Page 147 of Married to the Scottish Player
“I amnotpanicking,” I lie. My left leg is vibrating like a phone on silent. “I’m calm.” Perfectly calm.
Beside me, my wife giggles out a groan. “You’re so calm.”
“Was that sarcasm?”
The ride feels like a fever dream. Annabelle is a trooper, timing contractions on my phone while I try not to vomit into the Uber-branded barf bag. Diego starts narrating street names like we’re in a documentary: “Turning onto North Ninetieth Street. You’ll notice the hospital is approximately four minutes away, depending on the light.”
Annabelle’s breathing picks up. She exhales a long breath, relaxing between contractions, and reaches for my hand.
“You’re doing great,” I whisper, brushing hair off her forehead.
“Better than you,” she whispers back.
By the time we pull up to the emergency entrance, we’re both perspiring, slightly delirious, and so wildly prepared we feel underprepared.
I fling the door open to the Uber and shout, “She’s in labor!”
Crickets.
I half expect a team of nurses to descend with a wheelchair and confetti cannons. Instead?Not a soul lingering outside to save me.Nothing.
“Babe,” Annabelle says from the back seat, gripping the handle above her head. “Maybe don’t scream.”
How the Fuck is She so Calm?
“Sorry,” I hiss through my teeth. “I’m new.”
The automatic doors slide open as if God heard my summons of distress and wanted me to make a dramatic entrance. I mean—Annabelle. ’Cause she’s the one in labor, not me.
A nurse strolls out pushing a wheelchair with one hand as if we have all the time in the world to chill, holding a clipboard in the other, like this is a casual Tuesday.
“We’re having a baby.”
The nurse doesn’t burst into action as I’d hoped she would. “Yeah? So are three other people. Get in line.”
Annabelle rolls her eyesAt Meand eases herself into the chair like she’s checking into a spa, not about to birth a whole person.
Me? I’m jogging alongside like a puppy trying to keep up, carrying the hospital bag, my phone, and her water bottle, yelling “IGot It!” every three feet as shit falls out of my hands.
“This is it,” Annabelle mutters dryly as we roll into triage.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her again with a pant, juggling a bag of protein bars I packed, her heating pad, and the paper towels from Diego’s Uber.
“You’re doing too much,” she fires back.
When the nurse finally gets us checked in and wheeled into Labor and Delivery, I almost kiss her feet.
Inside the room, things go from zero toemotional-hostage situationreal fast.
One minute Annabelle’s shimmying into a hospital gown while vowing to sue me, my DNA, and every ancestor responsible for my swimmers—the next, she’s clutching my hand, sobbing about how much she loves me and how I’m her soulmate.
Nurses buzz around. A doctor appears. Someone hands me a hairnet. Ahairnet?
Annabelle is cursing in two languages, possibly inventing a third.
“It’s game day!” I shout.
No one cheers.
