Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 29

My heart's pounding—bum-bum-bum-bum—like my entire cardiovascular system decided this moment needs a soundtrack.

Selene's finger hovers over the post button. Three seconds feel like three years. Then she presses it.

For exactly three seconds, nothing happens.

Then all our phones explode simultaneously.

Not cute buzzing. Full electronic meltdown. Vibrating so aggressively they're walking themselves across the coffee table.

"Ay Dios mío," I breathe, grabbing mine. Notifications are flooding in so fast the screen can't keep up—hundreds, then thousands within minutes.

Share count's at five hundred. A thousand. Two thousand.

I lean over Selene's shoulder, reading comments as they roll in:

Thank you for speaking up

I went through something similar and nobody believed me

CASSIAN DRUMMOND IS TRASH confirmed

Philadelphia fans have been saying this for YEARS

Someone posts screenshots of old forum discussions about Cassian's behavior—patterns going back to before Selene even met him. Former teammates are quietly liking the post, not commenting but their support visible in those little hearts.

But then the other comments start:

Attention seeker

She's just mad he moved on

Where's the PROOF

My stomach clenches. "Don't read those," I tell her, physically reaching over to tilt her laptop screen away. "No los mires—the trolls don't matter, ¿okay?"

My own phone is absolute insanity. My mentions are exploding. My agent's called six times.

Then my mamá texts—all caps, which she only does when something major happens:

MAMI: MATEO ERNESTO VELASCO QUE ESTA PASANDO

MAMI: YOUR ABUELA SAW THE NEWS

MAMI: CALL ME IMMEDIATELY

"My mom's seen it," I announce. "And my abuela. Which means every Puerto Rican within a fifty-mile radius of San Juan now has opinions about my life choices."

Axel looks up from his phone. "My agent wants a statement."

"Same. Also my mother wants explanations in all caps." I'm scrolling through responses, watching the story spread. "Sports journalists are picking it up—look, ESPN just posted an article."

Selene's gone pale, staring at her screen like it might bite her. The post's been live for eight minutes and it's already everywhere—screenshots on Twitter, think pieces being written in real-time, people dissecting every word.

Then Cassian's PR team responds.

It's posted on his official accounts—corporate-speak designed to say nothing while implying everything:

"Mr. Drummond is disappointed by these allegations and maintains that all parties involved were aware of relationship parameters. He wishes Dr. Marlowe well in her future endeavors and will not be commenting further at this time."

"Relationship parameters'? ¿Qué cosa es eso? That's the most guilty-sounding non-denial I've ever read."

"It makes him look worse," Axel agrees. "Vague enough to seem evasive."

Selene's phone rings—her boss. She answers, and I watch her face cycle through expressions.

"Nine AM tomorrow," she says after hanging up. "Emergency meeting with management."

"They can't fire you for telling the truth," I start, but she cuts me off.

"They can fire me for creating a media circus. The league will want someone's head, and I'm the easier target."

The baby monitor crackles—Sören making his pre-cry sounds.

"I've got him," I say, grateful for something concrete. "Voy ahora."

The nursery's dark except for the nightlight. I scoop up Sören, and he immediately grabs my shirt.

"Hola, pequeño," I murmur, bouncing slightly. "Your mama's very brave right now. She's standing up to someone who hurt her. We're going to make sure she's okay."

I'm making promises to a fourteen-month-old, but it feels good to say it out loud.

Sören settles against my chest. I pace the nursery—seventeen steps window to door, turn, seventeen back—that rhythm Axel does when he's thinking.

When I return to the living room, Selene's at her laptop, declining media requests with mechanical precision. "TMZ wants an exclusive. So does Sports Illustrated. And about forty-seven podcasts."

"Tell them all to fuck off," I say, then remember Sören's in my arms. "I mean—ay—tell them politely that you're not interested."

Axel's reading something on his phone. "The Ravens issued a statement. 'No comment on personal matters involving former employees.'"

"Cowards," Selene mutters. "Of course they won't comment. Commenting means acknowledging they covered for him."

I watch her face—sees her flinch at the cruel comments, then small smiles when supportive ones appear. This weird emotional rollercoaster playing out across her features.

"A lot of people are on your side," I tell her, shifting Sören to my other arm. "Like, un montón—way more support than hate. That matters, ¿verdad?"

"A lot of people also think I'm lying." Her voice is small. Scared. "What if they fire me tomorrow? What if I can't get another job in sports psychology because everyone thinks I'm some unethical—"

"Then we figure it out," Axel cuts in, voice firm. "Together. You're not doing this alone."

"But my career—"

"You have documentation," he reminds her. "Security footage from that night probably still exists. Witnesses. Cassian has a pattern and a PR team that just made him look guilty. You have truth."

"Exacto." I bounce Sören who's getting heavy. "And the people saying you're lying? Fuck them. Que se vayan al carajo—sorry, Sören, don't repeat that—but seriously, they don't matter. The people who've been through similar things, who are thanking you for speaking up? Esos matter. Those are the voices that count."

She's quiet for a long moment, then stands. "I should try to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be—huh, I don't even know what tomorrow's going to be."

"Long," Axel supplies. "But we'll be there. Whatever you need."

In the bedroom, Selene settles between us—same position as this morning but everything's different now. There's no post-sex contentment, just tension radiating off her in waves.

"What if tomorrow goes badly?" she whispers into the dark. "What if they do fire me? What if I can't—"

"Hey." I find her hand, lace our fingers together. "For every person calling you a liar, ten people thanked you for speaking up. That ratio? That matters more than anything management says tomorrow."

"You’re right to be scared," Axel says, and I want to kick him for not being more reassuring until he continues: "But you closed the loop. Cassian doesn't have power over your story anymore. Whatever happens next, you chose it. Not him."

Selene's quiet, processing. Then: "I did it for myself. But also for the kids. I don't want them growing up thinking their mom let someone rewrite her story. I want them to know I fought back."

Her breathing gradually evens out. Sleep taking over. But I stay awake longer, brain too wired to shut down, replaying the day, the post, everything.

My phone buzzes—text from Carlos, my slightly older uncle who usually only texts for birthdays and Christmas:

C. Velasco: Saw the news. Proud of you for standing by her. That takes guts.

I stare at the message for a long moment, something warm blooming in my chest. Then type back:

M. Velasco: she stood up by herself. we're just here to catch her if she falls.

I set my phone down, hand finding Selene's hip—gentle, grounding. Feel Axel's steady presence on her other side, his breathing already deep and even.

Tomorrow we'll face whatever comes. Emergency meetings, potential firings, league investigations, media circus continuing.

But tonight we're here. Juntos. Together.

And somehow, that makes everything feel survivable.