“I know.”

  But I hope—more than anything—that it’s not time. I don’t want to steal the grandest moment of his career.

  The sliding doors of the hospital whisper open, and Alexander guides me in, Malie by my side. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as we reach the desk. “I called Dr. Meera Shah to let her know I was coming in. Magnolia Sebring. I think I may be in labor.”

  The woman behind the desk nods, already rising to her feet. “Let’s get you into a room and checked out.”

  She leads us down a hallway, the soft squeak of her sneakers the only sound until we reach a small exam room. I change and Malie helps me onto the bed.

  A few minutes later, a staff member comes in. “Let’s have a check and see what’s going on,” she says, putting on an exam glove.

  She does the exam and I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

  When she’s done, she peels off her gloves with a quiet snap and offers a reassuring smile. “You’re four centimeters dilated. Officially in early labor. Time to get you admitted to a birthing suite and call Dr. Shah.”

  Four centimeters. I swallow hard, a surge of adrenaline mixed with relief pulsing through me. This is real.

  Malie squeezes my hand, and I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “My grandchild is on his way.”

  Another contraction begins and I begin deep-breathing through it. “He sure is.”

  They wheel me through another set of doors into a private birthing suite. The TV already has the game on as though it was waiting for me.

  Halftime.

  Alex is probably in the locker room right now, hydrating, making adjustments, talking strategy.

  My heart lurches.

  He doesn’t know what’s happening.

  Malie tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “I need someone to go by the house and pick up my bag. Do you think Elias would mind doing that for me?”

  Alexander laughs. “Elias doesn’t mind doing anything for his teine.”

  “I should text Violet.”

  Malie nods. “You’d better or she’ll never forgive you.”

  The contractions ramp up as we watch the game––sharp, insistent–– and I squeeze Malie’s hand.

  Malie nods at Alexander. She says nothing, but I see the silent communication between them. They’re respecting my decision to not pull Alex out of the game, but both are concerned about him not being here.

  “The game will be over soon,” I say. My voice is steady, but my skin prickles with worry.

  Alexander glances at the screen and then at me. “Second half is starting. It’ll be over soon.”

  From the birthing bed, as I clutch the sheets, I watch my husband dominate the pitch. He is such a powerhouse.

  Contractions come and go, often and fiercely, growing stronger. I reach for the remote to turn the volume up, and the announcers’ voices bleed through the pain. “The Wall dominates the game, and it’s easy to see why his team was desperate to have him back.”

  I close my eyes when another pain begins and Alexander kisses the top of my head the way I always thought a loving father would. “Game’s nearly over, love. Alex will be here soon.”

  Malie stands beside the bed, rubbing my back in slow circles. “Let us worry about getting our son here. You just worry about getting our grandchild here.”

  The contraction hits again, steady this time, deeper than before. My breath hitches. It’s pain with purpose—marching toward something life-changing.

  I press my hand to my bump. “Your daddy will be here soon. You just stay nice and comfy in there a while longer.”

  Malie leans in. “I’ve been thinking about our best move. I think we should call Julia. Communication with Alex through Nate will be the fastest. It’s in the team’s best interest for Alex to stay and milk the attention. Management will drag their feet taking him out of the spotlight.”

  “My contractions are getting harder, so I think getting him here as quickly as possible is a great idea.”

  I hand over my phone, and a few moments later, she lifts it to her ear. “Julia? It’s Malie Sebring, Alex’s mum. Magnolia’s in labor. We’re at the Women’s Hospital. Can you ask Nate to find Alex the minute the game ends? Don’t go through management—just send Nate. He’ll get to him faster.”

  I close my eyes as another contraction rips through my body, and my hand fists the blanket.

  “Good girl,” Malie says, holding my hand. “You’re doing a beautiful job.”

  Time passes in a blur. I’m six centimeters at my next exam and the pain is growing—sharper, steadier. I focus on the game playing on the television. It’s the second half now. Alex is on fire—commanding, explosive. The stadium is a wall of noise.

  The final whistle blows and Alex’s team wins. Chaos erupts on the screen. Teammates are tackling each other in celebration. Confetti rains down.

  A reporter pulls Alex aside for an interview. He’s smiling, flushed, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead.

  “Massive win tonight for you, Alex. Congratulations. And congratulations on becoming a father, too.”

  Alex laughs, breathless, running his hands through his wet hair. “Not yet but any day now.”

  The reporter shakes his head, holding a finger to his earpiece. “No, mate. Your wife is at the Women’s Hospital. In labor. It’s happening now.”

  The shift in Alex is instant. His smile fades. His eyes widen.

  “What?”

  The camera captures everything—the way he jerks back, tosses the mic, and sprints off the field. The crowd roars as he runs, teammates shouting his name. Security barely gets out of his way.

  My heart races.

  “Well,” Malie says with a sigh. “I think it’s safe to say he knows and is on his way.”

  My hand shoots to my belly when another contraction hits. “I’m in so much trouble.”

  “He’ll forgive you,” Malie says. “Eventually. As long as he makes it here before the baby comes.”

  We both laugh—nervous, breathless, full of love.

  My phone rings, and I’m certain it’s him before I look at the screen.

  I swipe to answer. “Hi⁠—”

  His voice is tight, breathless. There’s no anger, just raw panic. “You’re in labor? Why didn’t you send for me?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I’ve been cramping all day, but I didn’t want to pull you out of the biggest game of your life over a false alarm.”

  “How much are you dilated?”

  “Six centimeters.”

  “Six centimeters! Bloody hell, favorite. You’re over halfway and I’m not even there. I would’ve dropped everything to be there with you.”

  “I know you would have and it would’ve been unnecessary. I’m still hours away from the baby coming. This way, you got to finish the game and be here for the birth. You didn’t have to give up one for the other.”

  “I’m on my way,” he says. “Traffic’s a nightmare, but I’ll be there as soon as I can be. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  The TV is on mute, but the ticker at the bottom scrolls one headline over and over.

  SEBRING STORMS OFF FIELD AFTER HUGE WIN—RUSHING TO WOMEN’S HOSPITAL AS WIFE IS IN LABOR.

  I stare at it, breath catching. My heart clenches in a strange mix of relief and irritation. “Ugh. I wanted privacy.”

  “You won’t get any being married to the biggest star in rugby.” Malie reaches over to change the channel, but the screen shifts only to another sports network blaring the same news. She sets the remote down with a sigh. “They won’t let one second of this go unreported. It’s news.”

  We aren’t even allowed to keep our baby’s arrival private.

  The nurse returns. “Let’s check and see what kind of progress you’re making.”

  She pulls on gloves, and I wince at the pressure.

  “Seven centimeters,” she says with a nod. “You’re moving right along.”

  The door bursts open, and suddenly he’s there—sweaty, flushed, eyes wild with panic and relief. His jersey is half untucked, cleats still on, like he ran here straight off the field without stopping for breath.

  “Alex—”

  He’s at my side in two strides, crouching down, his hands wrapping around mine. He lifts them to his mouth, kissing my fingers, then my knuckles. “Are you okay, babe?”

  “I’m fine. At least as fine as I can be with a small human preparing to push its way out of my body.”

  “You should’ve told me,” he says, voice low, almost breaking.

  I squeeze his hand. “There’s no way I would ask you to leave the game for a maybe-baby.”

  “I’d leave any game for you,” he says without hesitation. “Every time. No question.”

  I look at him—mud-streaked and magnificent––and know he would do anything for me.

  For us.

  Malie and Alexander step out, giving us this moment to share only between us. And everything shifts, becoming more urgent.

  I’ve chosen to do this without medication, and as the contractions ramp up, so does the intensity. Each one is a wave that crashes through me, stealing my breath, forcing every ounce of focus inward.

  Alex is by my side, holding my hand, brushing damp hair from my forehead. His voice is the anchor I cling to.

  “You’re doing so good, favorite. Keep breathing.”

  Fully dilated now, the nurse gives me the go-ahead to push. I nod, biting down on a groan. It’s harder than I thought it would be—this primal, punishing rhythm of work and will.

  My body shakes, slick with effort, and Alex presses his forehead to mine. “You can do it. You’ve got this.”

  And I push—not just through the pain but through every fear I’ve ever had. Through every moment that brought me here.

  For him.

  For us.

  For this.

  The door swings open again, this time with purpose.

  “How are we doing, Mum?” Dr. Shah asks.

  I grit my teeth through a contraction and breathe out the pain. “I need to push.”

  Dr. Shah steps in, snapping on gloves as the nurse behind her ties her gown. “Nice work, Magnolia. You’re almost there. Baby’s head is crowning, so this is almost over with.”

  Alex stands by my head, holding my hand. He hasn’t let go since he arrived. “You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’re almost there, babe.”

  The doctor nods. “All right, let’s meet this little one.”

  The medical team bustles around the room, adjusting lights and prepping supplies. Someone makes a comment about the game, about Alex’s performance on the field.

  “You just won a Grand Final and now you’re about to have a baby. Big day for you.”

  Alex grins, but his focus never leaves me. “Best day ever.”

  The nurse helps me pull my legs back, and it’s time. The pressure is overwhelming. Raw. Unrelenting.

  And I push.

  I cry out, my grip on Alex’s hand tightening. He whispers encouragement against my ear, soft and steady, grounding me. “I love you, favorite. You’re doing an amazing job. You’re so strong.”

  The nurse counts, and I push again.

  Time blurs into a haze of sweat, groans, and effort. The pressure crests again and again.

  Finally, the doctor’s voice cuts through. “One more, Magnolia. He’s almost here.”

  I bear down, channeling every ounce of strength I have left. There’s a shift. A release.

  A cry.

  A loud, healthy, perfect cry.

  The doctor lifts him into the air, grinning. “It’s a boy!”

  A sob breaks loose from my chest. Alex leans down and kisses my forehead, then my lips.

  The nurse places our son on my chest, still slick and squirming. Thick black hair covers his head, and strong lungs announce his arrival to the world without hesitation.

  I cradle him close, my gown pulled open so his skin can rest against mine. He settles almost instantly.

  Alex strokes the damp hair on our son’s head. His voice breaks when he speaks. “Hello, Lex.”

  “Alexander Björn Sebring IV,” I whisper. “Welcome to the world.”

  The next stretch of time passes in fragments—nurses bustling, soft murmurs, warm blankets. My body is trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the weight of him in my arms and the way Alex keeps pressing kisses to my forehead.

  Eventually, they take Lex from my chest, and the nurse helps me sit back against a pile of fresh pillows. Someone adjusts the blankets over my legs, and I vaguely register the sting of stitches, the hum of postpartum care—but it all feels far away, softened by the baby-shaped wonder across the room.

  They bring Lex back, and Alex eases into the bed beside me. Our son makes a soft noise, rooting, I think, and the nurse helps guide him to my breast. Skin to skin again.

  Alex settles in, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other supporting our son as he latches on to my breast for the first time.

  Peace settles over us.

  Soft. Silent. Sacred.

  We stay that way for a while—just the three of us. Wrapped in silence, in love, in awe of everything we’ve become. We marvel at every tiny twitch of his nose, every soft sound. Our fingers intertwine over Lex’s tiny body, and I let myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time in hours.

  “I saw what you endured when you gave birth. You’re a bloody warrior.” There’s awe in his voice. And love. It wraps around my heart.

  “All that pain, and not one part of him looks like me. It’s like my genes didn’t even try.”

  “His nose looks like yours.”

  I shake my head. “Thanks for trying to make me happy, but no, that’s your nose, too.”

  “Sorry, babe. I tried, but he is my little twin.”

  A light knock sounds at the door, and Malie peeks in, Alexander behind her.

  “I’m sorry. We’re anxious. Is it a good time?” she asks.

  Alex glances at me and I nod. “Come in and meet your grandson.”

  They step inside, and Malie’s hands fly to her mouth when she sees him, tears spilling over without restraint. “He’s beautiful.”

  Alexander approaches with quiet pride on his face. He leans closer and clasps Alex’s shoulder. “You did well. Both of you.”

  Malie bends to get a closer look at Lex, her voice cracking. “Alex, he looks just like you did when you were born.”

  Alex smiles, wide and shameless. “Then I was a good-looking baby.”

  I look up at Malie. “Do you want to hold him?”

  “I’m dying to.”

  I nod, heart squeezing as I pass my son into the arms of the woman who raised the man I love. She cradles him, rocking in that effortless rhythm only grandmothers seem to know. “Talofa, la’u pele, Tinā matua is here.”

  Alex’s eyes mist despite his effort to hide it. “She said, ‘Hello, my beloved, your grandmother is here.’”

  Alexander leans over Malie’s shoulder, admiring his grandson. “Strong little bloke.”

  For a few precious minutes, everything is suspended—pain, press, pressure. There’s just love. And the quiet awe of new beginnings.

  When they step out to give us space, Alex climbs onto the bed beside me, and I lay my head on his shoulder.

  “What now?” I whisper.

  He kisses my forehead, his voice soft but certain. “Now we figure it out together. Day by day. Sleepless night by sleepless night.”

  I smile, letting my eyes fall closed. “We’re a family now.”

  “We always were,” he says. “but there are more of us now.”

  He rests his hand over mine—both of us holding the smallest Sebring between us—and for the first time in my life, I’m certain I’m where I’m meant to be.

  Chapter 39

  Alex Sebring

  The golden morning sunlight filters in, catching the edge of the bedding and spreading warmth across the room. Lex lies between us, cheeks pink from sleep and a full belly, his tiny hands curled up by his face. He smells like milk and baby shampoo and everything I never knew I needed.

  Magnolia’s on her side, one hand resting on his belly. Her eyes are closed, lips parted in that peaceful way she gets after Lex settles. The top buttons of her sleep shirt are unfastened from his morning feeding, and her hair’s a mess, but she’s never looked more beautiful.

  I lie still, not wanting to wake them. Not wanting to break this moment. My fingers twitch with the instinct to reach for her, but I don’t. Not yet.

  Because mornings like these are numbered.

  Pre-season training starts in a few days. Which means the alarm will go off before the sun rises. I’ll be gone before either of them opens their eyes and will be on the field all day, training until my legs burn and my lungs ache. Meetings, gym, drills, film, repeat. Twelve hours a day, sometimes sixteen if the coaches are pissed off by the day’s poor performance. And I’ll come home, exhausted, and they’ll already be asleep.

  I’ll miss mornings like this.

  I’ll miss them.

  That thought lands with a thud in my chest. Dread. Or maybe even something like grief. Because I understand how fast time moves now. I’ll blink, and Lex will be crawling. Blink again, and he’ll be walking. Talking. Laughing.

  And I won’t be here for any of it.

  My gaze drifts to the ceiling, but my focus stays on the weight in my chest.

  I used to live for the adrenaline. The roar of a stadium crowd. The cold burn of early-morning workouts. The grind that made victory taste sweet. I loved it. Lived for it.

  But not anymore.

  Now, I dread it. Not the work—not the pain. I can take that. I’ve had worse. It’s what I’ll be missing that I can’t stomach.

  They are my home now, and I don’t want to leave. Not for the team. Not for the fans. Not even for the game I once swore I’d die playing.

  My heart isn’t on the field anymore. It’s lying right here in this bed, wrapped in a tiny onesie, curled up next to the other person who completes my whole damn world.