It’s miraculous. More exciting than football—the most wondrous thing we’ve ever done.
I don’t worry anymore about not being as good of a teacher because I have a kid of my own, or screwing them up when they get here. Because Callie and I make the best team—it’s impossible for us not to be awesome at anything we do together.
Sammy Zheng kicks a beautiful field goal, adding another three points to our side of the board. I clap and tap the players’ backs when they run in . . . and then I realize something’s wrong. Because I don’t hear Callie cheering.
At that same moment, the voice of Callie’s theater student and the announcer for the football games, Michael Salimander, comes through the speakers. His tone starts off semi-robotic, the way rote announcements always sound.
“Coach Daniels, please report to the announcer’s box. Coach Daniels please report . . .”
And then rote goes right out the fucking window.
“. . . what? Holy shit, Miss Carpenter’s having the baby!”
My head whips around so fast it almost snaps off.
Then Miss McCarthy’s voice echoes in a hail of loudspeaker feedback.
“Daniels! Get your ass up here now!”
In an instant Dean is at my side, eyes flaring wide behind his glasses. “Dude. Looks like there’s somewhere you need to be.”
I throw my clipboard and headset at him—swing my legs over the fence and practically leap up the stands in a single bound.
The way Superman would if he knocked up Lois Lane.
Callie stands in the announcer’s box with her dad’s arm around her back, her hands on her stomach, and a giant wet spot on her maternity jeans.
“Apparently that last call was so bad it broke my water,” she tells me.
Holy shit, we’re having a baby. I don’t know why this thought is really just occurring to me now—but it is. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Mrs. Cockaburrow whispers something to Miss McCarthy, who turns to us raising her arms in protest. “There is no giving birth on school grounds! Our insurance premiums will go through the frigging roof!”
I hold up my hand. “I got it.”
My father-in-law tells me they’ll meet us at the hospital. I swoop my wife into my arms and Miss McCarthy’s voice follows me out the door.
“Remember—Michelle is a beautiful girl’s name!”
The football game has temporarily stopped and as I carry Callie down the stands, everyone claps and cheers and wishes us good luck—even the refs and the opposing team’s players. Callie smiles and waves like the homecoming queen she was.
I jog towards my black SUV—I got rid of the Jeep—my precious cargo needed a safer ride.
I look down at Callie. “You doing okay?”
She rests her head against my shoulder, smiling serenely. “I’m in your arms, Garrett—that means I’m great.”
Twelve hours later? Not so much.
“Uhhh!!” Callie collapses back against the pillows after contraction number seventeen-thousand rips through her.
“You’re doing so good, Cal.” I dab her forehead with a cold cloth. “Remember, visualize the win. See it happen—”
“Oh, fuck your visualization!” Callie yells in my face.
At this particular point in our relationship—and her labor—I know not to argue with her.
“Okay, you’re right—fuck the visualization—you don’t need it. You got this, Callie.”
Her face crumples and she sobs.
I think my heart may literally be breaking for her. I hate this—it kills me that she’s hurting and there’s dick all I can do to make it better. I wish I could do this for her, take the agony for her.
She shakes her head, pitifully. “I don’t got this, Garrett.”
I shift closer from my chair next to her bed, gathering her in my arms, pressing my head against hers. “Yes you do. Yes you do, baby. You’re so strong, I’m in awe of you. And I’m right here with you. I’ve got you . . . we’ve got this together.”
Callie closes her eyes, breathing me in. And my words seem to calm her. I brush her sweat-soaked hair back, off her face.
“We’re gonna have a baby, Callie. Our baby. Focus on that, sweetheart. You’re almost there; you’re so close.”
She nods against me. And when she opens her eyes, the determination and strength is back in their emerald depths. “Okay . . . okay . . .”
I nod and squeeze her hand. “Okay.”
“Another contraction coming,” Sue, the nurse, announces.
I help Callie sit up, one arm around her back, the other holding her leg, under her knee. And when the contraction hits, she tucks her chin, grabs her knees, and groans long and loud, pushing with everything she has.
And a few seconds later, an indignant, truly pissed-off cry fills the room.
“Here he is!” Dr. Damato announces. “He’s a boy!”
And he lays the wet, squirming, amazing bundle on Callie’s bare chest. My whole world shifts and goes blurry as more tears come—from Callie’s eyes and mine.
“You did it, Cal. You did so good.”
I hold her and we laugh and cry and gaze down at the pure perfection we made together.