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Contractions were no joke.
I mean, logically, I knew that they wouldn’t be. Having children was a process, and if the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been having over the last eight weeks were anything to go by, then real contractions would blow.
And I was proved right.
A contraction steam rolled over my stomach.
“That’s two minutes apart,” Banner said, sounding levelheaded.
However, he looked a bit wild.
His hair was in disarray from where he’d ripped the hoodie off of his head.
“You need a haircut,” I puffed.
He flashed me a smile. “I’ll get one tomorrow.”
He wouldn’t.
He’d wait and wait and wait until he was forced to get one by his command, and not a second before.
That was my rebel.
“How far along are you?” the medic asked as he hooked me up to some monitors.
“Thirty-six and a half weeks,” Banner answered for me.
“Good,” the medic, whose nametag read ‘Chris,’ said. “How do you know the football players there?”
“Best friends,” I puffed. “Wow, these really suck.”
“These are coming pretty fast,” the medic looked mildly worried. “Hey, bro. You can go lights and sirens.”
The ambulance sped up, and I looked at Banner with worried eyes.
He looked back at me with the same worried eyes as he said, “Looks like we’re about to be having a baby.”
Looks like we were.
We arrived at the hospital within ten minutes, and we were moved into a room on labor and delivery in less than two.
“Dad, we’re gonna ask you…” the first nurse said as she came into the room.
“He’s not leaving me,” I cried.
“I just want him to fill out some paperwork. He doesn’t have to leave your side,” she soothed. “He’ll be right here. We just need information.”
I blew out a breath.
Then my stomach seized, and I started to scream.
“Oh my God. It burns!”
Whatever I said must’ve alerted the nurse to something important, because the other nurse who’d been helping me out of my pants yanked them off so fast I heard them rip.
Seconds later, I had three nurses and my husband between my legs staring.
“Oh, fuck,” I heard Banner say. “That’s not good, right?”
