How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: Fake Date A Hockey Player Chapter 107

Harper's POV,

At thirty-five weeks pregnant, I became obsessed with cleaning.

Not normal cleaning. Deep cleaning. Maniacal cleaning. The kind where I was scrubbing baseboards at 2 AM because they "looked dirty" even though they were spotless.

"You're nesting," Maya observed, watching me reorganize the nursery closet for the third time that week. "It's a biological imperative. Your brain is preparing for the baby."

"My brain is losing its mind. Yesterday I alphabetized our spice rack. Today I'm color-coding Rose's onesies by sleeve length."

"That's very Type A of you."

"I can't help it. Everything needs to be perfect before she gets here."

Crew watched from the couch, right arm still in a sling, unable to help with anything. Six weeks post-surgery. Healing slowly. Physical therapy was brutal but working.

"You need to rest," he said for the hundredth time. "You're exhausted. You're huge. You can't keep doing this."

"I'm not huge. I'm pregnant. There's a difference."

"You're thirty-five weeks pregnant and trying to move furniture by yourself. That's huge and concerning."

He was right but I wouldn't admit it. Instead I kept cleaning, organizing, preparing for a baby who was coming in five weeks whether we were ready or not.

The clinic was closed now. I'd officially started maternity leave at thirty-four weeks, handing everything over to James and Emily. Watching my business run without me was harder than I'd expected.

"What if they mess something up?" I'd said to Crew last week. "What if clients don't like Emily? What if James makes a scheduling mistake?"

"Then they'll fix it. Harper, you need to let go. The clinic will survive without you for three months."

But letting go wasn't something I was good at.

So instead I cleaned our apartment obsessively and worried about everything I couldn't control.

At my thirty-five week appointment, Dr. Yoon examined me thoroughly.

"Baby's head-down. Good position. Heart rate is excellent. You're measuring right on track." She checked her notes. "Any contractions?"

"Some Braxton Hicks. Nothing regular."

"That's normal. Real labor contractions will be regular, consistent, and progressively stronger. If you start having them, time them. If they're five minutes apart for an hour, come in."

"And if I go into labor early?"

"Thirty-five weeks is viable. Baby would likely be fine. But let's try to get you to at least thirty-seven weeks. That's considered full-term."

Two more weeks. I just needed to make it two more weeks.

At home, I made lists. Hospital bag packed. Birth plan written. Emergency contacts updated. Pediatrician selected. Everything documented and organized and ready.

Crew watched me make my fifteenth list of the week.

"You can't control this," he said gently. "Labor is going to happen when it happens. No amount of lists will change that."

"But lists make me feel prepared."

"You are prepared. We have everything. The nursery is ready. The hospital bag is packed. You've read seven books on childbirth. Harper, you're as prepared as anyone can be."

"What if something goes wrong? What if I can't do it? What if—"

"Then the doctors will handle it. But you're healthy. Rose is healthy. Everything's going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I'm choosing to believe it anyway."

That night, I couldn't sleep. Thirty-five weeks meant Rose could come any day. Could be born in a week. In three days. Tomorrow.

And we'd be parents.

Responsible for a tiny human who needed us for everything.

The weight of that felt crushing.

Around 3 AM, I felt a sharp pain low in my abdomen. Different from Rose's usual kicks. More intense.

Then another one, five minutes later.

I lay there timing them. Five minutes apart. Lasting about forty-five seconds each. Regular. Consistent.

Contractions.

I woke Crew up. "I'm having contractions."

He sat up immediately, despite the pain it caused his shoulder. "How far apart?"

"Five minutes. They started about twenty minutes ago."

"Okay. Okay." He grabbed his phone, opened the contraction timer app we'd downloaded. "Let's time the next few. See if they're consistent."

We lay there in the dark, waiting. Another contraction at 3:17. Another at 3:22. Another at 3:27.

"Five minutes apart. Consistent," Crew said. "Dr. Yoon said to come in if they're five minutes apart for an hour. We should wait."

"But what if this is it? What if she's coming now?"

"Then she's coming now and we'll handle it. But let's wait thirty more minutes. See if they continue."

They continued. Consistent five-minute intervals. Getting slightly stronger each time.

By 4 AM, we'd been timing for an hour.

"Call Dr. Yoon," I said.

Crew called the after-hours line. Explained the situation. The on-call doctor—not Dr. Yoon, someone named Dr. Martinez—called back within ten minutes.

"Contractions five minutes apart for an hour at thirty-five weeks. Come to the hospital. We need to evaluate you."

We grabbed the hospital bag. Got in the car. Drove through empty Vancouver streets at 4:30 AM toward the hospital where our daughter might be born five weeks early.

"She's not ready," I said in the car. "It's too soon. She needs five more weeks."

"She needs two more weeks for full-term. And Harper, thirty-five-week babies do fine. The NICU is prepared. The doctors are prepared. We're prepared."

"I'm not prepared. I thought we had five more weeks."

"We have however much time Rose decides to give us. That's it."

At the hospital, they checked me into labor and delivery. Hooked me up to monitors. Checked my cervix.

"You're two centimeters dilated," the nurse said. "Fifty percent effaced. Baby's head is down and engaged. These are definitely real contractions."

"But it's too early," I said.

"Thirty-five weeks is viable. Not ideal, but viable. Dr. Martinez will be in shortly to discuss options."

Dr. Martinez arrived twenty minutes later. Young, competent, calm.

"Here's what we're looking at. You're in early labor. We could try to stop it with medication—give you steroids for baby's lung development, try to delay delivery for at least forty-eight hours. Or we could let labor progress naturally. At thirty-five weeks, baby is likely developed enough to breathe on her own, but there's some risk."

"What do you recommend?" Crew asked.

"I recommend we try to stop labor. Buy us some time. Get those steroids into baby's system. Reassess in forty-eight hours. If labor progresses despite medication, we let it happen. But if we can delay it, that gives baby a better outcome."

They started me on medications. Steroids for Rose's lungs. Magnesium sulfate to stop contractions. IV fluids. Continuous monitoring.

The contractions slowed. Went from five minutes apart to ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then stopped entirely.

By 10 AM, I'd been contraction-free for two hours.

"Looks like we stopped it," Dr. Martinez said. "We're going to keep you here for observation. Twenty-four hours minimum. If contractions don't restart, we'll send you home on bed rest until thirty-seven weeks."

"Bed rest?"

"Modified bed rest. No work. No strenuous activity. Rest as much as possible. Your body is trying to go into labor early. We need to convince it to wait."

They moved me to an antepartum room. Private. Comfortable. Boring.

Crew stayed with me all day. Called our mothers to update them—both immediately wanted to fly out but we told them to wait. Called Maya who offered to bring food, magazines, entertainment.

"I'm fine," I told everyone. "Just stuck in the hospital being boring."

But I wasn't fine. I was terrified.

That night, alone in the hospital room while Crew went home to shower and sleep properly, I put my hand on my belly.

"Hey Rose. Not yet, okay? I know you're excited to meet us. But you need to stay put for at least two more weeks. Your lungs need time to develop. Your body needs time to grow. We need time to be ready."

She kicked in response. Strong. Defiant.

"I know. You're stubborn like your dad. But please. Two more weeks. That's all I'm asking."

My phone buzzed. Text from Crew: *How are you feeling?*

*Bored. Uncomfortable. Terrified she's going to come too early.*

*She's going to be fine. You're both going to be fine.*

*You don't know that.*

*I'm choosing to believe it anyway.*

I fell asleep with monitors beeping, Rose kicking occasionally, hoping my body would cooperate for two more weeks.

The next morning, Dr. Martinez came in for rounds.

"No more contractions. Baby looks great on the monitors. I think we successfully stopped early labor." She reviewed my chart. "I'm sending you home this afternoon on strict bed rest. No lifting. No sex. Minimal activity. If contractions start again, come back immediately."

"And if I make it to thirty-seven weeks?"

"Then we induce labor. Get this baby out safely once she's full-term."

At home that afternoon, Crew set me up on the couch with pillows, blankets, water, snacks, and the remote.

"You're on bed rest. That means staying here. Not cleaning. Not organizing. Not doing anything except growing Rose."

"I'll go insane doing nothing for two weeks."

"Then go insane. But do it lying down."

Maya visited that evening with books, magazines, a tablet loaded with movies.

"Entertainment for the bedridden," she announced. "Also, I brought gossip. Simone and I are moving in together."

"What? When?"

"Next month. Her lease is up. My place is bigger. It makes sense." She grinned. "Plus I'm tired of spending half my week at her place anyway. Might as well make it official."

"Maya, that's huge. Are you ready?"

"No. But I'm doing it anyway. Seems to be the theme lately. Doing terrifying things before we're ready."

She stayed until Crew got home from his physical therapy appointment. His shoulder was improving. Could lift his arm almost to shoulder height now. Still couldn't throw, couldn't push, couldn't do anything strenuous. But progress.

"Three more months," James had told him that afternoon. "You might be cleared to skate by August. Start training for next season in September."

"August is three months away."

"Yes. That's how time works. Be patient."

That night, lying on the couch while Crew made dinner one-handed, I felt Rose kick hard against my ribs.

"Two more weeks," I whispered to my belly. "Then you can come meet us. But not before."

Rose kicked again. Like she was arguing.

"You're already so stubborn. Your dad's going to have his hands full."

Crew brought me dinner—pasta he'd somehow managed to cook with one functional arm.

"How'd you do this?" I asked.

"Very carefully and with minimal swearing." He sat next to me. "Two weeks. That's all we need. Then Rose can come whenever she wants."

"What if she comes early anyway?"

"Then we handle it. Together. Like we handle everything else."

"You keep saying that. Like handling things is easy."

"I didn't say it was easy. I said we'd handle it. There's a difference."

We ate dinner on the couch. Watched TV. Pretended everything was normal even though I was on bed rest five weeks from my due date with a husband recovering from shoulder surgery.

Normal was relative.

But this was our normal now.

And somehow, it was enough.

Two more weeks.

We just needed two more weeks.

And hoped Rose would cooperate.

Even though she was already proving to be as stubborn as both her parents combined.

This was going to be interesting.