Page 2

Xavier

I'd never felt more clueless than the moment a nurse placed my seven-pound baby girl in my arms and said, "Congratulations."

Holding my daughter for the first time upended my entire world, and everything I thought I knew about myself was erased. All that remained was her: Holland áine Kingsley--my daughter, my purpose, my everything.

The paternity test confirmed it weeks ago, but one look at her and anyone can see she's mine.

A thick tuft of red hair peeks out from under her pink hat and her wide, impossibly blue eyes stare up at me. And when her lip starts quivering and she pouts, well, I realize she already has me wrapped around her tiny fingers.

For a few precious minutes, holding her lets me forget the chaos waiting for us. Her mother leaving, my own messed-up childhood, returning to the diamond--I let it all fade as I pace the living room.

I still have no idea what I'm doing and I have no help--no family, no nanny, no Kristy.

But everything I need, I'm holding in my arms.

My daughter has become the driving force behind my entire existence; there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. Nothing that could change my love for her. Since that first moment I held her, wrapped in the teal blanket I bought for her--Bandits teal, of course--she's owned my entire heart.

Unfortunately, I know that's not always the case. My dad never wanted kids--he only agreed to make my mom happy, assuming she'd always be there to take care of me. It was selfish, a lie he told to keep her, putting his fear of losing her above everything else. In the end, it hurt all of us, and we lost her anyway.

"I'll never hurt you like that," I whisper to my sleeping daughter. I should lay her down and put away the piles of clothes that have accumulated over the last few days, but I can't pull myself away. "Never."

History has a cruel way of repeating itself. Only this time, it's not a father refusing to step up, it's a mother walking away. I don't blame Kristy for that; not everyone is meant to be a parent. But her leaving still hits the same raw nerve, reopening old wounds.

Kristy and I had a plan. She said she was staying, and I was going to help her however I could. But the moment Holland was born, I saw it written all over her face--dread, not joy. She let me pick a name, signed the birth certificate, handed me our daughter, and walked out of the hospital a day later without so much as a goodbye.

The only thing keeping her here was the life I could give her. She admitted as much when we met at the coffee shop, but I ignored my gut.

I'm listening now.

Whether Kristy needs time to adjust or can't do this at all, I don't know. What I do know is that I won't let her drift in and out of Holland's life, leaving scars the way my dad did. My daughter deserves better. I want her to grow up surrounded by love, not instability. But doing this alone? It terrifies me.

How the hell am I going to be enough for her?

I know I'll never fail at loving her. It's everything else I'm afraid of.

Endless scenarios swirl in my head, each one more frightening than the last. The parenting books I blew through all said intrusive thoughts are normal. Surviving, let alone thriving, with these nonstop grenades of terror being launched at you by your own subconscious, every second of every day, seems too daunting to be normal.

It's not limited to the fear of keeping her alive. It's the existential questions plaguing me on top of the primal fears.

Would she be better off if Kristy came back and wanted to be in her life? And will she hate me if I deny her that?

Will I be warm enough to raise a child when my memories of having a parent who cared are tainted and distant?

How will I do it all with baseball? And if I can't manage, how the hell will I support her?

Bile crawls up my throat as my mind spins, weaving a future where Holland hates me, where I'm not the father she needs. Or worse, the unthinkable happens and our car plummets off a bridge into water, but I can't unbuckle her car seat fast enough to save her.

I cross the living room again, wearing a path in the carpet. My arms shake with my daughter in them and then I remember my promise to myself: to do everything I can to ensure this little girl is safe and loved--to give her enough so she's never missing out.

There's a metric fuck ton I don't know about being a dad. But one thing I do know is Holland deserves so much more than the upbringing I had, and nothing will stop me from making sure she never knows the pain and heartbreak I've experienced.

Not at the hands of me, or her mother.

Her hot breath puffs against my chest and her eyes part enough to give me a peak at those dark blues as she stretches out, yawning as if to say, " You're thinking too loud, Daddy ."

There's something hopeful about the way my daughter looks up at me, like she knows she can trust me.

Which is ridiculous because, at four days old, she can barely see me. She can't possibly know that. I don't even know if she should trust me. I have no role models, no experience. Only an idiot would bet on me.

I sink into the corner of the couch, doubt weighing me down.

In two weeks, I have to return to playing baseball with no help in sight now that her mother is MIA. It's not how I envisioned my season going, but I wouldn't give this up for anything.

Cactus league games have already started, and while most of my teammates are exhausted from readjusting to the pace of the season, I'm wiped out from late night feedings and being on constant alert since Holland came home.

I let my eyelids fall closed for a minute. Just to rest them.

A soft knock at the door has them popping open as I practically jump, startling Holland. "Shh . . . It's okay, áine."

I settle my daughter against my chest, murmuring her middle name--the same as my mom's. Irish for radiance. As I gently bounce her, I shuffle through the house toward the door and open it.

At first, all I see are the stacks of neatly wrapped boxes, Tupperware containers, and four sets of legs sticking out from the bottom of the pile of gifts on the other side of the door. They shuffle a few things around, revealing Poppy's long red braid and Indie's wild curls.

"Can we come in and set all this down so we can meet her properly?" Mia asks, peering around a pink gift bag which is starting to slide off the casserole dish she's balancing it on. My catcher's reflexes kick in, and I grab it before it hits the floor. "And that's why they pay you the big bucks."

"Come on in," I say, stepping out of the way. My teammates' significant others step through the door, a blur of energy and excitement. It makes me want a nap.

Lilah breezes past me, her growing baby bump leading the way to the kitchen. "There are energy bites in here." She holds up a bakery box for a split second before she shelves it in the fridge. "These are breakfast sandwiches--you can reheat them as needed. And this . . ."

"Is your vanilla cold brew?" My mouth waters at the sight of the Buns & Roses to-go carafe fit for a construction crew . . . or a newly minted single dad.

"It is. All for you," Lilah confirms sweetly.

"You're my favorite, don't tell the others," I whisper, conspiratorially.

Poppy drops her gifts on the counter and then joins her friend at the fridge. "Continuing the food parade, this is a spaghetti bake that you can pop in the oven, and Indie brought prepped, chicken fajitas bowls," Hendrix's fiancée says as she passes the food to Lilah. Each dish follows the last, filling the empty space.

"And I made Dean's favorite chicken tortilla soup," Mia says, setting down the rest of the food. "Oh, and he picked out our present. He said having a baby isn't an excuse to skip leg day. It's a baby carrier and an infant insert."

"Harsh." Indie laughs. "He really is only nice to you, isn't he?"

"Don't worry, I withheld phone sex on your behalf. You deserve a few weeks without worrying about workouts to care for this little cutie."

"Mhmm. I'm glad I'm not there to deal with his cranky ass."

It dawns on me that this is only the second conversation I've had with someone who can talk back to me in two days.

The only other being a brief phone call with my friend Edward, but that call was cut short when I had to change a diaper. He had called to check in after I sent him a picture of Holland. The older man befriended me when he found me wandering around the planetarium he works at. I was overwhelmed after finding out about the pregnancy and he listened. We've kept in touch since. But we talked yesterday, which means that, until five minutes ago, I hadn't talked to another adult today.

"He tried to cover his ass when he realized what an asinine comment it was." Mia blushes, her cheeks going pink when she mumbles, "But holding out on him is more fun . . . for both of us."

"I don't need details, Mia," I say.

Sex hasn't been on my radar since the last time Kristy and I slept together, back in July. Sex and relationships--anything that doesn't involve baseball or my baby--is not a priority.

Right now, my priority is figuring out how to do this alone, and what's next. My lawyer's advice: file for full custody to protect myself and my daughter in the event Kristy shows back up. He also let me know that the lovely state of Colorado requires a walk-away parent to be absent for a significant amount of time before the primary parent can be granted full custody. But, fun fact, there's no amount of time specified before it's considered abandonment. I guess the courts work off whims, just like my ex.

If, at the six-month mark Kristy hasn't shown back up, the court will probably consider that a sufficient amount of time to petition for termination of parental rights.

So now, on top of everything else, I have to prepare for the possibility that I'll be going to court soon.

Yeah, sex and relationships are the least of my worries.

A throat clears, dragging me out of my thoughts. "I don't mean to be an asshole, I'd rather leave that title to Dean, but why don't you give me sweet little Holland and go shower? You stink, and I'm pretty sure you were just sleeping standing up," Poppy says, stopping in front of me, nose wrinkled, hands out, and green eyes glued to my daughter.

"Do not," I argue weakly. She might be right about me sleeping standing up though.

Unfortunately, when I dip my nose towards my pits, the smell rudely wakes me the hell up. I hand over my sleeping daughter to the strong-willed women converging on me. All four of them soften to puddles at the sight of Holland bringing her fist to her face as I pass her to Poppy.

"You really do. But it's okay, you've got us. Go shower and I'll heat up some food for you." Lilah runs her thumb over the back of Holland's tiny fist. "Poor girl, he had your cute little nose right by those nasty pits. We're lucky it didn't shrivel off," she croons.

With a glance over my shoulder, I watch my friends fussing over my baby girl, welcoming her to the Bandits family. For the first time since I found out I was going to be a father, things seem like they might be okay and the tightness in my chest eases a little. I might not have a family by blood, but this family, is pretty fucking incredible.

The suffocating smell I discover when I strip my shirt over my head proves that Poppy was right and that I'll need extra time scrubbing. But knowing that Holland is safe and cared for doesn't stop me from rushing through a quick wash, rinse, and repeat.

It should honestly be a crime that I let it get this bad in only two days, but I was fucking terrified to leave her side for even a minute to shower. Which is something I'm going to need to figure out because, after a thorough washing, I nearly feel like a functioning human again. Who knew water and soap had those kinds of superpowers?

Not me.

Grabbing a fresh pair of joggers and a shirt without spit up crusted to the shoulder, I find my house buzzing with activity.

Most notable is the smell of a homemade pizza cooking from the kitchen where Lilah is working on a salad. I'm about to tell her how unnecessary it is, but everywhere I look, something is getting done without prompting.

Mia's sitting on my living room floor folding Holland's tiny clothes, and Indie's singing softly while she changes a diaper. Beside her, Poppy is putting together a bouncer that I don't recognize.

My feet stop moving of their own accord, and my throat tightens. "What's going on?" I croak, dumbly.

"Now you can bring her to the bathroom with you when you shower, and your teammates won't have to suffer from the smell of armpits and sour formula." Poppy shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I hope you don't mind that you didn't get to rip the paper off yourself, but the situation was out of hand."

"And you've gotta eat. The Bandits expect you at one-hundred percent when you report back." Lilah opens the oven and the smell of bacon and cheese hits me, making my stomach growl loudly, proving her point.

"Speaking of baseball, what exactly is your plan?" Indie runs her hand over my daughter's head.

It's the million-dollar question. One I've gone over hundreds of times, and am still as uncertain of the answer as I was the first time. Kristy and I were supposed to split time based on my schedule. She'd have her when I was playing, on the road, or practicing. I'd have her anytime I wasn't. It gave us time to find a nanny. But she blew that up when she walked away, leaving me with no one to care for my daughter.

"I don't fucking know. How the hell am I supposed to trust someone else to watch her while I travel after . . ." My teeth grind together, halting the frustration that was about to spill. Regardless of my relationship, I won't poison my daughter with the anger I have for her mother.

Until I can process my feelings, I'll shut the fuck up. "A service sent over a few profiles for nannies. I have it narrowed down to two and I'll make my decision after I interview them."

"You know we will help as much as we can," Lilah says, over her shoulder. Her smile is sweet and reassuring, not at all pitying.

I swallow around the heavy lump stuck in my throat. "Yeah, I know," comes out on a croak that I don't try to hide. "Thank you. I'm not sure what I did to deserve this, but I appreciate it more than I can say."

They showed up not knowing how lonely this all is.

This is what I want for my daughter, to be surrounded by this kind of love. To be safe and cherished--everything a child should be.

Nothing like the way I was raised.