Page 99 of Hat Trick Daddies

We cleared out one of the spare rooms on the main floor to start converting it into a nursery. It’s already taking shape, walls freshly painted a pale mint green color, and furniture we’ve been slowly piecing together.

The sound of drills and hammers is practically the soundtrack of the house now.

But it’s the little moments with Ally that stick with me. Sitting on the couch together at the end of a long day, her head resting on Brooks’ shoulder, Tyler teasing her about her snack choices as I sneak her bites of whatever ridiculous craving she’s chasing.

Every meal feels like a celebration, like we’re building something unshakable just by being together.

It’s the normal stuff, folding laundry while the game plays in the background, or passing Ally her mug of tea as she curls her feet under her on the couch, that makes everything feel so real.

And yet, there’s something gnawing at me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. A strange undercurrent of melancholy I can’t shake.

It hovers just beneath the surface, casting a shadow over everything, even the joy of preparing for this new chapter.

Deciding to clear my head, I lace up my running shoes and head to the park. The air is crisp, the scent of damp earth mingling with the pine from the trees lining the pond’s edge.

I start at a slow jog, the rhythmic thud of my shoes against the packed dirt trail grounding me as I circle the water.

The sunlight glints off the surface of the pond, ripples spreading as a few ducks paddle lazily across. I pass families walking hand-in-hand, kids laughing as they toss breadcrumbs to the birds.

It should be relaxing, but my mind keeps drifting, circling around a central thought I can’t seem to escape: my own upbringing.

Tyler and I didn’t come from stability. Our parents were barely holding things together, and we weren’t planned. Hell, we weren’t even wanted half the time.

The only time they acted like we mattered was when we got drafted.

Even then, it wasn’t about pride, it was about what we could do for them. The memory sits heavy in my chest, a dull ache that resurfaces more often than I’d like to admit.

Is that what I’ll be? A father fumbling through, unsure and making mistakes?

I push myself harder, picking up the pace as if I can outrun the doubts. My breath comes in sharp bursts, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down the back of my neck, but it doesn’t clear the fog in my mind.

Am I really ready for this? To be a father to not just one, but three babies? Do I even know what that entails?

Brooks has this steady, grounded energy, like he was born to handle responsibility.

Tyler, for all his chaos, has an easy confidence that makes people believe he’ll figure things out.

But me? I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I was just trying to keep up.

What if I’m not enough for them, for Ally, for the babies, for this life we’re building together?

I slow to a walk as I near the end of the trail, my legs burning and my chest tight. The answers don’t come, but I know one thing for certain: there’s no turning back.

This life with Ally, with Tyler and Brooks, feels like it was meant to be. It’s messy and unconventional, sure, but it feels like home.

The drive back to the house is quiet. I glance at the dashboard clock and realize Ally is probably at her office at the rink.

Technically, today’s my rest day, but extra training on off days isn’t uncommon. Maybe showing up unannounced isn’t the best idea, but I need to talk to her, privately.

I can’t dump all this on Brooks and Tyler; it will only drag them into my spiral.

The rink comes into view, its massive structure casting long shadows in the afternoon sun. As I pull into the lot, the sight of her little car parked near the back makes my chest tighten.

She’s here, working, probably completely unaware of the storm of emotions I’m bringing with me.

I park and cut the engine, sitting there for a moment as the warmth of the car contrasts with the chill of my unease. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

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