Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 51

Selene’s POV

The surgery goes well. That's what everyone keeps telling me, like it's supposed to be comforting.

"Textbook procedure," Dr. Patterson says in the recovery room. "Clean repair. No complications. He'll be back on the court in six to nine months."

Six to nine months. The timeline that's become a prison sentence.

Mateo's still groggy from anesthesia when I see him, blinking at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. For a moment, before full consciousness returns, he looks peaceful. Almost happy.

Then he remembers.

I watch it happen—the awareness flooding back, the realization settling into his features like a weight. His hand moves automatically toward his knee, finds the bandages, the immobilizer, the evidence of everything that changed.

"Hey." I take his hand before he can probe the surgical site. "Don't touch. You're okay."

"Okay," he repeats, but his voice is flat. Empty of the music that usually lives there.

We bring him home two days later. Axel drives while I sit in the back with Mateo, his leg propped across my lap, watching the city pass through windows that feel like barriers between him and the life he's supposed to be living.

The team won their series. They're advancing to the conference finals. And Mateo will watch from the couch, if he watches at all.

At home, we've prepared everything. The hospital bed rental in the living room because stairs are impossible. The crutches leaning against the wall. The medication schedule I've written out and posted on the refrigerator. The physical therapy appointments are already booked.

Mateo looks at all of it with an expression I've only seen on trauma patients.

"We set up the living room so you don't have to deal with stairs," I explain, gesturing at the hospital bed. "And Naomi's taking the kids to her place for a few days so you can rest without—"

"Great." He doesn't look at me. Just maneuvers himself onto the bed, wincing with each movement, and stares at the ceiling.

The same way he stared at the hospital ceiling.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Food? Your phone's charged if you want to watch—"

"I'm tired."

"Of course. Rest is important for recovery."

"Selene." His voice cracks something open in my chest. "Please. I need a minute."

I leave. Give him the space he's asking for. But I stand in the kitchen for a long time, watching through the doorway as he lies motionless in a bed that's not ours, in a room that's been transformed into a recovery ward.

I know what's happening. I've studied it, written papers about it, counseled athletes through it. Identity disruption following injury. The grief that comes when your body can no longer do the thing that defines you. The depression that settles in when purpose disappears.

I know all of this. And I'm completely helpless to stop it.

Axel finds me still standing there an hour later.

"How is he?"

"Shutting down." I lean into him when his arm comes around me. "I've seen this before. Athletes who lose their ability to perform, even temporarily—they don't just lose their sport. They lose themselves."

"He's not lost. He's here."

"His body's here. But he's already somewhere else." I watch Mateo's motionless form. "Basketball is how he proves his worth. How he contributes. How he earns his place. Without it, he doesn't know who he is."

"Then we remind him."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

Because depression doesn't respond to logic. Because identity crises can't be solved with reassurance. Because sometimes people need to fall apart before they can come back together, and trying to hold them together just delays the inevitable collapse.

But I don't say any of that. Just shake my head and let Axel hold me while we both watch the man we love disappear into himself.

The days that follow are a masterclass in withdrawal.

Mateo speaks in monosyllables. Answers questions but doesn't start conversations. Takes his medication, does his basic exercises, eats what we put in front of him—all with the mechanical compliance of someone going through motions.

His phone buzzes constantly with messages from teammates, friends, and family. He reads none of them.

The babies come home after three days because life doesn't pause for crisis. Aria runs to him immediately, reaching for "Teo" with the expectation of being scooped up and swung around.

He can't pick her up. Can't play with her the way he always has. Can barely manage a pat on the head before turning away.

The rejection confuses her. She stands there, arms still raised, face crumpling into something that breaks my heart.

"Mama?" she asks, looking at me for an explanation. "Teo sick?"

"Teo has a hurt leg," I explain, lifting her myself, settling her on my hip where she usually lives on his. "He can't pick you up right now. But he still loves you very much."

Over her shoulder, I see Mateo's face. The pain there has nothing to do with his knee.

That night, after the kids are asleep, I try again.

"I know this is hard." I sit on the edge of his bed, not touching—he flinches from touch now, draws away like contact burns. "I know it feels like everything's falling apart. But you're not alone in this."

"I know." His voice is hollow.

"Do you? Because you haven't looked at me in three days. Haven't touched me or Axel. Haven't been present even when you're in the room."

"I'm trying."

"I know you're trying. I'm not criticizing—I'm worried." I risk reaching for his hand. He lets me take it, but his fingers stay limp. No squeeze. No response. "Talk to me. Please. Tell me what you need."

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer.

"I don't know what I need," he says finally. "I don't know who I am without—" He breaks off. Shakes his head. "I'm tired. I need to sleep."

It's not even eight o'clock. But I don't push. Just press a kiss to his forehead—he doesn't turn away, but he doesn't lean in either—and leave him alone with the ceiling and his thoughts.

Axel's in the kitchen, making a meal Mateo won't eat.

"He talked?" he asks.

"Not really. Just enough to tell me he doesn't know who he is anymore."

Axel's hands freeze on the cutting board. "That's not—"

"I know. I know who he is. You know who he is. But that doesn't matter if he doesn't know."

We eat dinner in the kitchen, listening to the silence from the living room. The house feels wrong—too quiet, the energy shifted, like something essential has been removed and we're all just waiting for it to come back.

"We can't fix this for him," I say, the truth bitter on my tongue. "He has to find his way through it himself. All we can do is be here when he's ready to come back."

"And if he doesn't come back?"

I don't have an answer. That's the question that keeps me up at night, staring at the ceiling in a bed that feels too empty even with Axel beside me.

What if the Mateo we knew is gone?

What if the man we love can't find his way back to us?

What if this breaks him in ways we can't fix?

In the living room, the hospital bed creaks. Mateo shifting position. Not sleeping, not resting.

Just existing.

Barely even that.