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"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.
Later on, after everyone is cleaned up and settled, I lie next to Callie on the hospital bed, with our swaddled little guy between us. Callie looks tired and so damn beautiful, my chest aches.
We've been kicking around a few names, but decided to hold off on a final call until he got here. "Okay--first round picks for his name on three," I tell Callie. "Three . . . two . . . one . . ."
We both say it at the same time.
"William."
Callie's smile grows and new tears spring up in her eyes.
"Will Daniels," she says softly. "It's a good name. A handsome, strong name . . . just like his daddy."
Will's fist wraps around my finger, holding on tight.
"He has your hands," my wife notices. "I wonder if he'll play football?"
It would be awesome if he plays--I love the game--and I hope he'll love it too. That it'll bring him the same joy it's always brought me.
On cue, Will lets out a healthy squawk.
"He has your voice. It projects." I laugh. "He might like theater."
Whatever he wants, as long as he's happy, I'll be good with it.
Callie gazes at me with her big, green, adoring eyes. "I love you, Garrett."
"I know." I lean over and kiss her forehead. My voice is a hushed, sacred whisper. "I love you too, Callie."
Epilogue 3
Us
Callie
I walk out of the auditorium where the Lakeside Players Group just finished meeting and planning the dramas and musicals we'll be performing this year. I head up to the practice field, where my hot coach of a husband is running his August football practice.
"Hey, Mrs. Coach D." Addison Belamine, a senior and captain of the cheerleading squad, waves as she passes me.
Yes, that's what Garrett's kids--his students and the cheerleaders and the football players--call me. I think it's cute--it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And Garrett loves it . . . he gets that sexy, tender, possessive-caveman look in his eyes whenever he hears it.
"Hi, Addison." I wave back as I make my way up the path.
And speaking of sexy . . .
There is nothing that turns me on more than seeing Garrett on a football field, holding our son. I suspect he knows this, which--besides the obvious benefit of hanging out with his boy--is another reason I think he brings Will to practices every chance he gets. My beautiful, dark-haired son chews on his hand and watches the players with rapt attention, from his outward facing spot in the carrier on Garrett's chest.
"What the fricking frack, Damato?" Jerry Dorfman yells. "Wrong play--get your head out of your butt!"
Garrett and the coaches have been pretty great about watching their language when Will's around. His first word was "Da"--but God only knows what it would've been otherwise. Probably dumbass.
"No, no, no!" Garrett waves his arms at a player on the sidelines. "Jesus Christ--you're fumbling because you're holding the ball too tight!"
"No, no, no, no, no, no . . ." Will chants. That was his second word.
"It's god damn genetic." Garrett shakes his head.
That would be Patrick O'Riley. He's a clencher--like his older brother Nick before him.
Garrett takes Will out of the carrier and holds him with one arm, his head in Garrett's large hand, tucked against his side. "This is how you hold the ball--this is the amount of pressure you use to keep the ball."
Then Garrett puts our ten-month-old in the sophomore's arm and points.
"Now run."
Will giggles as he's jostled around, having a blast. And I'm not concerned, because I know that Garrett would cut his arm off before he ever put our son at risk.
Still, as the football player jogs past me, I add my two cents.
"You drop my kid, O'Riley, I'll hurt you."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Coach D., I won't drop him."
Garrett smiles as I approach, his eyes sliding up and down over me and liking what he sees. "Hey, you. You all done with your meeting?"
"Yep. I'm going to head home with Will. We'll take Woody for a walk around the lake."
Garrett nods, his dark hair falling over his forehead in my favorite way. "We'll be done here soon too--another hour." He wraps his arm around my lower back, pulling me closer. "Let's go out tonight. Twelfth Night is playing at the Hammitsburg Theater. You can get dressed up, we'll enjoy the show . . . then I'll take you home and undress you."
I giggle. "Hmm . . . who's going to watch the baby?"
"My parents have Ryan and Angela's girls, and Connor's boys--he's got a date tonight . . ."
Connor's divorce from Stacey was finalized last year. He's got his own house in town now and he's been trying to get back into the dating scene. It's been . . . adventurous.
". . . so I figured we'll drop Will off with them too--give them a full deck of grandchildren. They live for that shit."
I rest my hands on my husband's broad shoulders.
"You have the best ideas."
He wiggles his brows, his pretty brown eyes full of love and filthy thoughts.
"Baby, I've got ideas for tonight that'll blow your mind."
Garrett does a quick scan of the field--making sure his players are all otherwi
se occupied. They are. So he slides his hands into the back pockets of my jeans, giving my ass a playful squeeze, then he bends his head and kisses me.
And this is us. This is our home, our life, our love . . . this is our always.
The End
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Emma Chase, writes contemporary romance filled with heat, heart and laugh-out-loud humor. Her stories are known for their clever banter, sexy, swoon-worthy moments, and hilariously authentic male POV's.
Emma lives in New Jersey with her amazing husband, two awesome children, and two adorable but badly behaved dogs. She has a long-standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.
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