Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 56

Recovery isn't linear. The physical therapist tells me this every session, but I don't really understand it until I'm living it.

Some days I walk without crutches and feel invincible. Other days I can barely make it to the bathroom without wanting to cry. The knee heals at its own pace, indifferent to my impatience, and all I can do is show up and do the work.

But showing up—that part I can control.

I started small. Reading to the babies at bedtime instead of letting Selene do it alone. Sitting on the floor during playtime, even when getting down and back up takes ridiculous effort. Making breakfast—actual breakfast, not the charred disasters of my first attempt—while Axel's at practice.

Elio watches me from a distance for the first few days. Wary. Uncertain. Like he's waiting for me to disappear back into the couch and stop existing again.

I don't blame him. I earned that distrust.

"Hey, pequeño," I say one morning, sitting on the playroom floor with a stack of blocks. "Want to build a tower with me?"

He looks at Aria, who's already constructing something chaotic. Looks at Sören, who's arranging blocks by color with disturbing precision. Then looks at me.

"Teo build?"

"Teo build. If you want."

He considers. Takes one step forward. Then another. Then he's plopping down beside me, handing me a blue block with the solemnity of a peace offering.

I almost cry. Manage not to, because crying would probably scare him. But something in my chest unclenches for the first time in weeks.

"Blue block," I say. "Good choice. Very structural."

"Boo," he agrees.

We build a tower. It falls. We build another one. It also falls. Elio thinks this is the funniest thing that's ever happened and demands we do it again. And again. And again.

By the time Selene finds us, we've destroyed approximately forty-seven towers and Elio is laughing so hard he's got hiccups.

"You're on the floor," she observes from the doorway.

"I might need help getting up. But yes." I gesture at the scattered blocks. "We're doing important architectural work here."

Her smile is worth every ache in my knee.

Axel is harder.

I hurt him. Said things I can't un-say, pushed him away when he was trying to help, made him feel like his success was a betrayal. The fact that he's still here, still trying, still loving me despite everything—I don't deserve it.

But I'm going to try to earn it back.

"Can we talk?" I ask him one evening after the babies are down. Selene's in the kitchen, giving us space.

He nods. Sits across from me, that careful distance he's been maintaining since I told him his presence made things worse.

"I'm sorry," I start. "For what I said. About you being the hero while I'm the cautionary tale. About your success reminding me of what I lost. None of that was fair."

"You were in pain."

"That's not an excuse. You were dealing with your father's visit, and instead of supporting you, I made everything about me. Then I pushed you away like you were the problem when you were just trying to help."

He's quiet. Processing. Axel always takes time to formulate responses, and I've learned to let him.

"It did hurt," he admits finally. "Hearing that being around you made things worse. I didn't know what to do with that."

"I know. And I'm sorry. The truth is—" I take a breath. "The truth is, your success didn't make me feel worse. My own insecurity did. I was jealous, and scared, and instead of dealing with those feelings, I blamed you for having them."

"I understand jealousy." A ghost of a smile. "I've felt it too. When you and Selene have your easy rapport, your inside jokes. Sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you. Until it exploded."

Fair point.

"I want to do better," I tell him. "I want us to actually talk about things instead of letting them fester. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"That would require both of us being vulnerable."

"Terrifying, I know. But apparently that's what healthy relationships require." I lean forward. "I'm not fixed. I'm going to have more bad days. But I don't want to shut you out when they happen. I want you there. Both of you. Even when I'm being an asshole."

Axel considers this. Then he moves—crosses the distance between us, sits beside me instead of across from me. Close enough that our shoulders touch.

"I can do that," he says. "If you can do the same for me."

"Deal."

It's not a magical fix. The damage doesn't disappear just because we acknowledged it. But something shifts. The careful distance starts to close. The walls come down, brick by brick.

Physical therapy intensifies. Three times a week, then four. My therapist—a terrifying woman named Rosa who accepts no excuses—pushes me harder than I've ever been pushed.

"You want to play again?" she asks, watching me struggle through resistance exercises.

"More than anything."

"Then earn it. Every rep. Every stretch. Every day you show up and do the work. That's how you get back on that court."

I show up. Even when it hurts. Even when progress feels impossible. Even when the voice in my head whispers that it's pointless, that I'll never be the same, that I should just accept my career is over.

I show up anyway.

Week seven. I walk without crutches for a full day. My knee aches by evening, but it holds.

Week eight. I start light jogging on the underwater treadmill. Five minutes feels like a marathon.

Week nine. The team makes it to the finals. I watch from the couch with Selene and Axel, cheering instead of grieving, celebrating their success instead of mourning my absence.

"You'll be there next year," Selene says, squeezing my hand.

"Maybe." But for the first time, the uncertainty doesn't devastate me. "And if not, I'll find something else. Something that matters."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. But I've got time to figure it out."

The Sirens lose the finals in six games. Axel takes it hard—he's not built for losing—but we're there when he gets home. Holding him. Reminding him that one series doesn't define his worth.

"Hypocrite," Selene teases gently. "Preaching what you're still learning."

"Learning is the point." I pull Axel closer. "We're all learning."

Week ten. The cast comes off. The brace stays, but it's lighter. More mobile.

Week eleven. I chase Elio across the living room. Only three steps before my knee protests, but three steps more than I could manage a month ago.

"Teo fast!" Elio shrieks with delight.

"Teo trying," I correct, scooping him up one-armed and spinning us both until we're dizzy.

First steps. Small victories. The daily practice of showing up even when it's hard.

I don't know if I'll ever play professional basketball again. The doctors are optimistic, but optimism isn't certainty.

What I know is this: I'm more than a point guard. More than stats and highlights and playoff runs. I'm a father. A partner. A person who makes terrible jokes and burns chicken and builds towers just to watch them fall.

That's worth showing up for.

That's worth fighting for.

One step at a time.