Page 33 of Shootout Daddies
There’s a baby.
A real baby.
Nine, maybe ten months old, tucked in a soft gray carrier seat. She’s got a mop of golden-brown curls that fall over her forehead and giant brown eyes that look up at me without blinking.
Beside her is a canvas diaper bag, a smaller tote with a teddy bear sticking out the top, and what looks like a week’s worth of neatly folded baby clothes.
The baby is quiet. Not crying. Just… watching.
I don’t move.
Inside her carrier is a folded letter. It’s sitting right on top, wedged next to what I now realize is a birth certificate.
The elevator chimes, and I look up just in time to see the brushed-steel doors sliding shut.
A woman in oversized sunglasses is stepping into the cab. Blonde hair. High heels. I can’t get a good look at her face, but there’s something familiar about her.
I swear under my breath and take a few steps into the hallway, yelling, “Hey! Wait!”
Too late. The elevator’s already gone.
I debate chasing her down but the baby lets out a loud yelp. Instead, I crouch next to the carrier, my heart still punching against my ribs, and gently lift the folded sheet of paper from the seat.
Hunter walks in behind me, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the?—”
He stops cold when he sees the infant at my feet.
“Holy shit.”
“No kidding.”
He moves past me and crouches beside the carrier next to me, staring down at the baby, then at me. “Where the hell did she come from?”
“She was just left here. Right outside the door.”
I pass him the letter and the birth certificate. He scans both quickly, his jaw tightening as he reads.
The baby’s name is Chloe. She’s nine months old.
And the letter is handwritten—slanted cursive in purple ink, the words clumsy and rushed.
Hi. I’m really sorry for doing this like this. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Her name is Chloe. She’s one of yours. I think. I’m not sure which of you—Hunter or Rhett—but she’s yours. We hooked up a few times.
You probably don’t remember me. My name is Macy. I was a promo girl for the Icemen sponsor events. One of the brand hosts, remember? I just got signed to a modeling agency in Milan and I can’t take Chloe with me.
I thought I could do this on my own, and I really tried. But I can’t anymore. Please don’t callthe police. I’ll get arrested. Please take care of her. She’s really good and she loves yogurt melts and naps. I’m so sorry.
Hunter lets out a sharp breath, then says softly, “She’s a puck bunny.”
I nod slowly. The term’s not flattering, but it’s accurate.
Puck bunnies are women who hang around the team—some hired for brand activations, others just in it for the hookup culture. They’re not staff, not exactly fans either.
We’ve both been guilty of falling into their beds during road trip after-parties. No promises, no attachments.
Until now.
Hunter crouches lower, brushing a knuckle along the baby’s soft curls. Chloe coos and grabs his finger.
