Page 6

Xavier

The sudden jerk of my leg sends sparks of pain shooting through my toes. I curl in on myself, groaning when my forehead thuds against something hard.

"Fuck!" Dizzy, I fumble around, trying to make sense of the mess I've found myself in. Slowly, the room comes into focus, followed by pain.

My toe, my head, my hips--everything hurts. I suck in a deep breath and then the smell hits me. Sour, burning, potent--

Oh god, what is that?

Holland .

I'm on the floor of her room, having spent the night trying to settle her fussy little self.

Gagging, I push myself up, and before I can even process what's happening, a tiny whimper turns into a full-blown howl. Ignoring my pulsating toe and the bump I'm sure is forming on my head I bend over the crib to grab my daughter.

Oh, no. No. No. No.

Panic rises as I realize the smell is coming from her. I guess that explains the gas pains she had earlier.

I will not puke on my daughter.

I might screw everything else up, but that's the bare minimum I can do for her.

I rush into the bathroom, slamming my elbow into the light switch. Fight-or-flight kicks in with a shit-covered baby in my arms, and I spin in a circle.

What the fuck do I do? It's everywhere.

There's no way around it; I'm getting dirtier before either of us gets clean.

Now would be an excellent time to not be doing this alone, to have someone to hand me a towel or start the shower for me.

I hold my breath, cradling her against my chest as the liquid seeps through her onesie, coating my arms. The reheated chicken carbonara Hendrix dropped off threatens to make a reappearance.

Moving as swiftly as I can, I lay a towel in front of the tub and flip on the shower. Holland's screams bounce off the tile, each cry deepening the sinking sensation in my chest. Frantically, I strip her out of the ruined clothes and toss them straight into the garbage. Every cry cuts through me, leaving a mark on my heart.

"I know, áine. I'm trying." Those two words are my constant refrain. Most days, I feel like I'm failing--like I'm not enough.

Something's wrong, and I'm more sure than ever that I'm screwing this all up.

It's isolating, beyond anything I've ever felt. To make it worse, Kristy won't answer my calls or texts. When she walked away, I thought she'd at least communicate with me. Instead, she blocked me on all social media and disappeared. What stings the most is that she left without discussing what's next, and I don't know if she ever plans to come back.

I step out of my sweatpants and check the water temperature, adjusting the nozzle until it's lukewarm.

She's so slippery. Please don't let me drop her.

I clean both of us up, but it does nothing to soothe Holland.

Running on so little sleep should be illegal, especially before sunrise.

After our shower, Holland squirms and fusses until dawn, then lets out a series of impressive farts and passes out on my chest.

I'm just starting to fall asleep again when Mia arrives with coffee and to relieve me so I can get to practice.

I make it to the stadium later than I'd like, and as I drag myself through the parking lot, the effects of last night linger.

Without my friends and their significant others, I'd be screwed. I've tried finding another nanny, but my trust is non-existent at this point. People have let me down my whole life--Kristy and Carly being the latest examples--and I can't take it anymore.

And seeing the effortless connection between Tenley and Holland . . . I want that. Someone calm with her when she's fussy, someone focused on her needs, someone not distracted by my job or teammates. A nanny who isn't afraid to call me out when I'm being overbearing. No one else is right.

"You look like shit." Worry etches a deep line between Hendrick's brows as he holds the door to the Bandit's stadium open for me. "Is everything okay?"

"Okay is a relative term right now. I spent my night on the floor next to my daughter's crib because she was fussy and woke up to a literal shitstorm." The dull ache that starts at my tight shoulder and wraps its way around my neck is a reminder of the toll doing this alone is taking on my body. I wince when I reach for the locker room door, holding it for my teammate.

"Nothing about that sounds okay. You need to find a nanny."

"Fuck, I know. I have an interview tomorrow," I say, following him to our lockers.

"Don't try to find something wrong with this one," Cruz chimes in from where he's tying his cleats. Dean and Dom come through the door behind me, each taking their spots to get ready for practice.

"I can't wait to remind you of that when you're looking for someone to help take care of your little guy in a few months." The all-business expression he was wearing melts away at the mention of his own baby.

"How's Lilah doing? My sister was miserable by this point in her pregnancy with Clayton." Dean's nephew was born a few weeks before Holland.

"She's amazing." Cruz beams, proud as hell and as awestruck with his wife as he's been since they realized there was more there than friendship. "Being able to stand the smell of coffee now that she's further along certainly helps."

"Have you guys started looking for someone to help when Lilah goes back to work?"

"Not really. Willa has a friend that's interested--we're kind of banking on that. And our parents will both come out to help for a few weeks." Lilah has a community beyond the team that I don't, including family and her employees at Buns & Roses, like Willa. I envy that kind of support.

"What about Vivi's niece?" Dom asks.

Dom voices an idea that's crossed my mind a few times since the camp. But Tenley's a college student. I need a permanent solution, not a short-term fix for the summer. But damn she was great with Holland. Finding someone like her, full-time, seems impossible.

"I'm sure my interview tomorrow will be fine." There's less conviction in my tone than ever.

Miller Murphy, our new manager who took over after Wilson retired, claps his hands. "I know you guys love to chat, but let's wrap it up and start practice, all right?"

"He's always so polite when he threatens us," Dom whispers a little too loudly.

"Would you rather I yell like I do at the delinquents?" Murphy responds, referring to the new guys who joined last year--Braxton Hayes included. They've made a name for themselves, not only because of their skills on the field, but also for their attitude and off-field drama.

"They deserve it," I say under my breath, still bitter that Braxton cost me my nanny.

"Did you tell Xavier yet?" Murphy asks Dean.

"Not yet. I figured I'd let him get dressed first."

"Tell me what?" I glance between the two.

"You took off so fast after yesterday's game you missed the team bonding while everyone signed the items for the gala auction. So I need you to stop by Double Play to do it this week." Murphy's half-smile fades as he adds, "And try not to piss off Vivi. The Bandits value our nonprofit partners."

"You got it, Coach." Fantastic. I'll find time for that.

Every year the Bandits host a gala to raise money for Double Play. All the players are required to attend.

Dean claps me on the shoulder. "I don't envy you."

"Yeah, thanks." I mentally tally my week, wondering when I'll make time for it.

It's not until the next morning, slightly more rested, that I realize I can swing by Double Play after my interview. I'm learning to multitask, but this shit is hard, and not enough people are honest about it.

"Morning, my little áine. Did my girl have sweet dreams?" I lift Holland from the crib. She looks so much like my mom, with red hair and fair skin thanks to those strong Irish genes. The resemblance takes my breath away--a bittersweet reminder of what I've lost and what I have.

I push away the memories, focusing on the present. Baby-soft hairs tickle my nose as I kiss the top of her head. If you'd told me a year ago that inhaling her new baby scent would be my favorite way to start the day, I would've called you mad. Yet, here we are.

"We're going to find you a nanny who won't disappear on us today," I say, amazed at how much I talk to her like this.

After compulsively checking the diaper bag, Holland and I head out--only five minutes late, which might be a record.

Twenty minutes later, I'm praying the bell at Buns & Roses doesn't wake Holland as I wrestle the stroller through the door and into the warmth. I yank off my beanie, running my fingers through my matted hair as I scan the coffee shop.

A young couple is huddled in the corner--definitely not my nanny. There's a guy working on his laptop, a grandma with two grandkids, and a teenager waiting in line.

A whimper from the stroller reminds me to move, but I'm not sure where to go. There's no one here who fits the bill of the twenty-six-year-old nanny I'm supposed to interview.

"Did you bring Holland to see me, or is she keeping you up all night again and you're just here for my coffee?" Lilah steps out from behind the counter, peeking into Holland's stroller with a grin. "She's the sweetest."

"Mhmmm, especially when she sleeps well, like she did last night."

Lilah straightens, hand resting atop her stomach. "So, a regular amount of caffeine today? No need for an IV drip?"

"Let's not go crazy. I'm still a single parent." I glance back to the seating area, hoping my interviewee showed up while I was talking. No such luck. The same crowd is here, but now the couple in the booth is kissing, coffee forgotten.

"You didn't happen to have anyone stop in looking lost or asking for me. I'm supposed to meet a potential nanny here for an interview."

"I didn't see anyone. Want me to check with Willa? She's in the back, but was helping customers earlier."

"No. I'll send her a text. It's possible we got our times mixed up." Like a beacon of disappointment, I look at my phone to see a text preview showing a message from Teddy.

Teddy Sinclair:

Sorry for the late notice, but I have to cancel our interview. The family I used to work for let me know they're expecting again and looking for help. I hope you understand.

"Son of a . . . biscotti." I catch myself at the last minute.

"Everything okay?" Lilah asks, her nose scrunching because she already knows the answer.

"No, I guess we'll be taking that coffee to go. Back to the drawing board with nannies. On the bright side, I have plenty of time to get to Double Play now."

"So, a double shot of espresso, then."

"Why the heck not?" I agree, following her to the counter where she works on the opposite side, making my drink.

She hums as she works, her back to me, and I realize whatever she's doing is more involved than my macchiato. Spinning around with a flourish, she hands me a brown bag and sets down two drinks.

Wincing, she grabs her stomach. "Oh, that one hurt."

Panic hits. "Shit, Lilah, is it contractions? Do I need to call Cruz?"

Her hand closes over mine, pulling it across the counter. Despite the discomfort, she looks overjoyed. "Just an elbow or foot. See?" She waits a beat, then places my hand on her bump. "We're fine."

"Oh, wow." I pull my hand back, rubbing my neck, my gaze shifting to Holland. "That's . . . wow."

"Kristy never-- really ?" Her smile falls.

"Things weren't good when she came back. She could barely stand to be around me, and there was a lot of animosity. I missed out on a lot." Without realizing it, I've started rocking the stroller back and forth, a habit I picked up to soothe Holland. Only right now, I'm not doing it for her sake.

Her hand lands on my forearm. "I'm so sorry, Xavier."

I shrug. I'm not okay with how things went down--how things continue to be--but there's not much I can do about it.

Instead of explaining my very complicated feelings, I point to the bag. This is more caffeine and sugar than even I need.

"One for you and one for Vivi. Plus some treats, in case you need to earn some brownie points."

"Does everyone know she hates me?"

"Hate's a strong word . . . lacks patience might be more accurate." Tapping her finger against her chin she pulls the bag back before I can take it, adding two cookies. "In case your third impression fails as badly as your first two."

"Your husband's a gossip," I tease, taking the bag from her before she can add in her famous sticky buns. I'm not that hopeless.

I don't think.