Baby Daddy Roulette

Chapter 7

* * Two years later * *

Sören screams like he's auditioning for a death metal band. Aria joins in. Elio waits three seconds before adding his voice because maximum volume equals maximum attention.

Welcome to 6 AM, where peace goes to die.

"I've got Sören!" Naomi calls from the nursery, already in combat mode despite working a twelve-hour night shift. "You handle the hunger twins!"

I'm in the kitchen with Aria on one hip, Elio on the other, trying to warm bottles and not drop either baby.

Motherhood is advanced circus training nobody warned you about.

Naomi emerges with Sören, who's calming down because Auntie Naomi has magic powers. She's serenading him with off-key pop while bouncing him in a rhythm that could cure world peace.

"Remember when you said you were just crashing for a few weeks?" Naomi grins at me over Sören's dark curls. "That was almost two years ago. Now look at you. Surprise, triplets!"

"I seem to recall you screaming so loud when you saw the pregnancy test that Mrs. Chen next door called the police." I managed to get both bottles ready without causing a natural disaster.

Small victories.

"In my defense, you peed on a stick and it basically was a little spoiler and said 'congratulations, you're having a small basketball team.' The screaming was justified."

She's not wrong. Three babies. The universe decided I needed to make up for lost time in reproduction.

Aria latches onto her bottle like it's personally wronged her. Elio is more philosophical about it, drinking contemplatively. Naomi settles on the couch with Sören, who's finally stopped auditioning for the metal band and is now just adorably gumming his fist.

"Still can't believe the Sirens GM didn't even blink when you showed up to your interview visibly pregnant."

"She just said they wanted my brain and the rest was none of their business." I sink onto the couch beside Naomi, careful not to jostle the eating twins. "Best interview of my life."

"Because you weren't trying to hide anything. You were just you, complete with a baby bump and zero apologies."

I love this job. Love it in a way I never loved working for the Ravens, even before everything exploded.

The Sirens are hungry and hopeful and completely assholes-free. No ghosts in these halls. No ex-fiancés lurking around corners. Just basketball and babies and a fresh start that actually feels fresh.

"Thanks for watching them today," I say, adjusting Aria before she decides the bottle is for throwing, not drinking. "Full day at the facility. Team meetings, one-on-ones, probably some minor crisis management."

"It's literally my job." Naomi rolls her eyes. "I'm the live-in aunt. I signed a contract. There were clauses."

"There were no clauses."

"There should have been. I would've negotiated for more wine and less baby vomit!"

Sören chooses this exact moment to spit up on her shoulder. Comedic timing runs in the family.

After we get everyone settled—babies fed, changed, and arranged in their various baby containment devices—Naomi gets that look. The one that means she's about to ask a question I don't want to answer.

"Do you ever think about telling them?"

She doesn't need to specify who. We both know.

My answer is immediate, rehearsed, delivered with the confidence of someone who's answered it a million times already—because I have.

"They left before I woke up. That was an answer enough. And I don't want to know which one is the father because they're all mine. All three of them are mine."

It's not a lie. I decided months ago that I didn't need DNA tests or paternity results or any kind of definitive answer. Aria, Elio, and Sören are mine. That's the only truth that matters.

Naomi doesn't push. She never does. Just nods and adjusts Sören on her lap while I gather my work bag and try to look like a functional adult instead of someone running on four hours of sleep and pure determination.

"Go save some basketball players' mental health," Naomi says. "We'll be here, teaching the babies about the patriarchy and why sharing toys is a capitalist construct."

"Please don't radicalize my children before they can walk."

"No promises."

***

The Sirens facility is buzzing when I arrive. Not the normal pre-practice energy—something else. Something electric and slightly manic.

People are clustered in groups, phones out, whispering like they're planning a heist.

I'm halfway to my office when I catch fragments of conversation: "...huge trade..." and "...announcement tomorrow..." and "...can't believe they pulled it off..."

My coffee suddenly tastes like anxiety.

In the break room, two of my players—Jordan and Martin—are practically vibrating with excitement. I grab a fresh cup and try to look casual, like my heart isn't currently attempting to break several Olympic records.

"Morning, Doc," Jordan says, grinning. "You heard about the trade?"

"Trade?" My voice comes out steady. Therapist voice. Professional. "What trade?"

"Big one. GM's been working on it for weeks." Marcus leans in conspiratorially. "Getting two players from Philly. Announcement's tomorrow."

The coffee cup freezes halfway to my mouth. Philadelphia. Of course it's Philadelphia.

The universe has a sick sense of humor and I'm the punchline.

"Do you know who?" I ask, still in that carefully neutral tone that's taking every ounce of training I possess.

"Not yet. Could be anyone." Jordan shrugs. "But whoever it is, they're good enough to be worth three first-rounders."

Three first-rounders.

That's not a trade. That's a heist.

I manage some appropriate response—something about being excited for the team—and escape to my office before my face betrays the absolute chaos happening in my brain.

It could be Cassian.

The thought makes my stomach turn. Thirteen months of Seattle sunshine and coffee and freedom, and he could be walking through those doors tomorrow, ready to ruin my carefully constructed peace.

But it could also be Axel. Or Mateo.

Or both.

Honestly? The only one who wouldn’t make me shit my pants is Mr. Pop. And he’s not even on the team.

I spend the rest of the day going through the motions. Sessions with players who don't realize their psychologist is having a small internal crisis. Paperwork that might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all the attention I'm paying it.

Every time someone mentions the trade, I smile and nod and die a little inside.

By the time I get home, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep deprivation and everything to do with existential dread.

Naomi takes one look at my face and hands me a baby and a glass of wine. "Bad day?"

"Long day," I say, which isn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.

She doesn't push, just settles beside me with Sören while I hold Elio and try to look like someone whose world isn't about to implode. We sit in comfortable silence while the babies do their evening routine of being cute and demonic.

"You okay?" Naomi asks eventually.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just tired."

That night, I couldn't sleep. Just lie in bed listening to the baby monitor, tracking three breathing patterns, trying not to think about tomorrow. Trying not to imagine faces I haven't seen in thirteen months.

It could be Cassian, which would be an epic nightmare.

It could be Axel or Mateo, which might be worse.

It could be both, which would mean the universe has a sick sense of humor and I'm the punchline.

Tomorrow I'll find out.