Sweet Spot for Victoria (Men of Baseball Book 4) (18 page)

I stretch my shoulders as I warm up. I didn’t get dick for sleep last night and I’m dragging ass today. Victoria mumbled and moaned all night long, clutching her belly. I woke her up a few times and she just said that she had aches and pains, nothing to be concerned about.

I’m concerned
.

My wife is my life. My
morenita
. The love of my life. I can’t imagine being without her. I pray that she and the babies are all right.

“You okay, man?” Jarrod asks, clapping my shoulder.

“No. Vic wasn’t acting right last night. I think there could be something wrong but she’s keeping her lips shut about it and acting like everything is fine,” I confess. Jarrod’s brows furrow.

“You get her into the doc?” he asks.

“Called and made an appointment for after the game. I can’t leave next week without knowing everything is going to be okay while I’m away.” I shrug and Jarrod grins.

He loves it when we pull one over on our women. Like hiring the housekeeper. Victoria thought it was an option, it wasn’t.

“Just try to keep your head in the game. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s had two healthy pregnancies,” he says.

“Yeah, but never twins. I’m out of my realm here,” I admit.

“If something was really, really, wrong she’d let you know,” Jarrod says before jogging off to warm up himself.

I close my eyes and try to relax. I take a deep breath in and exhale it out. Calming myself. I need to be calm and relaxed in order to get through this game. My mind drifts to the little tattoo on Victoria’s side.

Angel from Hell
.

Fuck, if that isn’t my Vic.

My
angel from hell.

My
little spicy, spitfire of a wife.

I love her.

She makes my heart swell and my cock ache.

I won’t make it in this life without her.

She has to be okay.

My babies have to be okay.

I send a prayer up to God to watch over them, to keep them safe until I can get them to the doctor.

I suck.

I fucking suck.

The coach pulls me from the game and I can’t blame him. I would have pulled me in the first inning. I grimace when I sit down and look at the scoreboard. I can’t concentrate and I can’t stop worrying. I grab my phone from my jacket pocket and look at it. No missed calls. I am relieved but still worried about Victoria. I send her a text to try and ease my own fucking mind.

Me: You ok?

Victoria: I’m okay. You sucked. What’s wrong?

I chuckle. Leave it to Vic to tell me the truth, the
whole
truth, and nothing but the truth.

Me: Off day.

I don’t tell her anything else. I don’t want her to feel shitty because I was worried about her. I don’t text her the rest of the game. She’s having her girl time and I want her to enjoy herself. As much as she bitches about the cleat chasers that are up in the stands with her, I know that she has a blast with Amalie and Maggie. It’s their time to let loose a bit and enjoy themselves.

“Fuck, this game has gone from bad to worse,” Jackson says, flopping down next to me.

I watch as he starts to strip his gear off and I agree. This game is shit. We’re losing and it fucking blows.

“Everything okay?” Jackson asks.

“Something’s off with Vic. She was in pain last night. Kept me up moaning all night long. I made an appointment with her doctor for after the game,” I explain for the second time. All it does is make me feel more anxious.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he mumbles before his mind goes somewhere else, probably to thoughts of Maggie and her own issues with pregnancy. I have never seen a woman get so fucking sick from being knocked up.

When the game is over, I shower and change into jeans and a t-shirt before making my way to Victoria. She’s standing next to Amalie with one hand on her belly and the other on her back. I can tell she’s smiling but I can also tell that she is in pain. Her brow is furrowed and she’s gritting her teeth, a sign that all is not right. I slide my hand around her waist and pull her into me before placing a gentle kiss on her temple.

“Are you meeting us for dinner?” Amalie asks.

I answer her before Victoria can even think of opening her mouth.

“No, we have something we have to handle before we pick up the kids,” I say.

Once we are in the car, Victoria turns to me and opens her mouth, presumably to ask me about our plans. I hold up my hand to stop her.

“We’re going to the doctor. I don’t want you to give me any fucking shit about it either. You aren’t okay, no matter how many times you tell me that you are,” I announce, watching as she closes her mouth and nods. She then turns her head to look out of the window of the car.

I feel like a dick for going off on her, but I’m
so
fucking scared.

He’s scared.

I’m
scared.

I didn’t want to admit that something wasn’t right.

Admitting it means facing it.

I stare silently out of the car window as we make the drive from Brooklyn to Manhattan. It is the longest, most stressful drive I have ever endured. You can cut the tension with a knife and I don’t know how to fix it.

It’s unfixable, at least until we know exactly what we are dealing with.

I am twenty-seven weeks pregnant and although some people have delivered this early, I was hoping to make it to the thirty week mark, minimum. I already know that my babies will be coming by cesarean, since both Rocio and Junior were cesarean babies. At least I know a little of what to expect, hopefully, in the future. I have so many worries and emotions flying through my head.

The biggest one is fear.

I’m scared.

Terrified, actually.

Twins are adorable when you see them in their little matching outfits, but being pregnant with them and constantly worrying about going into early labor is exhausting.

Once I walk into the doctor’s office, I spend about fifteen minutes doing all of the normal bullshit. Weighing, peeing in cups, only to hurry up and wait. A nurse comes in with a machine and instructs me to lie back. She said she’s going to do a non-stress test on the babies to monitor their heart rates and activity, to see if they are in distress.

I lie back and close my eyes once the monitor is in place over my belly. Carlos is playing on his phone, or texting, or updating his twitter, I have no damn clue and I don’t really care. I just want to know why I’ve been in pain. Why my back is killing me and why my stomach feels as though it is contracting when I know damn well it should
not
be doing so.

Carlos and I sit in silence for the next hour. We are both lost in our own minds and it is horrible. The doctor walks in when the test is over and looks over at me with something akin to pity in his eyes. It is then that I know something is terribly wrong. I squeeze my eyes tightly and pray for the tears to stay at bay; then I pray for my babies.

“You’re contracting, I need to check you and see how far you’re dilated,” the doctor says very matter-of-fact.

“What does this mean?” Carlos asks, taking the words out of my mouth.

“It means that she could potentially give birth today or it could go on for weeks. We don’t know. If I check her, then I’ll be able to tell if she’s dilated or not and we’ll have a better understanding of the situation,” he explains, which relaxes me a fraction.

I slide my heels into the stirrups and close my eyes tightly. I fucking hate this part. I think this is a million times worse than the clamps they use at my yearly. I grunt and then moan when it feels like he’s shoving his entire fucking fist inside of my pussy.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles right before I hear a splash.

“Victoria, you fucking pissed everywhere,” Carlos yells, jumping up and away from me.

“She didn’t Carlos, I just broke her water,” the doctor snaps. My heart begins to thump in my chest at an alarming rate.

My water just broke.

My water just fucking broke.

My goddamned water just fucking broke.

“What does this mean?” I cry out just as a contraction hits me.

It feels like my stomach is trying to eat itself, it hurts so fucking bad.

“It means you’re going in for an emergency C-section, immediately,” the doctor barks again, just before he opens the door to begin ordering his nurses around. He tells one to call the hospital and get a room and staff available to check us in.

“We’re having them today? Can’t you give me a shot to slow this shit down?” I moan when another contraction hits me.

“No. Get over to the hospital immediately. They’re expecting you. I’ll be right behind you,” my doctor snaps. I know that shit just got real because my doctor doesn’t freak out,
ever
.

The next few hours are a blur of Carlos cursing and speeding through traffic, cursing some more on the phone, cursing even more when we finally arrive at the hospital and then cursing to the point of being threatened to have security remove him from the room.

“Did you call your parents?” I ask once I have been given my IV and we are waiting in the operating room for the doctor.

“Yeah, they’re going to keep the kids for as long as we need them to. My dad’s waiting by the phone. My mama ran down to church as soon as I called. She’s lighting candles,” Carlos says scrubbing his hand down his face in obvious worry.

“My parents?” I ask on a moan. The pain, it hurts so fucking bad.

“Started booking flights before I could finish my sentence. They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

I whimper and nod.

The doctor bursts through the door and a nurse ushers Carlos out of the room so that they can administer my spinal block, keeping me alert but numb from the waist down. The anesthesiologist assures me that all will go swimmingly and I nod, trying to stay calm. I need to stay calm for myself, for Carlos, and for my babies.

There are so many people in the room, NICU nurses, a NICU doctor, my doctor, and extra helping staff. It makes me nervous and brings the reality of the situation crashing down around me. I start to shake, but once Carlos appears next to me, he takes my hand and presses a kiss against my forehead.

“Calm down,
morenita
. You got this,
hermosa
,” he murmurs in my ear.

I let his voice calm me. Tears start to fall from my eyes but Carlos doesn’t say a word. He just wipes them off with his fingers and keeps kissing my forehead.

The doctor starts talking to me. He’s trying to calm me down, but I can’t hear the words he’s saying. I can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through my ears. It’s too early. These babies are coming too early and there is nothing I can do to prevent it.

I pray.

I pray for their health and their safety and when I hear a baby’s cry my eyes pop open and clash with Carlos’, who is smiling widely.

“A girl, she’s so beautiful,” he murmurs turning to face the baby.

A few moments later the nurse brings over the smallest baby I have ever seen. She lets me run my finger down her pretty little face.

“We need to take her to the NICU to be checked out,” she mutters and I nod.

“I’ll be there as soon as your brother gets here,” Carlos whispers to her.

My heart soars at his soft words.

A few moments later, I feel the pressure of the last baby release from my stomach and an even smaller baby is held up for me to see. He doesn’t look as good, or as big, as his sister. My heart starts to slam against my ribs in worry.

“We need to take him now,” the NICU doctor says as he begins to push the little boy away from us.

Carlos brushes my temple and tells me to be strong, that he’ll be back at my side as soon as he can. Then he’s off.

Tears stream down the corners of my eyes and onto the hard table I’m lying on. I’m sure my makeup is a disaster, but I don’t care. All I care about are those two teeny tiny babies that are here way too early and can’t fend for themselves.

I don’t see Carlos again until I am wheeled into my room. I spend about an hour staring out of the hospital window until he finally appears. He rushes to my side and takes me in a gentle hug. I feel his hand gently pet my hair before he lifts his head away and cups my cheek with his hand.