The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(93)

I pass several cafes with quaint outdoor patios, some nice low-rise office buildings, a handful of nail salons, and a barbershop that I make a mental note to visit one of these days. Eventually I find myself in front of a corner bar, admiring the redbrick facade, the small patio sectioned off by a wrought-iron railing, and the green awning over the door.

The sign is old and dated and slightly crooked. It reads “Paddy’s Dive”, and when I step past the creaky wooden door, I find a dive, all right. The bar is bigger than it appears from outside, but everything in here looks like it was built, bought, and operated in the seventies.

Aside from one barfly at the end of the long counter, the place is empty. On a Friday night. In Boston. I’ve never been to a bar, anywhere, that hasn’t been jam-packed on a Friday night.

“What can I getcha?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s in his early to late sixties, with a shock of white hair, tanned wrinkled skin, and exhaustion lining his eyes.

“I’ll have a…” I pause, realizing I’m not in the mood for alcohol. “Coffee,” I finish.

He winks. “Living on the edge, are ya, son?”

Chuckling, I sit on one of the tall, vinyl stools and fold my hands on the counter. Okay, wait, bad idea touching this counter. The wood is so weathered that I’m pretty sure I just got a splinter.

I absently pick the sliver of wood out of my thumb as I wait for the bartender to make my drink. When he places a cup of coffee in front of me, I accept it gratefully and glance around the room.

“Slow night?” I ask.

He smiles wryly. “Slow decade.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

I can see why that is, though. Everything in this bar is outdated. The jukebox is the kind that still requires quarters—who even uses coins anymore? The dartboards are all punctured with holes so big that I don’t think a dart could ever embed into the board. The booths are tattered. The tables are crooked. The floor looks like it could cave in at any second.

And there aren’t any TVs. What kind of bar doesn’t have a TV?

Yet, despite all its obvious flaws and drawbacks, I see potential in the place. The location is amazing, and inside are high ceilings with exposed beams and gorgeous wood paneling on the walls. A few renos and some modernizing, and the owner could totally turn this place around.

I take a sip of coffee, studying the bartender over the rim of my cup. “Are you the owner?”

“Sure am.”

Hesitation has me going silent for a second. Then I set down my cup and ask, “Ever thought about selling?”

“Actually, I’m—”

My phone rings before he can finish. “Sorry,” I say hastily, reaching into my pocket. When I see Sabrina’s name, I’m instantly on alert. “I need to take this. It’s my girl.”

The older man smiles knowingly and backs away. “Gotcha.”

I press TALK and shove the phone to my ear. “Hey, darlin’. Everything okay?”

“No! It’s not okay!”

Her shriek nearly shatters my eardrums. The anguish there makes my pulse kick up a panicky notch.

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Did that son of a bitch Ray touch her?

“No,” she moans, and then there’s a gasp of pain. “I’m not all right. My water just broke!”





32




Tucker


There is no worse feeling in this world than seeing the woman you love in pain and being unable to do a damn thing about it.

For the past eight hours, I’ve been about as helpful as a fish out of water. Or a fish in water, because what the fuck do fish really offer to society?

Every time I try to encourage Sabrina to do her breathing, she glares at me like I slaughtered her treasured family pet. When I offer her some ice chips to chew on, she tells me to shove them up my ass. The one time I peeked over Doctor Laura’s shoulder at Sabrina’s lady parts, she told me that if I did that one more time, she’d break my hockey stick and stab me with it.

The mother of my child, folks.

“Four centimeters dilated,” Doctor Laura reports during her latest checkin. “We still have a ways to go, but things are progressing nicely.”

“Why is it taking so long?” I ask in concern. “Her water broke hours ago.” Eight hours and six minutes, to be exact.

“Some women deliver their babies within hours of the water breaking. Some don’t start having contractions as late as forty-eight hours after it. Every labor is different.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get there. Sabrina, let the nurse know if the pain becomes too much for you, and we’ll administer that epidural. But don’t wait too long. If the baby is too far down the birth canal, it won’t do any good. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

“Thank you, Doc.” Sabrina’s tone is as sweet as sugar, probably because Doctor Laura is the one who controls the drugs.

And yep, the second the doctor is gone, my woman’s smile fades and she fixes me with a scowl. “You did this to me,” she growls. “You!”

I fight a laugh. “Takes two to conceive, darlin’. At least according to science.”

“Don’t you dare bring science into this! Do you even care what’s happening to my body right now? I—” A groan rips out of her throat. “Noooooo! Oh, Tuck, another contraction.”