Page 56 of The Stick Handler

I listen to the one-sided conversation, and when Zander ends the call, I hold my breath, praying the news is good.

“She’s on her way.”

Air rushes from my lungs. “Thank fuck.”

“Hey, watch your language in front of the child.”

“Shit, right.”

Zander glares at me, until footsteps on the stairs catch our attention.

“Zander?” Liz asks hesitantly as her gaze moves around the room, settling on the little pink bundle in his arms.

“She’s not mine,” he says to the only girl he’s ever been serious about. “She’s Jonah’s.”

“You’re kidding me.” She plunks herself down beside Zander. “I had no idea you had a daughter, Jonah.”

“That makes two of us,” I say.

Liz gathers her hair and pulls an elastic from her wrist to tie it up. “Who’s the mother?” she asks.

I open my mouth but Zander answers for me. “Shari,” he says. He takes the bottle from the baby’s mouth and puts her over his shoulder. Jesus, he’s a natural with her. Then again, his mother left when he was young, leaving her two children behind. Quinn was just an infant herself, and at four years old, Zander had to take on a lot of responsibility. I’m sure feeding his baby sister was one of them.

“Watch and learn, Jonah.” He taps the baby’s back, Daisy lets out a loud burb. Christ, she could put a locker room full of hockey players to shame. Zander chuckles.

“Does she have a name?” Liz asks.

“Daisy,” I say, and Liz makes an aww sound.

She touches the baby’s little hand. “That’s so pretty.” She looks at the baby, then at me. “She kind of looks like you, Jonah.”

“She looks like Winston Churchill,” Zander says, and Liz slaps him.

“That’s awful. She’s beautiful.”

Zander cradles her in his arms again, and now that she has a full belly, she falls asleep.

I look at the bundle all wrapped up in a pink blanket. No way. Now way can I do this. I try to breathe through a fresh burst of panic. But now suddenly I can’t seem to fill my lungs.

“She needs a crib,” Zander says.

A crib? Sure, like I have one of those just laying around.

“Can I hold her for a bit?” Liz asks. Zander hands the baby over, and I root through the bag again, to see what supplies Shari left for me.

“You’re not going to find a crib in there,” Zander ribs, a crooked grin on his face.

“Funny,” I say, in no mood for his humor. I find a few more bottles, a stack of diapers and a couple changes of clothes. What the hell do I do when I run out?

Hopefully Shari will come to her senses by then, and come back and rescue her child. What kind of mother just leaves her baby with a guy who has no clue how to take care of her anyway? Then again do, I even want her to come back after a stunt like that?

Daisy makes a cooing sound as Liz snuggles her, and while I’m terrified of the little bundle, it scares me more to think Shari could have just left her somewhere alone, no one to take care of her. An uneasy shiver moves through me, and as I feel a strange protective tug, Zander points to the bottles.

“You’d better put them in the fridge.”

“Yeah.” I gather up the bottles and the cans of formula. Needing a moment to myself, to wrap my brain around this turn of events, I hurry to the kitchen and open the fridge. I shake my head when I find nothing but beer and wine. A baby can’t live on takeout. Wait, does a four-month-old even eat solid food?

Christ, I am so fucked.

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