Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 12

Axel's session is scheduled for two days after Mateo's spiral about oat milk and emotional honesty. Two days of me practicing what I'll say, how I'll maintain professional boundaries, how I absolutely will not let those ice-blue eyes turn me into emotional pudding.

Spoiler alert: I'm already failing.

I've reorganized my desk three times this morning. Reread my session notes from his file so many times the words have lost meaning. My coffee's gone cold, and I'm wearing the navy blazer that makes me feel invincible—or at least adequately armored.

He arrives at exactly 3 PM. Not 2:59. Not 3:01. Exactly three o'clock, like he calibrated his internal clock to Swiss watch precision.

He sits in the chair with perfect posture—spine straight, shoulders back, hands resting on his thighs like he's posing for a Nordic furniture catalog. Everything about him screams controlled, contained, completely unbothered.

I hate how much I notice.

"Welcome," I say, clicking my pen with what I hope passes for professional enthusiasm. "Let's start with standard team integration questions. How are you adjusting to the Sirens' playing style?"

"Fine."

"Communication with teammates?"

"Good."

"Any performance anxiety about the trade expectations?"

"No."

Fantastic. It's like interviewing a very attractive glacier.

I make notes that consist mostly of checkmarks and the word "fine" written multiple times. Twenty minutes pass with all the emotional depth of a Wikipedia summary.

Then Axel leans forward slightly, just enough to shift the entire energy in the room.

"This is pointless."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"This." He gestures between us. "The questions. The professional distance. We both know why I'm really here, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise."

My pen freezes mid-note. "These are mandatory acclimatization sessions for all new—"

"Selene." Just my name. Quiet. Final. Like he's closing a door on my bullshit. "What do you need from me?"

The question lands sideways. Wrong angle. Unexpected trajectory.

"I don't—what do you mean?"

"Not what you want. Not what you think you deserve." His eyes lock on mine, and suddenly I understand why opposing teams find him terrifying. "What do you need from me? From us?"

I open my mouth. Close it. My brain—the one that usually has twelve responses prepared for any situation—comes up completely empty.

The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. Axel doesn't fill it, now letting me sit with uncomfortable understanding. He just watches me with those eyes that see everything. The way I'm gripping my pen too tight. The tension in my shoulders. The exhaustion I'm hiding under this perfectly pressed blazer.

"You don't have to tell me," he says quietly. "I can see it anyway."

"See what?" My voice sounds defensive even to my own ears.

"That you're scared."

My throat goes tight. The blazer that felt like armor thirty seconds ago now feels like it's shrinking. "I'm not—"

"You are. You're terrified." His voice stays gentle, which somehow makes it worse. Like he's handling something fragile. Like I'm something that might break. "Scared of trusting again. Scared of letting us in and having us leave. Scared of your kids getting hurt."

I can't breathe. The office suddenly feels too warm, too small, too honest. He's right and I didn't say a single word and he's right and I hate that he can read me like this when I've spent two years becoming unreadable.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Axel."

"I don't want you to say anything." He leans back, giving me space even though we're across a desk from each other. "I want you to know that I'm not leaving Seattle. I'm not disappearing again. And whether or not those kids are biologically mine, I want to be in their lives if you'll allow it. Eventually. When you're ready. No pressure. No demands."

The room feels too small suddenly. Or maybe I feel too big, like my emotions are trying to break through my skin.

"Why?" The question comes out raw. "We had one drunken night twenty-two months ago. Why does that mean anything now? Why do you care?"

Axel's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is so soft I have to lean forward to hear it.

"Because I thought about you every day for twenty months before the trade."

My heart stops. Literally forgets its job description.

"Every time Mateo brought you up in conversation—and he did, constantly, because Mateo can't not talk about people he cares about—I wondered where you were. If you were happy. If you ever thought about us." He pauses. "Seeing you in that office felt like coming home."

"Axel—"

"Those babies in the photo have your smile. I'd like a chance to earn the right to make them smile too."

The words hit like physical things. I feel them land in my chest, heavy and real and devastating.

"You can't just—" I stand up because sitting feels impossible. "You can't just walk back into my life after two years and say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I've built something here! A life where I'm enough for my kids. Where I don't need—" I stop myself before I finish that sentence, but he hears it anyway.

"You don't need us," Axel finishes. "I know. You've made that clear. But maybe we need you."

"That's not fair."

"No. It's not." He stands too, and suddenly we're facing each other across my desk like we're negotiating a treaty instead of whatever this is. "Nothing about this situation is fair. But I'm done pretending that night didn't matter. That seeing you again doesn't matter. That those kids—your kids—don't matter."

"They're mine," I say, hearing how defensive I sound. "I don't need to know which one of you—I don't need DNA tests or paternity results or—"

"I'm not asking for any of that." His voice stays steady, grounded. "I'm asking for a chance. That's all. Just a chance to show you we're not him."

I don't need to ask who "him" is. We both know.

"I need time to think," I say finally.

"Take all the time you need." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. "But Selene? Time doesn't change what I said. Or how I feel. You can have months if you need them. Years. I'm not going anywhere."

Then he's gone, and I'm standing in my office staring at the door like it holds answers.

My legs give out. I sink back into my chair and reach for the photo on my desk—three babies, big smiles, completely unaware their existence just made my carefully constructed walls start crumbling.

Aria's grin is pure mischief. Elio looks thoughtful even at thirteen months. Sören's got this serious expression that makes him look like a tiny philosopher contemplating existence.

They all have my smile. My eyes. My determination.

And now I'm sitting here wondering how I'm supposed to protect my heart and my children when the past just walked back in asking so quietly, so patiently for a chance.

My phone buzzes. Text from Naomi: How'd it go?

I stare at the message for a long time before typing back: I have no idea.

Which is the most honest thing I've said all day.

The photo stares back at me. Three faces that rewrote my entire existence. Three reasons I can't afford to be wrong about this.

But Axel's words keep echoing: I thought about you every day for twenty months.

And the terrifying part? I believe him.