Page 112 of Breakaway Daddies

Ally sips from her stolen juice box, eyes sparkling. “He’s such a dad, it hurts.”

“Honestly, who would have thought it? Rowan… a dad,” I mutter around my straw, “but I think he’s fully embraced his fate.”

The ball goes flying, wide left and nowhere near the intended target. It bounces off a tree and into a bush.

Rowan groans. Thomas dives after it with all the grace of a drunk golden retriever. Bruno just flops down on the grass like he’s emotionally finished.

We all burst out laughing.

Loud, unfiltered, joy-drenched laughter. The kind that comes from deep in the belly and leaves your cheeks aching.

It’s a mess out there. No one’s winning. The ball is probably deflated. Thomas is yelling “Touchdown!” at completely inappropriate times, and Bruno’s now lying flat on his back in protest, using his sketchpad as a sunshade.

But it’sourmess.

It’s loud and uncoordinated and filled with too much emotion and not enough logic, and it’s the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.

Because underneath all the noise, under the spilled juice and scraped knees and naming debates and laundry-related whiteboard battles, there’s so much love.

We built this life. Brick by brick. Heart by stubborn heart.

And sure, sometimes it looks like foam sword fights and bad football games and arguments over baby names. But it also looks like three men giving everything they’ve got to a life none of us ever expected, and kids who know they’re safe, and me, here, in the middle of it all, rocking two babies while another kicks gently inside me, a slow reminder that even more magic is on the way.

“Hey!” Thomas calls from the field, hands cupped around his mouth. “Do we get juice boxes too, or is that just a mom perk?”

“Only if you catch the ball next time!” I yell back.

He flips me off with all the affection in the world, and I grin so wide it almost hurts.

Ally stands, stretching, and offers her hand to me. “Come on, Mama Snake. Let’s go show them how it’s done.”

I glance down at Lyra and Orion, still sleeping, still warm and safe in my arms.

I look at the men sprawled across the grass, already arguing about teams again.

And I think… yeah. Okay. Why not?

I hand the babies off to Kenzie, push to my feet, and join the chaos with a full heart and zero athletic ability.

“Go easy on me,” I warn as I jog—okay, waddle—into the field. “I’m currently building a human and I haven’t run since… ever.”

Rowan immediately looks concerned. “You sure about this?”

“I am absolutely not,” I say, already winded. “But I’m here, and I brought sarcasm, so let’s do this.”

Thomas hands me the football like it’s a sacred relic. “You’re on my team. Obviously. Pregnant people are good luck.”

Bruno, lying flat on the grass with his sketchpad still over his face, mutters, “That’s not how luck works.”

“Shhh, you’re on defense,” Thomas calls. “Now hush and look intimidating.”

Rowan, ever the voice of reason, attempts to explain the play again, with vague hand gestures that somehow involve a lot of pointing at the sun and muttering about “zone coverage.”

I nod like I understand. I absolutely do not.

We line up.

Someone yells, “Hike!”

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