Only One Regret (Only One 5)

"You should thank god I’m not like that," he says, and I look at him.

"You are going to get a vasectomy," I vow. "I’m making the appointment."

"Are you insane?" he questions, blocking his junk with his hand. "You said you wanted three kids."

"Well, we have four." I put up my hand. "One more and it’s our own hockey team."

He comes over to me and puts his hands on my stomach. "Two more and we even have a full line, including a goalie."

I’m about to tell him not a chance in hell when my cell phone rings, and I walk over to it, seeing that it’s Michael.

"Hello?" I answer the phone. "How is my favorite client?"

"Miserable," he responds, and I close my eyes and walk out of the room. "I’m being benched. Last night, I played three minutes and fifty-five seconds in the first period, and that’s it."

I close my eyes and sit down on the step. "Who told you that you were being benched?"

"Who do you think?" he says of the coach that has been riding his ass harder than any other player on the team. He’s a coach who has no problems going to the media and calling out his players for fucking up, and he has mentioned Michael a lot lately. "I can’t do this, Erika," he declares, his voice going soft and sounding broken. "I can’t keep doing this. Erks," he repeats, using the nickname he gave me five years ago. "Get me out of here."

"Let me make a call," I reply, hanging up the phone and calling the GM of Columbus.

"I thought you were on maternity leave," he says, not even saying hello.

"I thought you said the bullshit with Michael was over." I repeat what he told me at the end of last year when things were getting rocky. "It’ll blow over, Erika, is what you said."

"I’m standing by my coach," he confirms, and I stand.

"Yeah, well, get ready to trade him," I express, my stomach cramping when I hang up the phone and call the one person I know will take Michael and has cap space.

"Did you have the baby?" he asks, and I close my eyes, ignoring the pain I feel.

"Not yet," I say, not adding that I’ve been having contractions all day. "I just got off the phone with Michael Horton,” I lead with, and he lets out a huge breath.

"Funny you should say that name," he responds, and I listen to him. "Ten minutes ago, the GM of Columbus called me up."

"Nico," I hiss his name. "Do not toy with me."

He laughs. "I’m making it happen," he affirms, and then his voice goes low. "But if he pulls any shit like he is pulling in Columbus …"

"I’ll talk to him," I reassure him.

"Tell him to pack his bags. I don’t want him on the ice tonight," he says, and I close my eyes.

"Thank you," I say and hang up the phone. I call Michael back, and as soon as he answers, the pain rips through me, and I yelp out.

Cooper walks out of the kitchen, looking at me. "It’s me," I say to Michael between clenched teeth. "Pack your bags,” I pant. "You’re coming to Dallas." I don’t even hear what he says before I hang up the phone and look at Cooper.

"What’s happening?" he asks, looking at me as I stand here crouched over with my hand on the railing.

"Michael is being traded to Dallas," I share, and then a splash stops him from coming to me. "And my water just broke.”

Four hours later, our son is born just as the news hits the hockey world.

Michael Horton is traded to Dallas.

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