Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 2

Day three of my self-imposed exile, and I've achieved peak pathetic: hoodie that hasn't seen a washing machine since Tuesday, sweatpants with a mysterious stain, and Cheerios straight from the box because dishes require effort I don't currently possess.

The apartment is dark. Blinds drawn, phone dead somewhere under the couch cushions, and I'm watching reality TV contestants scream at each other about who ate whose yogurt.

At least their problems are solvable.

Before I turned my phone off, back when I still had the emotional bandwidth to face the world, I saw the texts.

Mateo's came first, a paragraph of warmth and worry:

M. Velasco: Hey Doc, just checking in. You okay? I'm here if you need anything. Seriously, anything. Even if it's just someone to sit with you and not talk. I'm good at not talking. (That's a lie, I'm terrible at it, but I'd try for you.)

Then Axel's. Two words in his typical brutal efficiency:

A. Nielsen: I'm sorry…

I ignored both. Deleted the notifications without reading past the preview. Because facing anyone from that team right now feels like volunteering for emotional waterboarding, and I've hit my torture quota for the month.

The key turns in the lock with zero warning.

I don't even look up from my cereal box. "If you're a serial killer, there's leftover Thai in the fridge. Take it. I'm done."

"Jesus Christ, Selene." Naomi's voice cuts through my dissociative fugue state, and suddenly the lights are on and I'm squinting like a vampire at high noon. "You look like you died days ago and nobody told about your body."

My baby sister—twenty-four, perpetually caffeinated, currently in pink scrubs—drops four grocery bags on my counter and stares at me with the kind of righteous fury that could restart the sun.

"How did you even—"

"You sent me a text that said 'I'm fine.' with a period at the end. You never use periods in texts unless you're dying inside." She's already unpacking wine. Multiple bottles. "I drove four hours the second I saw it. Told my supervisor it was a family emergency, which technically isn't a lie because you are an emergency."

"I'm fine."

"You're eating cereal from the box in the dark at two in the afternoon. That's the opposite of fine. That's a cry for help with extra milk."

She's not wrong. I set the Cheerios aside—carefully, because even in a crisis I'm still that person—and watch her pull out cheese, crackers, chocolate, and a Bluetooth speaker.

"I'm calling this a wine-and-destruction emergency," Naomi announces, already uncorking a bottle. "I made a playlist. It's called 'Songs to Key His Car To.' Very therapeutic. Lots of Carrie Underwood."

"I'm not keying his car."

"Not with that attitude." She shoves a glass of wine into my hand. "Now talk. And I want the real version, not the therapist version where you clinical-speak your way around actual emotions."

The wine tastes expensive. Naomi doesn't do anything halfway. I take another sip, then another, and suddenly I'm talking—really talking—and it all comes pouring out.

The moans. The cheerleaders. The way Cassian sighed like I'd interrupted his conference call. The teammates who wouldn't meet my eyes. Mr. Pop—regretful—at his desk. The chocolate cake exploding across marble tile like my life in edible metaphor form.

"And the worst part?" My voice cracks. "Axel and Mateo tried to stop me. They were blocking the hallway, making up excuses. Which means even they knew. Everyone knew except the idiot wearing the ring…"

Naomi's silent for exactly three seconds. Then: "I never liked him."

"What?"

"Cassian. Never liked him. Remember when you had to turn down the job offer because of him? He didn’t want to let you go.”

I fall silent, remembering the fight we had about it. He was saccharine-sweet back then, “how can I be the star without you?”. I relented then, because how do you say no when the love of your life begs you to stay? And now I feel like the biggest idiot. God damn.

“And how you moved away for him? Besides, he smiled like a car salesman. Like he was always calculating the commission on your affection."

I laugh. It's involuntary, ugly, and it turns into a sob halfway through. Then I'm laughing and crying simultaneously while Naomi pulls me into a hug that smells like hospital antiseptic and vanilla body spray, and I'm soaking her scrubs with six years of denial.

"He proposed on the jumbotron…" I hiccup. "Twenty thousand people… National television…"

"And he's still trash. Fancy trash is still trash, babe."

The wine keeps flowing. Naomi orders pizza—extra cheese, because apparently carbs heal betrayal—and I find myself admitting the thing that's been eating me alive since I walked out of that facility.

"My professional identity is completely tangled up with that organization. Six years of building my reputation, my relationships with those players, my entire career... and they all covered for him."

I stare at the Ravens logo on my hoodie. "How do I go back there? How do I face them?"

"Simple. You don't."

"Naomi—"

"I'm serious. Your reputation isn't tied to one franchise. You're brilliant. Everyone knows it. Take that brilliance somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't have Cassian Drummond's smug face on every billboard."

She makes it sound easy. Like I can just pack up six years and start over.

"Besides," she continues, grabbing another slice of pizza, "my next travel nursing contract starts in Seattle in December. New city, fresh start, coffee that'll make you forget Philadelphia exists. Just saying."

Seattle.

Rain and mountains and three thousand miles between me and that bathroom.

I barely register the suggestion. My brain's still stuck in the loop—the moans, the sigh, the diamond hitting his chest, the balloon drifting away like my future.

Hours pass. The wine bottles are empty. Naomi sprawls across my couch, snoring softly with pizza grease on her chin, and I sit in the dark with my laptop balanced on my knees.

The resignation letter writes itself:

Dear Mr. Kowalski,

Effective immediately, I am resigning from my position as team psychologist for the Philadelphia Ravens. This decision is final and non-negotiable.

I wish the organization continued success.

— Dr. Selene Marlowe

Short. Professional. Completely devoid of the screaming I want to do.

The Ravens logo stares at me from the email header—that stupid bird with its wings spread, victorious and smug.

I spent six years under those wings. Built my career, found my identity, fell in love with the franchise star who made me feel like I'd finally gotten everything right.

My cursor hovers over the send button.

Naomi mumbles something in her sleep about central lines and difficult attending physicians. My apartment smells like wine and regret. Outside my window, Philadelphia glitters with lights, indifferent to the fact that my entire life just imploded.

I think about Cassian's text. ‘Stop being dramatic.’

I think about Mr. Pop's face. The rookies fleeing. Axel and Mateo blocking the hallway.

I think about twenty thousand people cheering when he slid that ring on my finger.

I hit send. The confirmation email arrives instantly, cold and automated: ‘Your message has been sent.’ The Ravens logo disappears as I close my laptop.

My phone's still dead under the couch somewhere. Naomi's still asleep. And I'm sitting in the dark at four in the morning, unemployed and unengaged, watching the Philadelphia skyline through my window like it's a stranger's life.

Maybe it is.

Maybe it always was.