28. Chapter 28
T he monitor next to our bed crackles. And like clockwork, the cry comes. Every night around three o’clock, Lennon wakes, crying for a feeding. A second cry sounds, and I sit up, scratching the sleep from my eyes. Glancing beside me, I’m met with an empty spot where Savannah should be sleeping.
She must not have come to bed, which means she’s fallen asleep on the couch again. It seems to be her favorite place to sleep lately, and I can’t help the sting of frustration that zips through me.
I roll out of bed and stumble my way to Lennon’s room.
As I pass the opening to the rest of the apartment, I see a sleeping form on the couch lit by the soft glow of the floor lamp.
Her laptop, textbooks, and notebooks are scattered on the coffee table and the cushions next to where she’s snuggled in a blanket.
A red pen dangles from the top of her ear.
Sav’s running on fumes, even though she won’t admit it.
Between taking care of Lennon and working through her course assignments, I worry she isn’t taking enough time for herself.
I’ve done the research and know how postpartum depression and anxiety can sneak up on someone.
I’ve memorized the signs, and a few small things have already triggered my awareness.
Even while working herself to the bone, I can’t help but be proud of her.
She’s determined not to let her grades slip and to graduate after the fall semester.
I hope she doesn’t burn out in the process. Leaving her to sleep, I step into the nursery, where I’m met with Lennon’s soft cries.
“Hi, my little Lemon,” I softly call out so she knows I’m here. As I move to the crib, Lennon lets an arm escape her swaddle. Her face is scrunched in her signature look and her cries ricochet around us.
“There’s my pretty girl,” I whisper, scooping her into my arms. “Let’s go get you a bottle, yeah?”
Her cries don’t stop, but they soften as she twists in my arms. I bounce her gently, trying to calm her as I head into the kitchen.
Lennon’s eyes squint under the glow of the lamp, so I shift her tighter against me to shield her vision from the invasive light.
I move through the steps of making a bottle with one hand.
It’s one thing I’ve mastered despite the lack of my left hand.
I’ve cooked dinner, cleaned the apartment, and folded laundry with one hand.
The laundry isn’t perfect, but at least it isn’t a crumpled mess.
Within minutes, the bottle is ready, and as soon as the nipple reaches her mouth, Lennon finds it, latching on and instantly calming.
“Good girl,” I praise as I walk back to her nursery and settle in on the rocking chair my mom gave us. It was the one she used to rock me and Bret when we were babies.
The room is quiet now, save for the soft slurping from the bottle.
I rock smoothly in the chair, staring down at my daughter.
With a burp cloth, I wipe away the milky drool that slips free, catching it before it falls into the crease of her neck.
There’s nothing worse than milk trapped under her chin.
“It feels like you’ve always been here, Lennon. It’s like the world knew we needed you,” I whisper. Her blue eyes stare at me as if she’s registering everything I’m saying. “I’d burn the world down for you, baby girl.”
She gives a tiny milky smile, and my heart skips a beat.
As she finishes the bottle, I pull the nipple free, dab at the loose milk, and toss the burp cloth over my shoulder.
Carefully, I adjust her so she rests on my shoulder and start patting her back.
I hum a familiar tune while waiting for her to burp, and she lets out a loud, rumbly one against my chest, making me chuckle.
“Whoa, that was a big one, Lem.”
She nuzzles into my neck, and I continue rocking her as I start singing the words to John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy,” but I change the lyrics to Beautiful Girl instead of Beautiful Boy .
Savannah has been playing his music on repeat.
He’s her comfort artist, and his lyrics have rubbed off on me.
With my eyes closed, I let the words flow freely as I sit here in silence.
I savor the weight of her in my arms as I feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
Night feedings make for long days, but these are my favorite moments.
When it’s the two of us spending time together.
Lost in my thoughts in the stillness of the night, I’m always hit with the fact that this is my reality.
At twenty-two, I’m a dad to the most beautiful girl in the world.
I’m married to a hardworking and caring woman.
I get to spend the rest of my life with them.
I hum against her head, pressing a kiss to her temple as I finish singing the song. Movement at the doorway pulls my attention.
“How long have you been up?”
Sav’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest, dressed in one of my t-shirts that hangs loosely.
“Not too long,” I whisper.
Moving deeper into the room, she drapes an arm over the top of the rocker while the other rubs gently against Lennon’s back. “I didn’t hear her cry.”
“It’s no problem. Were you up late?”
She nods. “I had to watch a couple of TV show episodes and write a paper.”
“I can see why you fell asleep.” I chuckle, and she smiles down at us.
“You’re really good at this whole dad thing.”
My throat tightens as I think about my dad and the example he set for us. He was always involved. Well, as much as he could be, given his coaching schedule. “I’m trying.”
“We both are.”
“One day, she’ll ask about us and how we got to this point. I only hope she doesn’t focus on the mess, on the man who didn’t want her, and knows that he doesn’t matter.”
“You’re her dad, Grant. On paper and in our hearts. It doesn’t matter that you two don’t share DNA because she’s going to grow up with you.”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. I’ll never understand how a man can’t step up and become a father. But at the end of the day, I’m glad he didn’t. His poor decision gave me a chance to have my girls.
The morning comes quickly after our late-night feeding. It’s getting harder and harder to leave the apartment and head into work, but I know it’s a phase that will pass. As I pour a mug of coffee, I hear Lennon let out a wail.
Abandoning my coffee, I change back into dad mode. Pushing open the nursery, I find a squirming Lennon. Her little head moves from side to side as she fights against the swaddle, keeping her arms at her sides. As I inhale, I smell the reason for her early morning wakeup.
“Someone is a stinky girl,” I mumble, scooping her up.
The Velcro springs free from the swaddle, and so do her tiny limbs as she kicks her legs and stretches her arms. It takes a handful of wipes to clean her mess, and she lets me know how much she doesn’t appreciate the cold wipes each time I swipe her bum.
With a clean diaper and a full belly, her eyes grow heavy as she drifts off to sleep again. I tuck her back into her crib and make my escape. It’s only when I’m halfway to the football facility that I realize I have spit-up on my shoulder.
Welcome to dad life; you never know what you’ll be covered in.
Thankfully, there’s never a shortage of shirts for the football team. Between the athletic department and sponsors, new merchandise keeps coming in. A rap on my door makes me call for the person to come in while I slip a fresh shirt over my head.
Coach Hawke, the head wide receiver coach, enters my office with a laugh. “Forget your shirt this morning?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Lennon left a present on my shoulder.”
He scrunches his nose. “I’m glad I don’t have kids. I don’t think I could handle all the bodily fluids.”
“You get used to it.”
He shrugs. “You look like you haven’t slept in years.”
“More like a week. But thanks for telling me I looked like shit before my daughter was born.” I chuckle, running a hand down my face. My beard needs a trim; it’s longer than I normally wear, and it itches.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, taking a drink of his coffee. “Anyway, wanted to let you know you’re doing a good job of navigating everything. A lot of guys your age wouldn’t have stepped up to the plate.”
“Well, I’ve never been good at baseball.”
Hawke huffs a laugh. “Smartass.”
“Did you need anything else, or did you come in here to give me shit?”
“I need you to keep an extra eye on Williams. He’s under the microscope again with more NIL deals coming in, and his performance is slipping.”
I nod. Jeremiah Williams is our freshman receiver who thinks he has more talent than god. And I’ll admit, he’s a damn good player, but his ego is going to prevent him from going far.
Hawke gives my desk a tap with his knuckles before he leaves my office. I sit there as my mind drifts home. Staring at the picture of the three of us sitting on my desk, I pull out my phone.
Missing my girls. How’s things going?
She responds instantly.
Peach: We miss you, too. Stop worrying about us and go coach the next great football player.
I chuckle.
Love you, guys.
Peach: We love you, too.
I slip my phone into my pocket and head to the indoor practice facility.
“Run it again!” I bark from the sidelines.
We’ve been at this for what feels like forever, but Williams is late off the line every time. His movements are sluggish, and his eyes betray his distraction. This is exactly what we feared.
Harris eyes me from where he’s under center. He’s tired of running the same route, too, but his job as the quarterback is leading on the field and executing the plays.
After everyone takes their position, Harris nods before snapping the ball. Williams reacts the same way he always does. Grumbles and groans fill the room.
“Williams!” I shout, pointing at the space in front of me.
Jeremiah doesn’t argue. He jogs over and grabs his helmet by the facemask. His position tells me everything I need to know. He’s here, but not here .
“What’s up?” I ask.
When he shrugs, it pisses me off. “Guess I’m off today.”
I shake my head and cross my arms. “You’re distracted. It’s been the same shit for the past week. Your head’s not in the game.”
“I’m fine,” he argues, defenses rising.
“You’re not. You’re playing lazy—behind on the snaps, confused on the routes, slow. Your ego is getting in the way of your game.”
He scowls. “Bullshi—”
With a quirk of my eyebrow, he stops. “We know about the NIL deals. The new car sponsorship. The shoe line. No one denies your talent, but the money is getting in the way.”
“I’m still here.”
“But are you?” I fire back. “Performing on and off the field is the job. Setting the tone for every rep, putting in the effort, and executing plays are the job—not the endorsements and sponsorships.”
His jaw is tight, and I can tell he wants to keep arguing. Truthfully, the money helps a lot of these kids. Most, like Williams, didn’t have much, so when they see the cash coming in, it feels like an answer to their prayers. But money changes people.
“You’re not the first to blow up early, and you won’t be the last. But talent without discipline is a waste.
You want to be remembered for more than the money you brought in.
Set the example for the younger generation that while money is great, it’s not everything. Hard work, heart, and motivation are.”
He nods, shoulders dropping, showing me a crack in his bravado.
“You want the spotlight? Then earn it every damn day. Or someone else will. Now go get your head right and run the route like it’s your last.”
“Thanks, Coach.” His voice cracks before he turns and jogs back.
I see the determination in his position. Now, he’s locked in.
And he finally nails the route.