Page 9 of Winning Brynn

So, what does it matter if I swear occasionally in front of her? At least I show up every day. Feed her, bathe her, change her,loveher. It's more than her mother ever did.

"Princess Say!" Roman sings, having finally dragged his ass out the bathroom. But before he's able to take a seat beside my daughter on the rug, there's a heavy knock at the door.

"Get that, Ro?" Alex asks, over Salem's head.

"Saying please would be nice," Roman grumbles, disappearing down the hallway.

"It's the least you could do after stinking up my bathroom."

Thirty seconds later, the living room is teaming with lanky, overexcited men fawning all over my daughter. Salem laps up the attention, laughing and slapping her hands together as each guy tries to outdo the others by pulling stupid faces and blowing bubbles in her face.

I might not be great at showing it, but I've never been so grateful for anything than I am for these guys. After the bomb of fatherhood was dropped on me without warning, they could have so easily distanced themselves from me—turned their eyes, only seen me at soccer practice, taken a step back.

But each and every one of them welcomed Salem into the fold as if she'd been there all along. They helped me set up the nursery, did store runs for me when I ran out of diapers and formula, helped me take care of her through the night just so I could get a few hours of sleep in.

It didn't even stop when last season kicked off.

Together, we figured out a way that I could keep playing the game I've loved since I was old enough to kick a ball—even if it meant we took turns holding her during practice when my childcare fell through.

Now, she's as big a part of the team as I am. The unofficial mascot of the Seattle Strikers.

"Where's your hot sister at?" Theo has the stupidity to ask. He's an incredible defender, but he's at least a few sandwiches short of a picnic. But despite his obvious mental impediments, he’s never hard up for female attention—probably because he looks like a Ken doll come to life, with his dirty-blond hair and blue eyes.

Alex swats him on the back of his head. "I will kill any one of you if you so much as breathe in her direction."

"Jesus, dude," Theo whines, rubbing his head with a pout. "Would you rather I call her ugly?"

"Stop fucking talking, man," Roman hisses. "Sully and I have already had to listen to the overprotective-big-brother rant, so spare us having to hear it again."

Theo holds his hands up in surrender. "Whatever."

"In his defense," Harley, one of our wing backs, chimes in, dimples winking in both cheeks, "your sister is a smoke show."

"I can't remember. I'll have to take another look to see for myself." This time from Arun, our goalkeeper, who management bought from a Singaporean team during the transfer window two years ago. With dark eyes, even darker hair and sharp features, he’s recently found himself as the new face of Diesel, since he’s got that kind of effortlessly cool look about him. What the pictures in the magazines don’t show, however, is that Arun Lim is actually a massive dork.

With each comment, Alex grows a little redder. I'm pretty sure he's going to start steaming, but then there's a crash from somewhere down the hallway, followed by the light padding of bare feet over hardwood floors, that renders everybody speechless.

Every eye in the room, including my daughter's, swings to the archway at the end of the hall.

Brynn Wolfe herself stands frozen at the edge of the room, her hair falling in perfect chestnut waves over bare shoulders, ripe lips posed into the perfect O. She's barely dressed. Only a thin pink tank top and gym shorts stretch over her body, her tan legs exposed to the room.

She's not even wearing a bra.

"What the fuck are you all looking at?" she snaps, though her eyes are alight with amusement.

My hackles rise faster than Alex can pop a boner. And I mean that generally. Not for his sister, because that would be weird. "Watch your language around my daughter, please."

Am I a hypocrite?

Yeah.

But so fucking what?

This woman has gotten on every last one of my nerves since the day she blocked my car in the car park of the stadium to grab some girly monstrosity from the Starbucks across the road. She'd needed it to post an Instagram story, was her excuse. Apparently, her five million followers just couldn't wait the two minutes it would take for her to find another space.

I took an instant dislike to her then. And it has stayed with me every day since.

"Oh shit," she gasps then slaps her hands across her mouth in panic. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't even know she was here." Her wide eyes scan the room until they settle on my baby girl, currently sitting in Roman's lap.

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