“I just hope I haven’t destroyed anything in her,” I barely got out. My throat closed up on me.
Sarah’s hand cuffed my wrist in a comforting manner. “Now, I know that girl. I made her. She’s tough. Shoot, all this time I thought she’d gotten herself into a loveless affair with you, messed around and got an unwanted child out of it. We can’t underestimate that girl. She’s strong. Smart. She may not be as invincible and sound as she presents, but Zoey will figure it out in the end. Son, give this thing to God and I guarantee things will work out for the best…for both of you.”
Call me fucking crazy, but in that brief moment, I whole-heartedly believed Sarah. I even felt a momentary reprieve of the pain I’d been carrying for months. I wanted that peace to last forever.
One thing was for sure; I’d made the right decision in making that call earlier.
~~~~~~~~~~
April 2008
Perfection. There were ten fingers and ten toes—all of which were identical to mine, almond shaped eyes with a brow line just like mine, a cute button nose that we’d already known he snatched from me and tiny plump lips that I couldn’t deny came from his mother. His sound and contented sleep deprived me of the opportunity of our first formal playtime, but I was determined to study every inch of Jordan Michael Rogers, who was a touch of perfection. At just three hours old, he made the biggest impact on my life, second only to his mother, who was across the room, asleep herself. She must’ve been exhausted. It was hell watching her push out this bundle of joy.
When you see your heavily anticipated child, you experience a mirage of lifelong events vacuumed all into just a few seconds. You see his first run, his first time holding a ball, when he leaves for his first date, his graduations, and him holding his first child, experiencing the myriad of emotions you’re experiencing with him now. And just to think, before meeting his mother almost two years ago I had no desire for the sheer joy I felt now, holding my son in my hands.
We’d just ended the third quarter against Toronto, and when I jogged off the court, Paul and Travis, my agent, walked over to me with the news that Zoey was in labor. I looked over at Coach DiLeo and immediately caught his affirmative nod. I left the arena, tossing my jersey and pulling on a long sleeved tee and a sweat suit as we paced to the exit. I was nervous as fuck. Paul gave me a blow by blow update from the moment we left the court until we were disembarking the plane at Teterboro.
The ride to the hospital had my stomach in knots at the anticipation of it all. Then it seemed as soon as we entered the hospital, time sped up. A nurse was at the entrance directing my security and me to the maternity level and I had to scrub up because Zoey had to begin pushing.
Zoey.
Her eyes lit up with relief when she saw me. It made me wonder if she thought I wouldn’t be here for the baby. For her. I didn’t want to go there. Thoughts of the state of my relationship with Zoey fucking depressed me. I grabbed her hand, buried my head in the side of her face and first apologized for my stinking ass, then murmured in her ear words of admiration for what she was doing for me and the baby. I must have told her a million times how proud of her I was and reaffirmed my love for her in spite of our status. That shit was cathartic for me. It worked, too. The next thing I realized was Dr. Henson announcing the arrival of our baby boy. That was a moment I’ll never forget.