Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 22

[Selene’s POV]

The conference room smells like corporate anxiety and overpriced air freshener. I'm across from Gerald—my usually grandfatherly boss—and Diane from PR, who looks like she eats NDAs for breakfast and has never met a boundary she couldn't weaponize.

"Dr. Marlowe," Diane starts, tablet glowing like evidence, "we need to discuss the photos."

"The ones taken without my consent?" My voice is clinical. Therapist-steady. "Those photos?"

"The optics are challenging. A team psychologist involved with two players, children of unknown paternity—it creates complications."

"I'm not violating any boundaries. Check my contract. There's no policy against this as long as it doesn't interfere with my work."

"Which it hasn't," Gerald adds quickly. "Your work has been exemplary."

Diane leans forward. "The problem is perception. The internet has opinions. Management has concerns about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Nielsen and Mr. Velasco. Are the children theirs?"

"That's none of your business."

"It becomes our business when it affects the team's reputation."

"My children's paternity affects your reputation how? They're thirteen months old. Their most controversial opinion is that peas are garbage."

Gerald almost smiles. Almost.

Diane doesn't. "We'd like you to release a statement."

"No. My personal life isn't up for public consumption."

"It would help control the narrative."

"Or feed it. I went grocery shopping with friends. If people want to make it complicated, that's their dysfunction." I lean back. "Not mine."

The room goes quiet. They exchange looks that probably involve telepathic discussions of my employment future.

Finally, Gerald speaks. "No statement for now. But maintain professional distance from Mr. Nielsen and Mr. Velasco until this dies down."

"Professional distance. You want me to avoid two players because someone photographed us buying bananas."

"Just temporarily. For appearances."

"And if they need support? Do I compromise their care because of 'appearances'?"

"Just be mindful. Necessary professional contact only."

It's not technically unreasonable. It's also completely insulting.

"Fine. Is that all?"

Diane closes her tablet. "We'll revisit in a few weeks."

I stand. "Thank you for your time."

Gerald speaks as I reach the door. "Selene? We value your work. This will blow over."

I nod without turning around. Because what else can I do?

The hallway is empty. My heels click against tile like a countdown timer, and I'm replaying the meeting—the implications, how they looked at me like I'd suddenly become complicated instead of competent.

Last night floods back. Midnight, bathroom floor, scrolling through photos for the hundredth time. Comments ranging from supportive to invasive to downright cruel. Someone dug up old articles about me and Cassian.

"She has a type," they wrote, like my romantic history was a pattern they'd cracked instead of messy human reality. Someone else did math about the babies' ages, speculation flying like my children were puzzles to solve instead of humans with privacy rights.

My stomach had churned then. Churns now remembering it.

They asked me to that grocery store. Made it visible. Whether they meant for this to happen—and I don't think they did—it happened because of them. Because I trusted them enough to be seen in public together.

I unlock my office, step inside to grab my bag. Going home early. Can't handle corporate damage control when my life just became internet content.

I pull the door closed—

And freeze.

Twenty feet down the hallway: Axel and Mateo.

Standing there like ghosts I summoned by thinking too hard about betrayal.

My heart forgets its entire job description. They look wrecked—Mateo's usual kinetic energy dimmed to something hollow, Axel's controlled exterior barely containing whatever's underneath.

For approximately three eternal seconds, nobody moves.

Then my brain kicks back online, and I make a decision: I unlock my office again and gesture them inside before anyone sees us together and adds more fuel to this dumpster fire.

They follow without a word. The door clicks shut.

It's just the three of us now in my small office that suddenly feels smaller, and everything I've been holding in for two days threatens to crack wide open.

Axel speaks first. "We didn't do this. We would never do this to you."

His voice is low, urgent, desperate in a way Axel never sounds. Ice-blue eyes locked on mine, and I can see he means it—completely, devastatingly means it.

"I know," I say, and it's true. That's not the problem.

"Then why—" Mateo starts, but I cut him off.

"The problem isn't whether you meant for this to happen." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "The problem is that it happened at all. My career is in jeopardy. My kids' faces are all over the internet. People are making betting pools about their paternity like it's entertainment."

"Selene—"

"I just left a meeting where my boss looked at me like I'm a liability instead of an asset. Where PR wants me to release a statement explaining my personal life to strangers. Where I've been told to maintain 'professional distance' from both of you until this 'blows over.'"

The words taste bitter. Professional distance. Like we're contaminated.

Mateo's face does something complicated—guilt and anger and helplessness all fighting for dominance. "We didn't know there'd be cameras. Lo juro, we had no idea—"

"But there were cameras. Because you're athletes. Because people follow you around hoping for content. And I should have known that. Should have anticipated—"

"This isn't your fault," Axel interrupts, voice sharp. Final. "None of this is your fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" I'm not yelling, but I'm close. "Because someone has to take responsibility for the fact that my children's privacy was violated. That my professional reputation is being questioned. That I can't even do my job properly anymore without it being 'optics.'"

The office feels too warm. Too small. The walls are closing in, and I need air, need space, need—

"What do you need from us?" Mateo asks quietly. "Tell us what to do. We'll do anything."

"I don't know what I need." The honesty cracks something in my chest. "I don't know how to trust that this won't happen again. That being with you—around you—near you—won't just create more problems I can't control."

"So what?" Axel's voice has gone flat. Careful. "You want us to leave? Disappear? Make it easier?"

"I don't know." My throat is tight. "I just know that two days ago everything was manageable. Complicated but manageable. And now it's not, and I'm terrified, and I don't know how to fix it."

The silence that follows is heavy enough to collapse the room.

Mateo's hands are shaking slightly. Axel's jaw is so tight I can see muscles working. And I'm standing here in my armor—sharpest blazer, highest heels, hair that could cut glass—feeling more vulnerable than I've felt since that bathroom in Philadelphia.

The room is heavy with everything unsaid.