Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

I wanted him to play.

He was so close to his two hundredth home run that I didn’t want to take that away from him.

How cool would it be to have his baby and his two hundredth career home run all in the same day?

Personally, I thought it’d be awesome.

Which was why I made the stupid decision not to tell him until he called me two hours later.

With his two hundredth home run under his belt.

“Did you hear?”

I did, but I was screaming too loudly to reply.

***

Nine hours later

I didn’t think there was a single sight in the world that was more beautiful than watching my husband, the man that I loved with all of my heart, hold his son for the first time.

I’d gone into labor around four that afternoon and had gone to the hospital while George was at his baseball game out of town.

He’d missed the birth.

Almost.

He’d literally walked into the hospital room—or more accurately run in—right about the time that our son was sliding out of my vagina.

Something I didn’t think he could ever forget if the sight on his face at that particular moment in time was anything to go by.

Now he was holding our son while I was cleaned up and ‘stitched as good as new.’

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me the minute you knew,” he grumbled, his eyes coming up to meet mine.

I sighed. “I’ll never hear the end of that, will I?”

He shook his head.

“I just wanted you to get your two hundredth home run,” I explained.

He rolled his eyes. “That would’ve just as easily come the next game I played.”

Speaking of the next game he played…

“Are you playing tomorrow?”

He gave me another look that clearly thought I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

“I’ll return to the series once they get home. That’s two days from now,” he answered.

I sighed in relief. “Good, because I don’t know anything about kids.”

He snorted. “You and me both, baby. You and me both.”

Two hours later I was in my new room, showered, dressed and as comfortable as I would be getting while in the hospital.

“I hope you enjoy the one kid you have,” I croaked. “Because my vagina won’t be doing that again. Your kid almost broke me.”

And he had.

I had seventeen stitches.

I’d torn from vagina to ass (yes, not the best picture, but it was what it was), and I wasn’t sure anything would ever be the same down there again, even though the doctor assured me that it would.

I could tell that using the bathroom and doing all those things would be painful for the time being, and I was not looking forward to revisiting this stage of life.

It was George’s smile that made me immediately want to retract that statement.

“You’d deprive me of this again?” he teased as he repositioned Micah in his arms.

I blinked as he looked down at his son who’d just made an annoyed sound that clearly said he didn’t like being jostled.

There was nothing more beautiful in the world than a man holding his baby. This bearded, red-haired man of mine with his love for life. The tattooed beast of a man who could hit baseballs straight out of the park. The man that was quickly becoming my entire world.

“Do you think he’ll always have red hair?” I asked softly.

“I had red hair as a child,” he explained. “It’s been that way ever since.”

I found myself smiling at that. “Do you think he’ll have your green eyes?”

George stood up and sidled up to the bed.

Knowing what he was after, I slid over enough so that he could take a seat on the bed, which he did moments later.

Once he was settled in, me tucked up under one arm, and Micah in the other, I felt utter and complete contentedness sweep over me.

“I think he’ll have my green eyes,” he agreed. “Since he has my hair, and my skin tone, I really do think you will have to have another one. Maybe that one will look like you. At this point, people will question whether he’s even yours or not.”

I pinched his side.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” he snickered. “If I hadn’t actively seen him coming out of your vagina, I honestly think I might’ve questioned if he was yours, too.”

I sighed.

“All that work I did incubating him, throwing up for nine months, followed by all those mood swings, and he comes out looking exactly like you. Seriously, couldn’t he have just given me one thing?” I teased.

“He has your toes,” George offered up.

“Nuh-uh,” I sure hoped he didn’t.

Turns out, he did.

“Shit,” I laughed, wincing when the pain pulled my stitches.

“You okay?” He ran his hand up my arm to curl around my head.

I nodded against his chest.

“I’ll live.”

He growled something low in his throat. “I don’t like you in pain. The past day will forever be burned in my brain. Hearing you scream was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. I don’t ever want to feel that helpless again.”