Page 4 of Passed Ball

Holding my daughter for the first time upended my entire world, and everything I thought I knew about myself was erased. All that remained was her: Holland Áine Kingsley--my daughter, my purpose, my everything.

The paternity test confirmed it weeks ago, but one look at her and anyone can see she's mine.

A thick tuft of red hair peeks out from under her pink hat and her wide, impossibly blue eyes stare up at me. And when her lip starts quivering and she pouts, well, I realize she already has me wrapped around her tiny fingers.

For a few precious minutes, holding her lets me forget the chaos waiting for us. Her mother leaving, my own messed-up childhood, returning to the diamond--I let it all fade as I pace the living room.

I still have no idea what I'm doing and I have no help--no family, no nanny, no Kristy.

But everything I need, I'm holding in my arms.

My daughter has become the driving force behind my entire existence; there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. Nothing that could change my love for her. Since that first moment I held her, wrapped in the teal blanket I bought for her--Bandits teal, of course--she's owned my entire heart.

Unfortunately, I know that's not always the case. My dad never wanted kids--he only agreed to make my mom happy, assuming she'd always be there to take care of me. It was selfish, a lie he told to keep her, putting his fear of losing her above everything else. In the end, it hurt all of us, and we lost her anyway.

"I'll never hurt you like that," I whisper to my sleeping daughter. I should lay her down and put away the piles of clothes that have accumulated over the last few days, but I can't pull myself away. "Never."

History has a cruel way of repeating itself. Only this time, it's not a father refusing to step up, it's a mother walking away. I don't blame Kristy for that; not everyone is meant to be a parent. But her leaving still hits the same raw nerve, reopening old wounds.

Kristy and I had a plan. She said she was staying, and I was going to help her however I could. But the moment Holland was born, I saw it written all over her face--dread, not joy. She let me pick a name, signed the birth certificate, handed me our daughter, and walked out of the hospital a day later without so much as a goodbye.

The only thing keeping her here was the life I could give her. She admitted as much when we met at the coffee shop, but I ignored my gut.

I'm listening now.

Whether Kristy needs time to adjust or can't do this at all, I don't know. What I do know is that I won't let her drift in and out of Holland's life, leaving scars the way my dad did. My daughter deserves better.

I want her to grow up surrounded by love, not instability. But doing this alone? It terrifies me.

How the hell am I going to be enough for her?

I know I'll never fail at loving her. It's everything else I'm afraid of.

Endless scenarios swirl in my head, each one more frightening than the last. The parenting books I blew through all said intrusive thoughts are normal. Surviving, let alone thriving, with these nonstop grenades of terror being launched at you by your own subconscious, every second of every day, seems too daunting to be normal.

It's not limited to the fear of keeping her alive. It's the existential questions plaguing me on top of the primal fears.

Would she be better off if Kristy came back and wanted to be in her life? And will she hate me if I deny her that?

Will I be warm enough to raise a child when my memories of having a parent who cared are tainted and distant?

How will I do it all with baseball? And if I can't manage, how the hell will I support her?

Bile crawls up my throat as my mind spins, weaving a future where Holland hates me, where I'm not the father she needs. Or worse, the unthinkable happens and our car plummets off a bridge into water, but I can't unbuckle her car seat fast enough to save her.

I cross the living room again, wearing a path in the carpet. My arms shake with my daughter in them and then I remember my promise to myself: to do everything I can to ensure this little girl is safe and loved--to give her enough so she's never missing out.

There's a metric fuck ton I don't know about being a dad. But one thing I do know is Holland deserves so much more than the upbringing I had, and nothing will stop me from making sure she never knows the pain and heartbreak I've experienced.

Not at the hands of me, or her mother.

Her hot breath puffs against my chest and her eyes part enough to give me a peak at those dark blues as she stretches out, yawning as if to say, "You're thinking too loud, Daddy."

There's something hopeful about the way my daughter looks up at me, like she knows she can trust me.

Which is ridiculous because, at four days old, she can barely see me. She can't possibly know that.Idon't even know if she should trust me. I have no role models, no experience. Only an idiot would bet on me.

I sink into the corner of the couch, doubt weighing me down.

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