Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 10

[Axel’s POV]

I haven't slept in two days. Forty-eight hours of staring at my ceiling like it owes me answers about how one drunken night produces three entire humans.

The math is simple. Brutal. Inescapable.

Three babies. One father. Either me or Mateo.

Fifty-fifty odds that I've been a dad for thirteen months while perfecting my jump shot instead of learning diapers.

The apartment we signed last week—supposed to be temporary, easier to split costs—has thin walls. I can hear Mateo pacing the room at 2 AM like he's training for an Olympic walking event.

He's talking to himself in rapid-fire Spanish. Same pattern he used last year when his brother called asking for money—when panic made him forget English existed.

I count the paces. Seventeen steps from window to door. Turn. Seventeen back. Obsessive rhythm, the kind his brain gets stuck in when reality refuses to make sense.

Through the wall, I catch fragments: "la línea de tiempo" and "cómo no lo supimos" and something that sounds like "qué clase de persona deja a alguien embarazada y sola." My Duolingo streak is 347 days and I still only understand sixty percent of Mateo's spirals, but the important words—timeline, pregnant, alone—those land clear enough.

That last one hits different. Lands in my chest like a stone in still water.

I get up, because listening to him spiral isn't helping either of us, and find him in the kitchen still moving. Basketball shorts, inside-out t-shirt, his curls in forty-seven directions, gesturing at nothing while words pour out like water from a broken pipe.

"—and she was pregnant when she took the job, right? Tenía que ser. The timeline works out, and she showed up to her interview with the GM already showing, which means she knew by then, and we were just—we were in Philadelphia doing fucking free throw drills while she was—Dios mío, Axel, we were just—"

I step in and put my hand on his shoulder. Just rest it there, steady pressure, until the words start to slow down. Until the spiral begins to unwind.

He stops mid-sentence, mid-pace, and looks at me with eyes too wide and too awake.

"Axel, we—"

"I know."

"But—"

"I know."

His shoulders drop. The manic energy drains out of him like someone pulled a plug, and suddenly he's just tired. We're both just tired.

I grab two beers from the fridge even though it's 2 AM and neither of us will drink them. It's the ritual that matters—sitting down, having something to hold, pretending this is normal instead of life-altering.

We end up at the kitchen table. The beers sit unopened between us, sweating condensation onto the wood.

Mateo starts talking again, but quieter this time. Slower.

"Did you see her face when she said it? 'The babies are mine.' Not ours. Not theirs. Just hers." He's picking at the label on his bottle, peeling it in long strips.

"Like she's been doing this alone for over a year. Trece meses, Axel. Thirteen months of—Jesus, triplets. Do you know how hard that is? I looked it up. The sleep deprivation alone is—es una pesadilla. A nightmare."

"You looked it up?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was on parenting forums at 1 AM reading horror stories about triple feeding schedules and synchronized crying." He finally meets my eyes. "They might be mine and I know nothing about them. I don't know if they sleep through the night or what their favorite foods are or if they've started walking yet or—"

I let him talk. It's what he needs—to externalize the panic instead of letting it eat him alive. I've learned this over the past two years, existing around him, living in close quarters at times, learning how Mateo processes stress.

When the panic edges back into his voice, I reach over and squeeze the back of his neck. Not hard, just present. Grounding.

He stops mid-sentence and takes a breath.

"If the kids are thirteen months old," I say, working through the timeline out loud because Mateo needs to hear it said clearly, "they were born in July. Which means Selene got pregnant in October. That night."

"I know."

"Which means when she took the Seattle job in December, she was already pregnant. Probably didn't even know yet. First trimester."

Mateo's quiet, processing.

"She went through the pregnancy alone," I continue, because someone needs to say it soberly. "The birth alone. Thirteen months of triplets alone."

The guilt is suffocating. It sits in my chest like concrete, heavy and immovable.

"What are we supposed to do?" Mateo asks. His voice is small in a way I've never heard. "She made it clear she doesn't want us involved. 'The babies are mine. End of discussion.'"

My response comes immediately, certain. "We prove we're not Cassian. We show up. We don't run this time."

"Show up how? She literally ended the conversation and walked out."

"Mandatory acclimatization sessions. She has to see us. Professional obligation." I finally open my beer, take a drink. "We be professional. Patient. We find a way to be in those kids' lives without pushing so hard she runs again."

Mateo nods slowly, then goes quiet. He's peeling the label again, systematic, methodical. Then he says, "Maybe we should look at separate places after all. Give each other space."

The suggestion lands wrong. Too quick, defensive, like he's trying to create distance before something happens he can't take back.

"The apartment works fine," I say. The words come out faster than I intended, more certain. "No point in complicating things when we're both adjusting. New team, new city. Makes sense to stick with what's working."

He looks at me then, really looks, and something passes between us. Understanding, maybe. Relief.

"Yeah," he says, his smile is soft, barely there. I try to smile back, but it feels wrong. "You're right. Easier this way."

We sit in comfortable silence for a long moment. Our shoulders are touching—I'm not sure when that happened, when we shifted close enough for contact, but neither of us moves away.

"We have a plan then," Mateo says eventually. "Mandatory sessions. Be professional. Find a way in without making her bolt."

"Find a way in without making her bolt," I repeat.

"Think it'll work?"

"It has to."

He drains his beer—apparently he decided to drink it after all—and sets the bottle down with careful precision. "I can't stop thinking about that photo. Three kids. They all had her eyes, did you notice? Dark and serious. But the curls could be either mine or..."

Mateo looks at me intently, as if calculating my chances. The suggestion is laughable, but the fact that he entertains it is amusing.

“Or hers. No way your blond would be stronger than her 3b.”

"I noticed."

"They’re one of us’, Axel. Fifty-fifty chance. And we don't even know their names."

"We'll find out. When she's ready."

"And if she's never ready?"

I don't have an answer for that. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.

Finally, I stand up. "It's 3 AM. We should sleep."

"Not gonna happen, but sure." Mateo follows me toward the bedrooms, then pauses. His hand catches my wrist—just a squeeze, brief and grounding—before he lets go and disappears into his room.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling again, but something's different now. The panic is still there, the guilt is still suffocating, but there's also a plan. Forward motion instead of drowning.