Winning Brynn (Seattle Strikers)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Leo

"If you give me the job, it would be my pleasure to return the favor."

The woman sitting across from me, whose name I've already forgotten, leans across my oakwood desk and winks. Her red dress is a beacon of my despair, glaring at me against the soft-white walls of my office. It’s an incredibly inappropriate choice of interview wear, but I guess that was her intention.

Tempting as I'm sure she believes the offer is, it does nothing but cause irritation to creep over me like a rash that won't stop itching. She is the fifth person I've interviewed today, and not a single one of them has given me the confidence that I can trust them to care for my one-year-old daughter.

Three have propositioned me, one going so far as to pass me her underwear while I asked her about her views on gentle discipline. She'd looked me straight in the eye and told me to take her over my knee to see for myself. Then there'd been the retired schoolteacher who'd spent ten minutes lamenting the outlawing of corporal punishment. And finally, a middle-aged man on the sex offenders register, whom I'd promptly reported to the police.

At this rate, I'll be doing soccer practice with my daughter, Salem, strapped to my chest in a sling—which wouldn’t be too far off what I had to do last season.

"That's kind of you, but I already have a job."

"I meant a blow—"

"I know what you meant," I cut her off and slap my knees before standing up. "But sadly, I'll have to decline your offer at this time."

Pouting, she spins in her chair but doesn't make a move to get up. Instead, she uncrosses her legs, bare beneath her short dress, and spreads them to reveal her misguided decision to go commando this afternoon.

Lord Almighty.

Lips spreading wide across veneers that weren't worth the money, she trails her fingers up her thigh and bats her eyelashes.

I avert my gaze, studying the titles on the bookshelves that line the back wall, as if I didn’t personally buy every single one of them. Not that I’ve had a chance to read anything since I became a father last year, but it’s nice to have them there when I’m ready for them. "If you care to save yourself any further embarrassment, Kylie, I'd strongly suggest you leave now."

"It's Kayley," she corrects, snapping her legs closed but still not getting up.

My eyes roll. My control snaps. My sanity left with the sex-offender.

I've been professional up until this point. I've turned down the three women who came before her with grace, I handled the child-beater with dignity, and I didn't even punch Steve the sex offender in the face, despite how much I wanted to. But unfortunately for Kylie/ Khloe/ Kourtney, whatever the hell her name is, I've run out of fucks to give.

"I don't care."

Finally, she stands up. Stomping over to where I stand by the door with my nose pinched between two fingers, she slaps a cold hand across my cheek. It isn't the first time I've ever been slapped by a woman, and I imagine it won't be the last. It stings, sure. Kaitlin has one hell of a backhand, but it's got nothing on the pain a desperate soccer player can inflict when they're losing a game.

"Now might be a good time to tell you about my security cameras." I flick my gaze to the corner of the room where the red light blinks dutifully down at us. "I have no problem turning over footage to the cops."

Her face flames as red as her dress, her eyes glazing with thunder. "Screw you, Sully."

First of all, only my teammates call me Sully. And second, if she had any desire for the job at all, she'd be calling me Mr. Sullivan. Though, she’s made it pretty clear that the only thing she desires from this interview is me.

Before I was thrown ass over tit into fatherhood, I might have even gone along with it.

Losing myself inside nameless women was my favorite way to spend a weekend, but the arrival of Salem into my life brought with it an inescapable need for self-reflection. Finding myself suddenly responsible for a tiny life forced me to hold a mirror to myself, and as much as it hurts to admit, I didn't like what I saw staring back at me. Fucking and discarding women was suddenly no longer appropriate—or even possible.

After all, if you want to be perpetually cockblocked, get yourself a kid.

The point is, how could I raise a woman if I barely respected them?

Of course, I didn't anticipate that a year of abstinence would ensue, but truthfully, I've barely had a moment over the past twelve or so months to even think about pursuing someone, let alone have the energy for it.

Even now, with a beautiful woman practically throwing herself at me, I couldn't be less interested. As convenient as it may be, if I went along with it, it would only be for the purpose of emptying myself inside a warm body instead of the palm of my hand. It wouldn't be because I liked her or even cared enough about her to know her name.

I'd be using her, simple as that.

I’m not okay with doing that anymore. Not when I have a little girl learning what to expect from a man through watching how her daddy treats women.

"Goodbye, Kendall." The door slams shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence of the afternoon with a headache booming relentlessly inside my skull.

God, why does this have to be so hard?

I only want someone trustworthy, who doesn’t have a criminal record, to watch my daughter on game days and during soccer practice. The hours are good, and I'm prepared to pay an arm and a fucking leg for the right person.

There are over seven hundred thousand people in Seattle, I only need one of them to be responsible enough to take care of my baby girl. Evidently, though, it’s a tall order. One that can apparently only be fulfilled by the likes of Mary fucking Poppins.

Behind me, the door bangs open again. Turning, I find my best friend standing in the doorway with my daughter perched on his hip. At the sight of me, Salem squeals and holds out her hands. “Dada!”

The room instantly fills with the smell of milky skin and baby lotion. It mixes with the scent of pine cones and cinnamon that floats from the bowl of potpourri my interior designer insisted on keeping on my desk, creating a strange concoction of Christmas and neonates.

Festive babies, that’s what my office smells like.

"Well, if the crying woman I passed in the hall is anything to go by, I'm guessing the search for a nanny isn't going well." Alex grins at me, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, his long hair tied back in a topknot.

He looks like a douchebag.

"You think Coach Carter will let me bring her to practice?" I ask, taking Salem into my arms and pressing my cheek against hers. Her skin is so soft, so warm, and it instantly settles the stress that was coursing through my bloodstream. "I missed you today, baby girl. Have you been good for Uncle Alex?"

"She's always good, aren't you, Say Say?" Leaning forward, he blows raspberries on her belly until she laughs. "But no, man. I don't think Coach would be okay with you bringing her to practice, no matter how much we all love her."

"I'm fucked, then."

Tilting his head to one side, he studies me with scrutiny. "Is there really no one who can do the job? Or are you just being Mr. Protective Daddy Bear, who thinks no one is good enough for his daughter?"

"Sixty percent of the applicants have tried to shag me today. The other forty percent belong in jail."

" Shag," he repeats in a poor imitation of my accent. "I don't care how long we've known each other, I will never get over your Britishness."

"You really should," I deadpan. "It's been five years."

"Is it weird that Salem will grow up to have an American accent?" he asks with earnest curiosity.

"It is a genuine anxiety of mine."

Alex snorts. "There’s nothing wrong with our accents, dude."

"You literally don't pronounce the T in anything."

“That’s because we threw it in the harbor.” He grins, teeth bared and flickering. He spent a lot of money on those teeth, and he likes to show them off as often as he can.

My office lights flicker as I blink at him. “What?”

“Boston Tea Party joke.” He rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Then you should tell better jokes.”

"Your Daddy's a grump, isn't he, Say?" He nods his head emphatically until she giggles in response and mirrors him.

Huffing, I tickle the baby fat that encompasses her little arms like rubber rings. "Where's your loyalty, baby girl? You're supposed to be on my side."

"Salem is on the side of the truth."

"You cheated." My eyes are beginning to hurt from all the eye rolling I've done today. "Can you watch Say for another hour or so? I need to schedule in some more interviews, if we have any hope of getting a nanny before the season starts."

Alex shakes his head, albeit regrettably, which does little to soften the blow. "Sorry, man, no can do. My sister's flight gets in soon, and I've promised to pick her up from the airport. Maybe Roman can watch her?"

"He can't. I've already asked." Swallowing my frustration, I change the subject. "So where's your sister been now?"

Alex's sister, whom I've only met a handful of times because she's always somewhere on the other side of the planet, is a fashion and lifestyle influencer, who spends her time posting photographs of herself on Instagram.

Some call it hustling.

I call it narcissism.

But who am I to talk, right? I make my money kicking a ball around.

"Your neck of the woods, actually. She's been in London for the past month, working on an edit for some fast fashion brand. It's actually a pretty big deal. It'll all be done under her name, and she has to do all the modeling for the ad campaigns herself."

"Jesus Christ." I shake my head and wipe a hand down my face.

Alex narrows his eyes. "What?"

"I just don't get it. No offense, man, but your sister has literally built a career out of being hot. It makes no sense to me."

"You think my sister is hot?" I swear to God, the man growls.

I've seen her photographs on social media and the videos she posts on TikTok. I've spotted her in the stands during games, on the rare chance she’s able to make one. Hell, I've even met her a few times. Anyone with eyes can see that Brynn Wolfe is a fucking knockout, if not a little vapid.

"No," I lie, and Alex relaxes.

"You're pretty hard on her for a dude she barely knows, you know? I think you'd be surprised how much work goes into what she does."

I snort. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm dead serious. There's a lot more to being an influencer than you think. But you have the brain of an eighty-year-old who doesn't understand technology, so I don't expect you to get it."

As if understanding every word, Salem laughs again then blows a spit bubble that pops right in my face.

Oh, the endless joys of parenting.

"Okay, okay, bugger off and go pick up your hotshot sister. Say, can you help me find some more nannies to interview?"

"You only want me to leave because you know I'm right."

"Nah." I grin. "I want you to leave because your fucking man bun is giving me hives."

He laughs lightly with a shake of his head. "You've got such a hard-on for my topknot."

"There is nothing in this world that makes my dick softer than your fucking hair."

"Well, thankfully, I'm not in the business of making your dick hard. I'm interested in making pussies wet, and trust me when I say that my 'man bun' does the job just fine." He pauses, then continues, much to my annoyance. "For real, it's like a Slip ‘N’ Slide down there the moment chicks get their hands on my hair."

"Gross." I grimace.

"Don't be jealous, old man. You haven't been laid in forever, and it's showing."

"I'm not even thirty yet."

"God bless us all when that time comes. You already act like the elderly."

I'm only three years older than him, but he treats me like I'm a member of the American Association of Retired Persons. It doesn't help that he has the maturity level of a five-year-old who’s high on red dye.

And yet, somehow, this fucker is my very best friend.