Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 16

[Mateo’s POV]

I wake up on the couch with Axel's jacket draped over me like someone tucked me in, which—ay Dios mío—is doing things to my chest I don't have time to analyze.

The apartment smells like coffee. Good coffee. I sit up, neck cracking, which is what I get for passing out mid-conversation about last night.

Last night. Selene.

My brain replays it: her laugh, how she looked at both of us, how she held my hand and didn't pull away.

"You're awake." Axel's in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and nothing else, pouring coffee. "Thought you'd sleep until noon."

"What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty. We have practice at nine."

"Coño, why didn't you wake me earlier?" I stumble off the couch, still wrapped in his jacket, which smells like pine and something clean I'd buy in bulk.

"You were finally quiet. Didn't want to ruin it." He hands me a mug. "Also, you were smiling in your sleep, which was either very cute or very concerning."

"I don't smile in my sleep."

"You absolutely do. Grinned like an idiot for twenty minutes." He sips his coffee, something lighter about him this morning. Less glacial. "Good dreams?"

"Just—you know. Last night was good. Really good. Increíble." I'm rambling, but the coffee hasn't hit yet. "Having her here, in our space—it felt right. Like she fits here. Does that sound crazy?"

"No," Axel says simply. "Felt the same way."

We don't talk about it directly after that—about how having Selene here made everything feel more complete—but it hangs between us. This understanding that something shifted.

Practice is perfect.

Absolutamente perfecto. My shot's on fire—every three lands clean, my passes thread through defense like basketball ESP. Even Coach Bennett notices.

"Velasco!" he calls during a water break. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. That's the best I've seen you play all season."

Jordan elbows me. "Dude, you're glowing. What happened?"

"Just had a good night's sleep," I lie, grinning.

"Right. You're seeing someone, aren't you? You've got that look."

"I'm not—we're not—it's complicated, hermano."

"Complicated means yes. I'm calling it. Mateo Velasco is officially off the market." Two other guys hear and start making kissing noises.

I flip them off and go back to practice, but Jordan's not wrong. I can't stop smiling. Can't stop replaying last night.

That afternoon, I've got a session with Selene. Standard check-in.

Except when I walk in, everything feels different.

She's wearing jeans and a Sirens hoodie again, instead of her blazer armor, hair down in those curls that drive me loco. She looks up and smiles—not the professional smile, but the real one.

"Hey," she says, gesturing to the chair. "How's it going?"

"Good. Really good, actually." I drop into the seat. "Seattle's feeling more like home every day. Especially after last night."

Her smile softens. "It was good, wasn't it? Just being... us. No expectations."

"Just us," I repeat, voice going warm. "I liked it. A lot. Demasiado, probably, but I'm not great at doing things halfway."

"I noticed." She's studying me, but it doesn't feel clinical. "Can I be honest with you about something?"

"Always. Por favor, always be honest with me."

"Last night was the first time in a long time I felt like just myself. Not Dr. Marlowe, not Mom—just Selene. And I forgot how good that felt."

"You can be all of it, you know." The words tumble out. "You don't have to choose. You're big enough to be everything at once. Eres increíble at all of it."

She blinks, and for a second I think maybe I said too much. But then she smiles, and it reaches her eyes.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "I needed to hear that."

The conversation shifts to basketball. She asks about my adjustment, and I'm honest in a way I haven't been with anyone except Axel.

"It's good. But there's this pressure, you know? Three first-rounders. And I grew up with nothing—nada, Selene—welfare checks and my mom working three jobs. Sometimes I wake up and think this is temporary. That success is borrowed time, and one day someone's going to realize I don't belong here."

She's quiet, processing. Not rushing to fix it. Just listening.

"That fear makes you play too safe sometimes," she says finally. "I've noticed it in game footage. You've got these moments of absolute brilliance—creative plays no one else sees—but then you pull back. Second-guess yourself."

"Because what if I fail? What if I take the risk and everyone realizes I was never good enough?"

"Or," she counters, leaning forward, "what if you take the risk and it works? What if trusting your instincts makes you unstoppable? What if the only thing holding you back is the story you keep telling yourself?"

Dios mío, she's good at this.

We spend the next twenty minutes talking strategy—how to channel confidence instead of fear, how to recognize when I'm playing scared. She suggests exercises, mental tricks for catching myself when I spiral.

By the end, I feel lighter. Seen. Like someone just handed me permission to stop apologizing for taking up space.

"Selene," I say, standing to leave, "there's this staff charity event next week. Lots of donor schmoozing, terrible wine, uncomfortable small talk."

"Sounds delightful," she says, smiling.

"Right? But, uh—if you're going, maybe we could all grab food after? You, me, Axel. Nothing formal, just—ya sabes, hanging out."

It's not a date. Definitely not a date.

Except her smile does this thing that makes my heart forget its rhythm.

"I'd like that," she says. "Text me the details?"

"Yeah. Sí, definitely, I'll text you—or Axel will, he's better at remembering details—or we'll both text you, which might be excessive but at least you'll definitely have the information—"

"Mateo."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

I laugh, running a hand through my curls. "Right. Breathing. Good call. I'll just—I'm gonna go now before I say something else embarrassing."

"You're not embarrassing," she says as I reach the door. "You're charming."

I leave grinning like an absolute fool, already planning where we should go, what I should wear, whether flowers would be too much.

My phone buzzes: text from Axel.

A. Nielsen: How'd the session go?

M. Velasco: increíble. she said yes to food after the charity thing

M. Velasco: also she called me charming

M. Velasco: CHARMING axel. Me.

A. Nielsen: You are charming. Annoying, but charming.

M. Velasco: i love you too you nordic asshole

I stare at that last text for thirty seconds. Did I just—did I actually type that? Mierda.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

A. Nielsen: See you at home.

Not a denial. Not a joke. Just... acknowledgment.

I shove my phone in my pocket and head to the parking lot, already planning dinner, wondering if Axel's stress-cooking tonight.

Wondering when "our apartment" started feeling less like convenient cost-splitting and more like home.

Wondering if maybe I'm not the only one who noticed.