Linebacker's Second Chance (Bad Boy Ballers) (21 page)

“Hello?” My voice wavers when I pick up the line. There’s silence on the other end for a brief pause. And then a man’s voice responds.

“I hope I’m talking to Renata Young.”
 

I gulp like I often do when I’m picking up the phone these days. Macklin’s job offers haven’t exactly been rolling in, but a girl can always hope when she’s picking up the phone, can’t she?
 

“It’s Renata Pride these days, I’m afraid.” I stand by the couch in the tiny house I bought years ago. It’s not the one Mack built for me, and it’s barely affordable by San Francisco standards. But here we are—and we’re happy. I pat my growing belly. Thirty weeks this Saturday. The baby kicks hard before the man responds.
 

A football player like Daddy, Mack keeps saying. I have to remind him each time that I’m carrying a girl. He waves his hand at me like it doesn’t matter and tells me she’ll be a professional athlete anyway, no matter what sport she chooses.

Or maybe she’ll be a sports agent. Or a lawyer or doctor or artist—or anything at all.
 

God knows I won’t be making the same mistakes my parents did when they hurt me so bad in so many ways.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. And then that booming, masculine voice again.

“I’m hoping you can help me with an issue I’m having.”

“What issue is that?” I tap against the baby’s foot, and she kicks me back again.

“It’s the end of the season, that’s the problem. And another season is coming after that. And my linebacker is completely out of commission. Leg’s broken in two places, back fractured, broken arm. Not from football, mind you. But from mountain climbing. What an asshole. Now, I hope everything’s going to be okay with him... but we’re going to need a free agent. You got anyone on tap?”
 

I gulp hard. This seems like a trap—a joke. It couldn’t be the call we’ve been waiting for. Not
really
. All of a sudden, a million thoughts flood my mind. Will we have to move? Do they really want Mack? Are they willing to take a chance on all three of us—Wingate, Mack, and me? As big and pregnant as a beached whale? They’d better if they know what’s good for them. I adjust my attitude—and my voice. “With whom am I speaking?”

“Josh Faison, CEO and owner of the San Francisco football team. I think we have some talking to do about salary. Now from what I understand, you all have been off of the football payroll for some time now...”
 

After that, things move quickly, time speeding up and slowing down all at once. I go to grab Macklin and pull him into the conversation, and at once, we’re agreeing to the very thing we thought would never happen. It’s funny. When you give up on a dream—like I did on the idea of Mack and me ever happening—and then it comes to you all over again, there’s the strangest feeling that none of it is really happening. That’s how we both felt during our conversation with Josh. Hell, I think that’s how we’ve felt for the entire year of our lives, going to ultrasounds and packing up to move across the country to be with each other, finally.

None of it has seemed like it could possibly be real. After all the mistakes we made, after all the negative emotions and bad ideas, we’ve been finally, truly together. Even Wingate forgave us and begrudgingly moved across the country to start his life anew. It helps that he’s been dating a football player out here and has gotten away from Charlotte, North Carolina for good.
 

All of that happened, and then this.
 

This golden thing, the answer to every single one of our prayers.
 

As it turns out, California is far more accepting of a prodigal son than anywhere in the South—or even in the Mid-Atlantic. The owner of this team doesn’t see a man who had been accused of partying, seducing countless women, breaking an engagement, having an affair, and drawing his teammates into his reckless abyss. Instead, he saw an incredibly talented linebacker that his backwards team gave up for absolutely no reason. I guess this is the way life can go when dreams start to come true. Life speeds up for a flurry of moments and then slows down to meet you where you stand.
 

We’re both stunned, completely amazed. With all damage Kinley Edwards and Eddie Davidson did in the Southern region, they never knew that their reach wouldn’t extend to California. Now, as I hang up the phone, Mack is employed and will be making twice what he did before. Since we’re no longer paying for the debts of our families, the money will be ours. With a new baby on the horizon, a new house will be too.
 

***

Before this phone call, we had settled into our life in San Francisco in my tiny house, budgeting to make a single salary work in the most expensive place in the entire country. And thank God Rich had seen me in the same light—an incredibly talented sports agent who made one mistake. Our agency might not be in favor with several of the teams in the South, but we're focusing our efforts on other sports, whose managers and owners don't give a happy damn about the inner politics of football and old school owners who back their players into corners.
 

The life we had planned was all well and good, even though none of us had any idea what a professional football player might do with his life coming into “early retirement.”
 

And now, there’s this.

There’s me, thirty-eight weeks pregnant, sitting in our box seats for the first game of the season. As the players file out onto the field, one after another, the baby kicks even though she doesn’t have much room to move anymore. She’s getting bigger by the day, and I can feel her deep in my body, everything in me expanding to accommodate her. If she’s anything like her father—and I hope she is, in all of the good ways—the world will eventually rise up to meet her when she displays her talents. I stand up when I see Mack on the field, his new number, 48, emblazoned on his front and back. Someday, someone will buy that jersey and make it theirs, proud that Mack became part of their team. We might not be
from
here, but California holds a lot of our secrets and histories fro the time we spent here in college. It holds our future, too. And there are many summer days here where we have to wear long-sleeved shirts. We both like that—and we know our children will too.
 

After a spell, Wingate comes to join me in the box seats, putting his arm around my shoulder and shaking me hard once, and then again.
 

“Can you believe it, Ren? We’ve finally arrived. This isn’t anything like it was before, is it?”
 

I shake my head. “We’ve all come a long way from the kids we once were.” I think back to the three of us, outcasts in our own little world, dreaming of bigger places and bigger cities. For Mack, Charlotte was only the beginning. It seemed like an end. But now we know better. California was always the place we were headed.
 

The game rolls on, and I watch intently. Mack performs better than he ever has, making the team proud. I stand to cheer, raising my hand above my head with Wingate. There’s a sudden shift in my body when I do that, like the baby dropping, or something tightening around my waist.
 

“Ugh,” I groan, bringing my other hand down to massage my side. The muscles there are rock hard, like I’ve been doing sit-ups for the past three hours.
 

Wingate looks at me with concern. “You okay, Ren? Mack told me to rush you to the hospital at any sign of distress.” There’s a hint of laughter in his statement, but his eyes show real concern.

“No, no. We’re going to stay for the game. It’s probably just those practice contractions they tell you about. I think they’re called Braxton Hicks.” I know damn well what they’re called, and I haven’t had many of them my whole pregnancy. My whole brain screams at me that this is not what’s happening here, but still, I let Wingate help me down into the chair. I’m staying for the game. This might well be the beginning of labor, but first time moms can get this type of thing
weeks
before the baby arrives. It’s likely my body preparing for the main event—and not the main event itself. Right now, this game is the main event that both Wingate and I need to be paying attention to. I’m only thirty-eight weeks… and the women in my family go until at least forty-one weeks. I couldn’t be different, could I?
 

As the game intensifies, the other team getting passes in I didn’t see coming, I keep my mind and my eyes focused on my amazing husband. He performs like he never has before. I like to think it’s because I’m sitting up here in the stands. And I like to think it’s because we have this beautiful little girl on the way.
 

I pat my belly and feel that tightening sensation again, this time accompanied by a sharp, strange pain deep in my abdomen. I clench my jaw tight.
 

Stay in there, baby. This is not happening tonight
.
 

Wingate looks over at me again in concern, as if he can tell my belly is growing hard every ten minutes or so. And maybe quicker than that.
 

“They’re just practice contractions, I’m pretty sure,” I say, smiling through clenched teeth.

“You’re pretty sure? Mack said that if you say that we need to go to the hospital. He knows how you are at these games.” Wingate stands up and offers me a hand. I get the sense that he and Mack have been colluding behind my back, and I shake my head with annoyance.

“No, Wingate. I’m not going to the hospital. It’s early and —ah!” I grab my belly again. Is labor supposed to feel like this? I wasn’t paying attention during that part of the natural birthing class. But I guess I should have been. Instead, I vaguely remember collapsing into laughter with Macklin, over something the hospital’s teacher had said. I can’t even remember it now…
 

Suddenly, my head feels light and far away. “I think I’m fine. I just might need to close my eyes for a second.” The pain makes my eyes jolt open wide, and I grip my belly again. The game is closing up, and it’s looking like California won. I smile, knowing Mack had a hand in it, that he’ll be up here soon, that we’ll be going home together at the end of the night. Just like it always should have been.
 

“Renata, I don’t like how you’re looking,” Wingate drawls, trying to take my hand to pull me up. “It’s been a few hours of this now…”

“Has it? It seems like it’s been minutes—ah!” The pain catches me off guard again. There’s a gripping, grinding sensation deep inside my belly. The normal tightening feeling is still there, and I think that’s something I
should
feel. But the other thing—the grinding—that’s not right. I take Wingate’s hand and reluctantly stand. There’s an audible pop somewhere inside, and a warm rush of fluid travels down my legs.

“Renata—uh—is that…?”
 

“My water? I—I don’t know—I think the class said you’re not supposed to hear a pop. Or most women don’t. Or something like that. I’m not sure—” I’m looking around wildly, trying to remember the last time I felt the baby kick, trying to remember what the labor book said, and what the one about hypnobirthing said. In the haze of confusion, I realize I’ve probably read
too
much, and I can’t sort out any of the information now that I might actually be in labor. I might be… Am I?
 

“I guess I should get Mack.” Wingate smiles, pulling me gently towards the door. He looks down at the white padded carpet of the stadium box, and his incredibly white face goes even whiter. “Don’t freak out. But it’s changed.” He gulps.

“What’s changed?” I whip my head around like I’m trying to figure out what in the hell he’s talking about.
 

“Your water. It’s not supposed to be bright red, is it?”
 

In slow motion, I look down. At my feet, there’s a pool of bright red blood, viscous and sticky, and hot. And there’s more coming. “Oh my God. Wingate. Leave me here. Get Mack!” Another contraction comes, and this time it’s far worse than the rest. Something inside of me is breaking, and my God, the baby isn’t moving. Something is deeply, deeply wrong.
 

“I’m not leaving you. I’m calling 911—”

“There’s no need. I’m sure we can make it to the hospital—” I say it, and I know I’m wrong. Wingate takes his phone out of his pocket and dials. He looks over at me, and I nod hard, clutching my belly and leaning against the wall.
 

“Operator—we need an ambulance at the stadium right
now
. My cousin’s wife is in labor, and she’s bleeding—yes, a lot. Hell, I don’t know how many weeks—just get a goddamn ambulance here. We need one five minutes ago!”

Wingate continues to curse into the phone, and I close my eyes and slump against the wall. There’s more chatter, and then, Wingate’s long arm is wrapped around my shoulder. I feel cold, and my teeth chatter, my body shaking like a leaf.
 

“Mack is coming, Renata. Come on. Stick with me. This is our family. We’re going to stick together. We came out here together, and we’re going to stay that way. You hear me? You and Mack aren’t losing each other again, and I’m not losing my little cousin either. You hear me? I’m
not.”
 

The door to the stadium box swings open, and I open my eyes for a frantic second to see Mack storming through, ripping off his helmet and uniform so that he can get close to me and hold tight to my other shoulder. I barely feel his body, but I can sense his presence. Strength pours through me at the feeling of him being next to me.

“We can do this,” he says. “You got this. It’s okay.” I close my eyes again and hear he and Wingate yelling at each other. Mack is apparently chastising him for not getting me to the hospital.

After that, everything goes in a blur. The sound of an ambulance breaks through my consciousness, and soon I feel my body lifted and carried.
 

Beneath me, wheels start to move.
 

I’m barely conscious. But I’m hanging on.