Page 13 of Passed Ball

I guess that's the thing about knowing her better than she knows herself--it goes both ways.

Chapter 5

Xavier

The sudden jerk of my leg sends sparks of pain shooting through my toes. I curl in on myself, groaning when my forehead thuds against something hard.

"Fuck!" Dizzy, I fumble around, trying to make sense of the mess I've found myself in. Slowly, the room comes into focus, followed by pain.

My toe, my head, my hips--everything hurts. I suck in a deep breath and then the smell hits me. Sour, burning, potent--

Oh god, what is that?

Holland.

I'm on the floor of her room, having spent the night trying to settle her fussy little self.

Gagging, I push myself up, and before I can even process what's happening, a tiny whimper turns into a full-blown howl. Ignoring my pulsating toe and the bump I'm sure is forming on my head I bend over the crib to grab my daughter.

Oh, no. No. No. No.

Panic rises as I realize the smell is coming from her. I guess that explains the gas pains she had earlier.

I will not puke on my daughter.

I might screw everything else up, but that's the bare minimum I can do for her.

I rush into the bathroom, slamming my elbow into the light switch. Fight-or-flight kicks in with a shit-covered baby in my arms, and I spin in a circle.

What the fuck do I do? It'severywhere.

There's no way around it; I'm getting dirtier before either of us gets clean.

Now would be an excellent time to not be doing this alone, to have someone to hand me a towel or start the shower for me.

I hold my breath, cradling her against my chest as the liquid seeps through her onesie, coating my arms. The reheated chicken carbonara Hendrix dropped off threatens to make a reappearance.

Moving as swiftly as I can, I lay a towel in front of the tub and flip on the shower. Holland's screams bounce off the tile, each cry deepening the sinking sensation in my chest. Frantically, I strip her out of the ruined clothes and toss them straight into the garbage. Every cry cuts through me, leaving a mark on my heart.

"I know, Áine. I'm trying." Those two words are my constant refrain. Most days, I feel like I'm failing--like I'm not enough.

Something's wrong, and I'm more sure than ever that I'm screwing this all up.

It's isolating, beyond anything I've ever felt. To make it worse, Kristy won't answer my calls or texts. When she walked away, I thought she'd at least communicate with me. Instead, she blocked me on all social media and disappeared. What stings the most is that she left without discussing what's next, and I don't know if she ever plans to come back.

I step out of my sweatpants and check the water temperature, adjusting the nozzle until it's lukewarm.

She's so slippery. Please don't let me drop her.

I clean both of us up, but it does nothing to soothe Holland.

Running on so little sleep should be illegal, especially before sunrise.

After our shower, Holland squirms and fusses until dawn, then lets out a series of impressive farts and passes out on my chest.

I'm just starting to fall asleep again when Mia arrives with coffee and to relieve me so I can get to practice.

I make it to the stadium later than I'd like, and as I drag myself through the parking lot, the effects of last night linger.

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