Knowing the Score (26 page)
Epilogue
Spencer’s nerves jangled. Jolts of electricity shot through him, pulsing along his muscles and quivering in his fingertips.
He was ready. More ready than he’d ever been.
He gently opened the tattered, well-read poem his granny had given him twelve years ago and tried to ignore Charlie Prescott, aka Psycho, slapping his own face.
Concentration proved impossible. His feet pranced about on the floor like a boy with bladder-control problems. His eyes ran over the same line time and again without his brain processing the words.
Today he was going to help England win the World Cup.
Tomorrow he would become a father. Just in time for lunch.
Caitlyn was nearly two weeks overdue and was the crankiest thing he’d ever seen. At night she couldn’t sleep; her belly was so big she couldn’t toss and turn without his help. He’d once made a joke about installing a winch so he could get some rest.
The joke hadn’t gone down well. He couldn’t wait for her labor to be induced so he would have his wife back.
When he wasn’t struggling to keep her spirits up, he was forced to taste his granddad’s food experiments. Determined not to miss the two pinnacles of his grandson’s life, Philip had spent the past month in Spencer and Caitlyn’s spare room, surrounded by library books with nutritional advice for pregnant women. Unfortunately for Spencer, Caitlyn’s pregnancy taste buds had her requesting some bizarre combinations.
He pushed aside the memory of a particularly horrible experiment with bananas and spinach, and started reading the poem for the third time. If nothing else, the battle he was preparing to wage on the rugby pitch would bring a couple of hours of relative peace.
In the distance, he heard Psycho’s face slaps. The coach and Liam went over their plays for the hundredth time. A mobile phone with a ridiculous tune rang out and the team doc’s quiet voice murmured reassuringly to the person on the other end of the line.
Spencer glanced at the clock. Two minutes until they lined up in the tunnel. They’d sing “God Save the Queen,” listen to thousands of Aussie fans belt out “Advance Australia Fair” and then it was game on for sweet revenge.
His eyes moved from the clock to scan the room. They landed on the doc, who looked at him oddly and then turned away to say softly into the phone, “There are ambulances waiting outside the stadium. Do you think a couple of you can get her down there?”
Spencer jerked to attention and leaped to his feet. The coach and Liam, standing next to the doctor, had clearly overheard his conversation, too.
“What’s going on? Is it Caitlyn?”
Doc calmly patted his triceps. “She’s fine. She’s upstairs in the stands and Amanthi just called to say she’s having contractions. She and John are going to the hospital with Caitlyn, so don’t worry. Plenty of time for you to win this game and get to the hospital.”
Spencer’s stomach flipped and he dragged a shaking hand over his face.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Liam tried to reassure him. “Just think, the harder you hit those Aussie bastards, the closer you’ll be to becoming a father.”
Not trying too hard to comprehend that shaky logic, Spencer twitched when the doc’s mobile rang again.
“They have, have they?” Doc muttered cryptically into the phone. He lifted his brows toward the manager and half covered the phone’s receiver. “She did, did she? No, you did the right thing. Just get her there quickly.”
He hung up and took in the trio of faces staring at him with expressions ranging from curiosity to desperation to sheer terror. This last was England’s head coach, whose face revealed he was mentally calculating the possibilities and not liking any of them.
“It seems Caitlyn lied about how long she’s been having contractions. Her waters broke earlier, but she thought she could hold labor off long enough to watch you play, Spencer. Amanthi said her contractions are about three minutes apart.” He took in Liam’s blank expression. “The baby’s on its way.”
Everything in Spencer stilled. His nerves stopped jangling, his feet stopped prancing and his mind stopped wandering.
Finally, he was in game mode.
It was the moment he’d spent his whole life fighting for. He was at the pinnacle of his career and nearly had the prize in his grasp.
Who would ever have thought a better offer would come along?
He gave Liam a quick man hug, shook the coach’s sweaty hand and glanced at the young reserve player who looked like he was about to vomit from excitement. “Good luck, kid.” He slapped the young pup’s shoulder and bolted from the locker room.
The doc sprinted at his side, struggling to keep up but managing to show him the way to the bank of ambulances just as the medics were loading Caitlyn into one. He sprinted past a startled Amanthi and John and jumped into the ambulance next to Caitlyn.
“You idiot! What are you doing here?” was all the thanks he got.
The first strains of “God Save the Queen” reached them from inside the stadium. “Game’s over. I’m coming with you.”
“Game’s not over—”
“Game’s over for me, love. If you think anything’s more important than helping you birth our first baby, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth to argue but fortune smiled on Spencer today and she was hit by a breathtaking contraction instead. “Does it hurt?” he asked stupidly.
A throaty animal groan tore out of her chest.
* * *
By the start of the second half, he was in Caitlyn’s private hospital room watching the game on TV with his new daughter while his wife slumbered next to them. “Ooph, that’s your Uncle Liam just took that big hit, Lily.” His eyes narrowed as his friend writhed on the ground. Glancing down at the alert bundle cradled in his arms, he continued his commentary. He moderated his usual style, not once calling the ref a wanker, even when the wanker made a completely biased call against England.
“This is called the World Cup. It’s really special because it only comes along every four years. The next one, you’ll be big enough to learn how to throw a ball. You’ll still be a bit too young for your mummy to teach you to drill a borehole, though, so I get you first.”
Caitlyn laughed softly next to him. Drawing his attention back to his daughter, Spencer said, “That’s your mummy, but she’ll probably ask you to call her Mommy. You’ll notice she talks funny, but we love her anyway.”
Eyes still closed, Caitlyn smiled. Feeling a crush of love, Spencer leaned down to kiss her, then raised Lillian Janice up to brush his lips against her tiny wrinkled forehead.
Then Spencer settled back to watch England win the World Cup without him.
* * * * *
About the Author
Kat Latham is a California girl who moved to Europe the day after graduating from UCLA, ditching her tank tops for raincoats. She spent several years teaching English in Prague followed by several more working for a humanitarian organization in London. She and her husband now live in a small town in rural Netherlands surrounded by miles and miles of green pasture, canals and Shetland ponies. Kat’s slowly adjusting to life in a place where bicycles and cows seem to outnumber people.
With degrees in English lit and human rights, she loves stories that reflect the humor and emotion of real life. Kat’s other career involves writing and editing for charities, and she’s had the privilege of traveling to Kenya, Ethiopia and India to write about the heroic people helping their communities survive disasters.
You can usually find Kat on her blog (
katlatham.com
), Twitter (
@KatrinaLatham
) or Facebook (
facebook.com/KatLathamRomance
). She hopes you’ll hang out with her there!
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ISBN: 9781426895920
Copyright © 2013 by Kat Latham
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