Page 56 of Breakaway Daddies

But what about the baby?

I shift my position, my knee bouncing with restless energy as I lean forward on the edge of the bed, the fabric creasing under my weight. A swirl of uncertainty fills my mind.

Is it even mine?

The thought lingers in the air, unanswered. I will probably never know. Yet, strangely, the truth is, I don’t care.

My mind drifts to visions of raising a baby alongside Thomas and Bruno.

I imagine the three of us huddled together, grappling with the mysteries of diapers, the bleary-eyed exhaustion of late-night feedings, the exhilaration of witnessing first steps, and the joy of hearing first words.

Three dads, each a novice in the realm of fatherhood, bumbling through the myriad challenges, finding our way as we go.

A slow smile tugs at my lips, spreading warmth through me.

Yeah. I want that.

I wonder if Thomas and Bruno feel the same way. If, like me, it’s not about DNA for them either. If they, too, simply yearn to be part of the child’s life because it’s Jinx’s.

Because, in our hearts, it’s ours.

Moping around isn’t going to resolve anything. I need to take action, to do something, to shape the future we all might share.

I order an Uber and set off for the rink. As we navigate the bustling city streets, I sense a rare and vibrant energy bubbling within me—excitement.

This isn’t the heart-racing thrill that surges through me before a game, but rather a steady, determined wave. It’s the kind of feeling that reaffirms I’m still a player, still someone capable of making an impact.

The driver steals a glance at me in the rearview mirror as we pause at a red light. “You look like you just had an epiphany or something,” he remarks.

A quiet laugh escapes my lips. “Something like that.”

When we finally arrive at the rink, I hand him a crisp twenty for the modest five-dollar fare. “Keep the change,” I say, hopping out with a quick step.

Inside, I barely take ten strides before the custodians notice me. One of them, an older man named Dale with a knowingly smug attitude, calls out, “You looking to sleep with the next PT, too?”

The others chuckle, their laughter echoing down the hallway, and I force a smile, letting the comment slide right off me.

I don’t have time for this nonsense.

I push onward, my focus set firmly on reaching the glistening expanse of the ice.

I settle into the wooden booths, the familiar scent of aged varnish mingling with the crisp, cold air of the rink, and begin watching the practice unfold.

The new goalie is… well, just mediocre.

There’s nothing particularly striking about him. He’s young, with an obvious layer of nerves clinging to his movements—they lack the fluidity of a seasoned player. He’s reacting to the puck rather than predicting its path, allowing the play to dictate his position instead of asserting dominance over the crease.

I frown, the dissatisfaction gnawing at me.

No, that approach simply won’t cut it.

I rise from my seat and make my way down to the benches. The players cast glances in my direction as I step up to the glass, tapping it with my knuckle.

The new goalie, Trevor, Tyler, or whatever his name is, catches my eye, and I gesture for him to skate over.

He complies, his uncertainty evident in his hesitant approach.

I nod toward the expanse of ice. “You’re overthinking it,” I state bluntly.

---