Page 106 of Clear Shot

That’s partly what sent me spiraling into this depressive episode that I still haven’t snapped out of.

But I have to.

I should be getting traded any day now, and if not, I have to get back to playing. One way or another, I have to work past this and figure out what to do about Hana and the baby—a child I never wanted but found its way into existence anyway.

The results of the paternity test smacked me right upside the head earlier today and I don’t think I could feel worse if I tried.

I was horrible to Hana, and I wouldn’t blame her if she never forgives me.

We have to figure out what to do about the baby, though, and that’s going to be the tricky part.

I must have dozed at some point because my eyes pop open at noise coming from downstairs.

“Hello?”

Jesus.

“Is anyone home?”

Who the fuck is in my house?

I sit up in alarm, looking for some kind of weapon but I barely have furniture, much less a weapon.

“Who the fuck is here?” I yell in annoyance.

“Uh, your neighbor.”

Christ on a cracker.

There’s someone in my house, I’m not dressed, and I probably need a shower.

“We, uh, came by to welcome you to the neighborhood. Is your wife here?”

Fuck me.

We?

There’s more than one person in my house?

Something smells good and I frown in confusion—did the neighbors bring us food? God knows, I can use some, but I don’t know anyone.

I pull on shorts and a shirt and pad down the stairs to find three attractive women probably in their thirties standing around looking uncomfortably friendly. And holding something that smells incredible.

And for the first time in a week, my stomach rumbles.

“Sounds like you’re hungry,” one says. “I’m Daphne Simms, and this is Heather Maldone and Farrah Berkowitz.”

“Uh, hi. Sorry, I’ve been…sick. I’m Aiden.” I don’t offer a last name because people may recognize me and I don’t need any more negative press from nosy neighbors who caught me unaware.

I’m hungover, dehydrated, and still reeling from yesterday’s appointment with the urologist.

Small channels form in the scar tissue, allowing sperm to wiggle through.

“Your door was open,” Heather says with an amused smile. “So we figured you’d be home.”

“We brought homemade rugelach and vegetable lasagna, right out of the oven.” Farrah proffers the pan.

“Oh, uh, you didn’t have to…” What the fuck am I doing? I’m not going tolivehere now that Hana’s gone. Why am I even bothering with these women?