and the way the universe sometimes gets things exactly right.
"What are you looking at?" Kendall's voice is sleepy, content.
