Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 6

I woke up alone.

The sheets are cold. The pillows still hold indentations—two of them, one on each side—like archaeological evidence of last night's monumentally bad decisions. My head throbs.

My body aches deliciously while the bed is catastrophically, devastatingly empty.

I sit up too fast and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment. There's a note on my nightstand, folded once, written in two distinct handwritings.

Mateo's messy scrawl takes up the top half: ‘Last night was… yeah.’

That's it. That's the whole fucking sentence. Not "yeah, amazing" or "yeah, we should talk" or "yeah, here's my number even though you already have it because you were literally our therapist."

Just ‘yeah’.

Below it, Axel's precise block letters: A.

One letter. One initial. The emotional equivalent of a read receipt.

I stare at the note until the words blur. No phone numbers—they already have mine. No promises. No "let's get breakfast" or "call me when you wake up" or literally any indication that last night meant more than scratching an itch.

The apartment is silent except for the distant hum of traffic and my own increasingly panicked breathing. I'm surrounded by pizza boxes and fairy lights and the lingering scent of expensive cologne mixed with tequila-fueled regret.

My clinical brain—the one that stayed blissfully quiet last night—kicks into overdrive with the subtlety of a freight train.

I slept with two former clients. Two teammates of my ex-fiancé.

Two men I actually liked and respected, which somehow makes it worse.

By next week, the entire NBA will know. Locker rooms are vaults where secrets go to become legends. This will be a legend.

The nausea hits fast. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm on my knees, retching into the toilet while my body tries to physically reject the last twelve hours of my life.

When I'm done, I sit on the cold tile floor, forehead pressed against the bathtub, and catalog every way I've destroyed my career.

My phone buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. And again. Finally, I drag myself off the bathroom floor and find my phone wedged between the mattress and the wall.

Seventeen missed calls. All from Naomi. Before I can decide whether to throw the phone out the window or answer it, it rings again.

"You're alive," Naomi says the second I pick up. No hello. No preamble. Just relief wrapped in accusation. "I've been calling for an hour. I was about to file a missing person report."

"I'm alive. Barely." My voice sounds like I gargled gravel. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon. I just got off my night shift. How'd the party go?"

I open my mouth to lie. To say something bland and neutral like "fine" or "nice of them to throw it."

Instead, what comes out is: "I slept with Axel and Mateo."

Silence. Then: "I'm sorry, you what?"

"Both of them. At the same time. In my bed. Which is where I'm currently sitting. Alone, holding a note that says 'yeah' and a single letter A."

More silence. I can hear Naomi breathing, processing, probably running through her mental checklist of appropriate sisterly responses.

"Okay…" she finally says. "Scale of one to ten, how much are we panicking right now?"

"Eleven. Maybe twelve. Possibly entering thirteens."

"Right. Okay. Talk me through it. How did this happen?"

So I told her. The whole story: the tequila, the conversation about revenge, Gestalt theory and unfinished business and closing loops, the way they looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered. The note. The empty bed. The dawning horror that I've professionally self-immolated.

When I finish, Naomi is quiet for exactly three seconds. Then she says, in a tone of absolute calm: "So you had hot revenge sex with two professional athletes. Congratulations."

"That's your response? Congratulations?"

"What do you want me to say? That you're a terrible person? You're not. That your career is over? It's not—you already quit, remember? You're free." She pauses. "When's the last time you did something just for yourself, Selene? Something that wasn't calculated or professional or designed to make everyone else comfortable?"

I sit with that. The party debris seems less accusatory now. More like evidence of a life finally, messily lived.

"But what if word gets out?" My voice is small. Pathetic. "What if Cassian finds out and uses it against me? What if I run into them at some league event and have to face what we did?"

"Then you hold your head high and remember you're the one who walked away from a cheating asshole while they're stuck playing for the same organization that covered for him."

But I’m also thinking about is what if it meant nothing to them when it's already starting to mean something to me?

That's the fear, isn't it? The one I've been avoiding since I opened my eyes and found cold sheets.

Not that they'll tell everyone. That they won't.

That it was just a drunken mistake they're already forgetting while I'm sitting here cataloging every touch, every word, every moment I felt seen.

"I can't stay in Philadelphia," I say.

"I know. So don't." Naomi exhales. "I told you about Seattle, right? My contract starts in December. Found a two-bedroom in Capitol Hill that's way too expensive for one person. Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to split rent and start over somewhere that doesn't have Cassian's face on every billboard, the offer's there."

Seattle. Rain and mountains and three thousand miles between me and this bed.

"I'll think about it," I say, but I'm already opening my laptop.

The job listings load slowly. Most of them are boring: corporate wellness, private practice, university counseling.

Then I see it, posted yesterday: Team Psychologist - Seattle Sirens (Expansion Team).

Brand new franchise. Brand new city. Brand new Selene.

My finger hovers over the apply button. This is insane. I'm running away instead of dealing with consequences. I'm making life-altering decisions while emotionally compromised and possibly still drunk.

I click apply anyway. The confirmation email arrives instantly: ‘Thank you for your application. We'll be in touch soon.’

"I just applied for a job in Seattle," I tell Naomi.

"Good. Now shower. You smell like bad decisions and tequila."

"How do you know what I smell like?"

"Because I know you, and you're definitely surrounded by party garbage, and you probably haven't brushed your teeth."

She's not wrong.

She's never wrong, which is simultaneously comforting and infuriating.

After we hang up, I sit in the wreckage of my apartment and look out at the Philadelphia skyline. I've known this city my whole adult life. Built my career here. Fell in love here. Watched it all burn here.

Soon, I'll be gone.