Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,204
shove straight up with his palms, and keep his feet moving. Knocking the charging defender right off the ball, which the other guy, the right guy, caught and ran with. Straight out of bounds.
Dyma gave a whoop. “That’s a block. I didn’t know Harlan could block like that. I didn’t know he would block like that.”
“No guts,” Jennifer said, through the concentric red circles that were squeezing her insides tight, “no glory.”
Dr. Leather Pants coming in, then, masked and gowned and gloved, saying, “Where are we here?”
“Thirty yards from the … goal line,” Jennifer said. “Twenty … seconds on the clock. First … down.”
“Maybe time for two more plays,” Dyma said. “Then they have to go for it.”
“Uh-huh,” the doctor said, wheeling her stool up close. “You know what? I think we’ll just concentrate on this baby instead. I’m going to check you, Jennifer. Little discomfort here.”
She put her hand up there, and it was more than a little discomfort. It was horrible. Dyma said, “Breathe, Mom. Do … whatever the class says. Blow out, I think. I’m a lousy labor coach. Harlan better win soon and get here.”
Jennifer barely heard her. She was in a tunnel of pain. The doctor pulled her hand out and said, “Ten centimeters. We both made it just in time. On the next contraction, you can push.”
“I want to … wait,” Jennifer said. On the screen, the pass was incomplete. One more chance, and then it was the field goal. And overtime.
No overtime, she begged inside. Come on, Harlan. Win. And get here.
“There’s no waiting,” the doctor said firmly. “There’s pushing. You’ve got a boy here who wants to come out, and you need to get him born.”
Jennifer didn’t hear, because she was watching. Harlan, poised behind the line like a deer ready to bolt. His ears would be cocked, his lightning reflexes twitching.
Owen, his sure hands on the ball, ready for the snap. The quarterback, nearly ten yards back, turning his head one way, then the other, yelling out signals, changing the play, The play clock in the corner of the screen, counting down.
Six seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two.
Owen snapped the ball. And Harlan ran.
Two defensive players on him like heat-seeking missiles, but Harlan didn’t seem even to notice them. He was so fast, his feet barely touched the ground, and so sure, all you could do was believe.
The quarterback cocking his arm, throwing the pass like an arrow from a bow, straight down the field.
It seemed to hang there forever.
The crowd on their feet, roaring.
Three bodies jumping, reaching, stretching. One of them jumping those two inches higher, his body bent backwards, his gloved hands closing around the ball. Coming down with it as the two other players tried to wrestle it loose. His body hitting the turf with theirs on top of him.
The replay.
The review.
Another contraction started, the hardest one yet. The doctor and the nurse were chanting, “Push now. Push. Push. Push.”
She pushed. It burned. And she didn’t close her eyes.
Slow motion. Again and again. The crowd with their hands at their mouths, waiting.
The referee’s arms shooting over his head, the whistle blowing.
Touchdown.
Players spilled from the bench, ran onto the field, and the coach ran with them. The crowd was roaring. The whistle had blown. A crowd of men, jumping, hugging, shouting.
The manager, hustling in, pulling Harlan out of the mob.
“What?” he shouted. “I’m fine. I’m good.” He didn’t know if he was or not. The adrenaline was too strong for that.
The trainer put his mouth to Harlan’s ear and yelled the words. “Jennifer’s at the hospital. She’s having the baby.”
Somehow, he made it. He’d tossed his helmet, but he was still in his uniform. Still in his pads. Pulling a gown over the whole thing, wrenching off his cleats and being handed a pair of blue booties instead. Washing his hands, then washing them again, because he was going to be touching his son.
Down the hall and into a room, following the nurse, praying that he wouldn’t be too late.
Jennifer, sitting nearly upright on the bed with Dyma supporting her, her hands behind her knees, calling out with pain that sounded like agony.
He got there fast.
Dyma said, “Thank … god.”
He agreed. He said, “I’ve got this,” got behind Jennifer on the bed, took her shoulders in his hands, kept her upright, and said, “Doing great, baby. You’re doing great. Push.”
Ten more agonizing seconds, and she was lying back against him, panting, shaking. Saying, “H-Harlan?”