Winning Brynn (Seattle Strikers)

5. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Leo

Since we live in the same building, the trip from my apartment to Alex's takes far less time than I'd like it to. It takes all of three minutes to leave my place, take the elevator two floors down, and knock on his door.

Perched on my hip in a ladybug-printed onesie, Salem sucks contentedly on one of her fists. Then she splats a saliva-coated hand across my face, just as Alex opens the door.

"Is it raining?" he asks, smirking at the moisture on my cheek.

Shoving past him, I carry Salem down the long hallway and into the living area, where I set her up with some toys on the rug before wiping down my face.

"Good to see you too, buddy." He slaps a hand on my shoulder and presses a cold beer into my hand. "Roman's been in the bathroom for, like, twenty minutes, so he should be done anytime now."

Grimacing, I collapse onto the cushions of the black leather couch. "I didn't need to know that."

"And I've invited a couple other guys from the team," he adds. "Hope that's cool with you."

I cringe inwardly, looking worriedly at Salem, who's currently banging two stacking cups together. I love my teammates, but I don't want my daughter around them if they're drinking.

Reading my thoughts, Alex plops down on the rug beside her and tells me, "Relax, man. I've set a two-drink limit, and the boys all know Say will be here. They'll be fighting over who gets to play with her, so consider this a night off." He pauses to stroke his hand over the back of Salem's head. "Besides, it might mean you're able to relax enough to finally pull that stick out your ass."

"Fuck you, Wolfe."

"You curse way too much in front of your kid," he laughs. "Doesn't he, Say Say?"

Traitor that she is, she giggles and claps her hands.

"She's one." I scowl. "She doesn't understand."

And though it's true, my gut still pangs with guilt. No matter how hard I try, it never feels like I'm getting this fatherhood thing right. Every day is a constant mind-fuck of trying to do the right thing amidst a thunderstorm of paradoxical parenting advice.

Feed the baby when she's hungry, but don't deviate from the routine.

Teach her to self-soothe, but settle her when she cries.

Hold her as much as she needs, but not too much, or else you'll spoil her.

Everyone and their aunt has an opinion on how I should be raising Salem, when all I'm trying to do is survive each day.

I'm doing this shit alone.

I don't have a wife, or a partner, or even an estranged spouse I can navigate this bullshit with. Salem's mom took away that opportunity when she left our daughter on my doorstep, signed over exclusive parenting rights to me, and moved to a hot country somewhere to start a new life.

I hadn't even known she was pregnant.

So, what does it matter if I swear occasionally in front of her? At least I show up every day. Feed her, bathe her, change her, love her. It's more than her mother ever did.

"Princess Say!" Roman sings, having finally dragged his ass out the bathroom. But before he's able to take a seat beside my daughter on the rug, there's a heavy knock at the door.

"Get that, Ro?" Alex asks, over Salem's head.

"Saying please would be nice," Roman grumbles, disappearing down the hallway.

"It's the least you could do after stinking up my bathroom."

Thirty seconds later, the living room is teaming with lanky, overexcited men fawning all over my daughter. Salem laps up the attention, laughing and slapping her hands together as each guy tries to outdo the others by pulling stupid faces and blowing bubbles in her face.

I might not be great at showing it, but I've never been so grateful for anything than I am for these guys. After the bomb of fatherhood was dropped on me without warning, they could have so easily distanced themselves from me—turned their eyes, only seen me at soccer practice, taken a step back.

But each and every one of them welcomed Salem into the fold as if she'd been there all along. They helped me set up the nursery, did store runs for me when I ran out of diapers and formula, helped me take care of her through the night just so I could get a few hours of sleep in.

It didn't even stop when last season kicked off.

Together, we figured out a way that I could keep playing the game I've loved since I was old enough to kick a ball—even if it meant we took turns holding her during practice when my childcare fell through.

Now, she's as big a part of the team as I am. The unofficial mascot of the Seattle Strikers.

"Where's your hot sister at?" Theo has the stupidity to ask. He's an incredible defender, but he's at least a few sandwiches short of a picnic. But despite his obvious mental impediments, he’s never hard up for female attention—probably because he looks like a Ken doll come to life, with his dirty-blond hair and blue eyes.

Alex swats him on the back of his head. "I will kill any one of you if you so much as breathe in her direction."

"Jesus, dude," Theo whines, rubbing his head with a pout. "Would you rather I call her ugly?"

"Stop fucking talking, man," Roman hisses. "Sully and I have already had to listen to the overprotective-big-brother rant, so spare us having to hear it again."

Theo holds his hands up in surrender. "Whatever."

"In his defense," Harley, one of our wing backs, chimes in, dimples winking in both cheeks, "your sister is a smoke show."

"I can't remember. I'll have to take another look to see for myself." This time from Arun, our goalkeeper, who management bought from a Singaporean team during the transfer window two years ago. With dark eyes, even darker hair and sharp features, he’s recently found himself as the new face of Diesel, since he’s got that kind of effortlessly cool look about him. What the pictures in the magazines don’t show, however, is that Arun Lim is actually a massive dork.

With each comment, Alex grows a little redder. I'm pretty sure he's going to start steaming, but then there's a crash from somewhere down the hallway, followed by the light padding of bare feet over hardwood floors, that renders everybody speechless.

Every eye in the room, including my daughter's, swings to the archway at the end of the hall.

Brynn Wolfe herself stands frozen at the edge of the room, her hair falling in perfect chestnut waves over bare shoulders, ripe lips posed into the perfect O. She's barely dressed. Only a thin pink tank top and gym shorts stretch over her body, her tan legs exposed to the room.

She's not even wearing a bra.

"What the fuck are you all looking at?" she snaps, though her eyes are alight with amusement.

My hackles rise faster than Alex can pop a boner. And I mean that generally. Not for his sister, because that would be weird. "Watch your language around my daughter, please."

Am I a hypocrite?

Yeah.

But so fucking what?

This woman has gotten on every last one of my nerves since the day she blocked my car in the car park of the stadium to grab some girly monstrosity from the Starbucks across the road. She'd needed it to post an Instagram story, was her excuse. Apparently, her five million followers just couldn't wait the two minutes it would take for her to find another space.

I took an instant dislike to her then. And it has stayed with me every day since.

"Oh shit," she gasps then slaps her hands across her mouth in panic. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't even know she was here." Her wide eyes scan the room until they settle on my baby girl, currently sitting in Roman's lap.

She rushes to her side in an instant, shooing Harley out the way to make space for her on the rug. "Well, aren't you the most precious little ladybug I've ever seen in my life?" Holding her hands out, she beckons Salem into her arms. And fuck me, but Salem actually goes for it.

Goddamnit.

Salem has never warmed to women the way she does with men. With my mother dead and hers out of the picture, she's never been around them long enough to feel comfortable. She's used to the guys. They're all she knows. No female has ever managed to hold Salem without her crying.

Until now, that is.

"Are you having some pizza with us?" Brynn asks, her voice high-pitched and musical. "Do you like pineapple on your pizza? I do, but Uncle Alex thinks it's gross." She pulls a face, sticking out her tongue and making Salem giggle.

"She's one," I grumble. "She doesn't eat pizza."

Brynn gasps dramatically and clutches her heart with one hand. "No pizza?" She speaks directly to Salem, holding eye contact and tickling her belly. "Daddy's grumpy, isn't he? A big ol' grumpy man with a funny accent and no pizza."

There's a snort somewhere in the group, but I'm too enraged to see where it came from.

"I'm not grumpy, damn it." My hands clench into fists, white-knuckling my beer so hard I'm surprised it doesn't smash. "I just don't want to poison my child with junk food before she even has a full set of teeth."

"I bet it's spinach every day. Am I right, ladybug?"

Salem giggles again, and my rage skyrockets.

"Where's your mama, huh? Maybe she'll let you have pizza."

The room sucks in a collective breath. Sensing the tension, Brynn looks up, her hazel eyes locking right on my furious ones. "Oh no," she whispers, seeing the expression on my face. "What did I say?"

"Salem doesn't have a mom, Brynn Bear," Alex says gently, but he doesn't expand.

Brynn's face collapses in shame. "God, Leo, I'm so sorry."

I shrug off her apology. It doesn't matter. It doesn't mean anything. I'm not heartbroken over Salem's mother leaving. Hell, I haven't even seen her since the night our daughter was conceived. But Brynn doesn't know that, and it might serve her right to stew in the anxiety of the unknown.

"Whatever," I mutter, turning away from her apologetic gaze. "So, how are we feeling for the new season?" I ask the boys and get lost in conversation, pretending not to notice the smile on my daughter's face as Brynn plays with her—or the way Brynn's nipples strain against her tank with every breath she takes.

Harley was right. She is a total smoke show.

And I fucking hate how aware I am of that fact.

An hour passes of us both ignoring the other’s existence, until conversation turns to my search for a nanny, and all hell breaks loose.

"He made a girl cry yesterday," Roman says because, apparently, he just can't let it go.

"What the fuck, man?" Arun rounds me with an accusatory glare. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Peeling the label off my bottle, I grumble, "She offered to suck me off in exchange for the job."

Theo snorts. "And you made her cry because...?"

"Because she was there to interview for a job looking after my child, that's why."

Harley shakes his head. "Yeah, I don't get it."

"Thank you." I sigh with relief.

"No. I don't get why you'd make her cry for that and not just take her up on the offer."

Jesus Christ.

Until this moment, I thought Harley possessed at least a few more brain cells than his best friend, Theo, but evidently, that is not the case.

As great as these guys are with Salem, they just don't understand the responsibility of being a father.

"I'm trying to find someone to look after my daughter who isn't just trying to get into my pants, or is on the sex offenders register, or has a history of beating children." My chest heaves as I speak, frustration dripping from every word. "Why is it so hard to find someone reliable? Trustworthy? Someone who cares more about my little girl than they do about my dick?"

Harley holds his enormous hands up in apology. At six feet four inches, he’s a beast of a man, and yet, his top sprinting speed could give Usain Bolt a run for his money. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean anything by it."

"Nah, it's cool." I shake my head, trying to release some of the tension in my shoulders. "I'm just sick of interviewing people who couldn't give less of a shit about the job they're there for."

The guys fall quiet, ruminating on what I've said.

And maybe I should have seen the red flags in the silence and anticipated what was coming.

But no.

Nothing could have prepared me for Alex piping up with the most idiotic question to ever leave a man's mouth.

"Hey, why doesn't Brynn watch her?"