Page 73 of Slap Shot Surprise
I smiled. “Have you thought about names yet?”
“Here and there. Have you?”
“Every time I try, it scares me. It seems like a lot of responsibility to name a human being. He’ll have that name forever, you know?”
“We have time to think about it.” Her fingers knotted at her midsection. “Have you told anyone here yet?”
“I haven’t,” I confessed. “But I will soon. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
She held up both hands. “You can decide when. No pressure. The jersey is big enough to hide it for tonight. No one will guess.”
“I just know there’s going to be a lot of bullshit gossip, and I want to protect you from it.”
“I understand.”
“I spoke to Shea, one of the team’s media relations people last week. She said probably the best thing will be to just tell the truth—or at least a version of it. It was asurprise, but we’re friends, and we’re going to co-parent. I’m going to be supportive and involved.” It sounded so rote when I said it like that. Like a script, which I guess it was.
“That’s cool with me.” She tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, making the bump more noticeable. “I’ll confirm that, if anyone asks.”
“I just don’t really want it getting out there while you’re here,” I said, unable to take my eyes off her belly. “I don’t want Chicago media to have any kind of access to you. Shea thought maybe it would be good around Christmas. A feel-good kind of post on social media or something.”
“Okay. Ooh!” She placed a hand on her stomach. “He heard you talking about him.”
Instinctively, I moved toward her with my hand out—then stopped. “Can I—is it okay if?—”
“It’s fine,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Come here.”
I placed my palm on the bump, over her sweater, and waited. After a long moment, she looked at me, her eyebrows raised.
“Did you feel that?”
“No,” I said, disappointed.
“Hang on, sometimes he moves more when I’m sitting.” She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and leaned back on one hand. With the other, she lifted her sweater, revealing a stretchy navy blue panel where the zipper and button would normally be. Pushing the panel down, her rounded belly appeared. “Come sit,” she said.
I dropped down next to her.
She reached for my hand and brought it to her skin, which was warm and firm. “Okay, now just wait.”
I waited, my breath trapped in my lungs,my pulse racing.
“Come on, little guy. Don’t be shy,” Mabel coaxed. “It’s just your daddy. He wants to?—”
And I felt it—beneath my hand, I felt the tiniest little bump you can imagine. But the reaction it provoked in me was huge. My heart blew up like a balloon, and my throat closed.
Mabel grinned. “Did you feel it?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I left my hand where it was, hoping to feel my son move again.
“Talk to him,” Mabel urged.
“What do I say?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just let him hear your voice.”
I stared at my hand on her stomach, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my child was in there—the kid I’d teach to skate and take to his grandpa’s restaurant and run alongside as he learned to ride a two-wheeler. “Hey, buddy,” I said. “Are you really in there?”
Thump.
