Make that tripled, since our opponents are Crazy Swing Steve and his regular partner.
Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet, paddle in hand, determination etched in her eyes. Steve juts his arm out as he slams a ball to me. I stretch for it, smashing it back across the table to his teammate.
The other guy smacks the white ball in a neat diagonal to Nicole, who sends it screeching to the other side.
Steve lunges for it, his teammate leapfrogging out of the way. The ball comes to me, and we volley like that until Steve’s swing seems to exhaust his teammate so much that the guy curses loudly as he runs for the ball, swatting it wildly across the table in Nicole’s direction.
Ever the competitor, she races to the far corner, slapping the prize with a crisp backhand that sends her reeling. She’s all forward momentum, and it topples her, taking her down.
The paddle tumbles from her hand, and she has no place to go but the floor. Her arms shoot out in front of her, and she breaks the fall with a loud smack of her hands.
A rush of harsh breath.
A crack of her knee on the hard surface.
Falls are not uncommon in Ping-Pong. I’ve hit the floor a number of times. So has Steve. So has Flynn. So has Nicole.
But none of that matters. My stomach plummets and dread ices my bones the instant the pregnant woman I’m crazy for hits the floor.
Twenty-Nine
Ryder
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”
Nicole says those words over and over again, like a mantra.
Or like she wants me to shut up because I can’t stop asking if she’s okay. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her lower back, I gently help her to her feet.
“Are you okay?” I ask again. My heart screams in my chest. Nerves skate up the back of my neck. If I was worried when Simone fell on her butt, that was nothing compared to now.
Once she’s upright, I set a hand on her belly, feeling the small curve for the first time. I flinch inside, but not because I’m freaked out. My reaction is because she feels so different, of course, than she’s ever felt before. Gone is that flat belly. In its place is this blooming roundness that’s unexpectedly . . . attractive. But the awareness of what’s behind this curve brings an even sharper reminder of the stakes. A life. I have no clue what I’m doing with my hands on her stomach. I’m not a doctor. I can’t feel if the baby is okay. But I’ve got to do something.
“I’m fine, Ryder. I swear.” She shakes out her wrist, wincing. “But . . .”
“But what?”
She sucks in a breath as if she’s in pain. “My wrist really hurts.”
“We’re going to the ER. Now.”
Steve strides over. “You okay?”
“I’m totally fine,” she says.
“She’s not,” I snap. “Her wrist is sprained.” I have no clue if that’s the case, but it feels true, and I’m taking her to the hospital.
I grab our coats and guide her through the bar, my arm wrapped around her like a shield.
We make it to the doorway, and I slide her coat onto her arms then put my leather jacket on. Once outside, I hail a cab and tell the driver to take us to Mercy Hospital.
All I can think about is her and the baby, and if the baby’s going to be okay. But I don’t want to say that out loud. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to know my mind is zipping to terrifying conclusions. On the drive to the hospital, I chatter on about Steve and his swing, and I smooth her hair, and I stroke her arm, and I tell her that we’re just being cautious by going to the ER.
“You’re crazy,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re worried for nothing.” She’s trying to reassure me, and I will have none of that. It’s my job to take care of her.
“You fell on your wrist and can barely move it.”
And I’m terrified about our baby.
I catch my breath, inhaling sharply.
Holy fucking shit.
I’ve never thought of her baby as mine.
Not till now.
But there it is. I’ve thought it. It’s moved from a shapeless, formless concept to the concrete way I see the life growing in her belly. Ours. Now that the new possessive pronoun is in my head, it won’t exit. It echoes as we reach the hospital.
Our baby.
“Are you okay?” she asks when I’ve gone quiet.
I shake off the new thoughts. “I’m good. Let’s get you checked out.”
We head inside. We aren’t seen quickly, and I suppose I should take that as a sign that she’s fine. An hour later, she’s called in, and I rise to join her when the curly-haired nurse gives me a steely glare. “Just the patient.”
“But she’s eighteen weeks pregnant,” I say, and those are magic words. The nurse’s expression transforms, and even though she surely knows Nicole’s knocked up since Nicole disclosed it when we checked in, I bet there’s something about hearing the guy with the pregnant woman say it aloud that activates a sympathy bone. The nurse doesn’t know I’m the donor. She figures I’m the dad, and that’s good enough to give me full-time access to the mom-to-be.