Page 25 of A Wild Card Kiss
“Danielle. C’mon. It’s a given,” I say.
Her expression softens. “I don’t take it for granted.”
“You never have, and I never thought you would,” I say, since friendly is how we do things.
I met Danielle at the University of Washington. We dated our freshman year of college, but then she transferred to a school with a better pre-med program. I ran into her again the night I won my first Super Bowl. She was at a post-game party, and we hit it off again. I gave her a hard time about her preferring the San Francisco Hawks over the San Francisco Renegades. Then I gave her a hard time between the sheets, and we said our goodbyes in the morning. A few weeks later, she learned she was pregnant.
A Super Bowl baby.
The Southern gentleman in me reared his head and asked Danielle if she wanted me to marry her.
I’d never heard a woman laugh so hard in my life.
“We’re not in love. That was a one-night stand. No, sweetie. I just want to know if you’re interested in helping raise this baby. It’s hard being a doctor and a mom.”
Was I interested?
Absolutely.
I wasn’t going to be a deadbeat dad.
“Of course I am,” I said.
“Are you sure? A lot of athletes aren’t.”
“I’m not a lot of athletes.” Sure, I’d been the good-time guy. I was still a helluva ladies’ man back then.
But I also damn well knew what family was, thanks to my mom and the way she looked after all of us after my dad walked out.
I was not going to do that.
So, we agreed to raise Abby together as friends, as co-parents, and as equals.
A few years later, she met Jamie, a fellow surgeon, and married him. Abby and I went to their wedding together.
Now, in the doorway, I give Danielle a serious look. “It’s not only my job to take care of her. It’s my pleasure,” I tell her. “And you, if you need it.”
Danielle lets out a sigh of relief. “I never want to assume.”
“You’re a sweetheart, even if you prefer the Hawks. Glad you’re her mom,” I say, then I cup my hand over my mouth and call to Abby that I’m leaving.
She runs over and leaps into my arms, clutching me like a koala. “Bye, Daddy.”
“I’ll miss you, little bear. But I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Just like you did when I was one.” Abby stares up at me, her hazel eyes big and serious. “And I remember you sang Dolly Parton to me as a lullaby.”
Holy shit.
Does my kid have a weird-ass memory from being an infant? How is that possible?
I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “Wait…”
Abby cracks up, swatting my shoulder. “Got you! Mommy told me you did that.”
“Dolly’s the best,” Danielle adds.
“That she is,” I agree, and then I tap Abby’s nose. “Let me know if you want to do gymnastics somewhere else in the fall.”
