Page 46 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
“Come in, Leighton,” David’s voice calls, low and flat.
Inside, the three of them stand at the podium like they’re giving a press conference. No crowd. No cameras. Just the three men, hands on their hips, faces like stone.
“Guys… this is Luna. She’s our daughter.”
Andy’s eyes harden as he scoffs. “Pfft. Another shake-down for money, if you ask me. You don’t belong here.”
Luna buries her face in my shoulder and starts crying.
“She’s yours,” I insist. “Isn’t she beautiful? And so sweet.”
“No,” Shane snaps. “She’s not mine. Why would you lie like that?”
David steps forward, his voice booming. “Get that thing out of here. You’re done. We’re done. Don’t come back.”
They start laughing. Not with humor, but something colder, crueler. Sinister.
Luna screams. I try to move—want to run—but I can’t. I’m frozen, drowning in their voices, their rejection.
I wake up choking back imaginary tears from my nightmare, drenched in sweat, my pajamas clinging to my skin. My legs swing out of bed before I can think, and I rush toward the crib, her cries still echoing in my ears.
But as I half-stumble across the room, I stop short. She’s not crying. She’s sound asleep, peaceful, untouched by the nightmare I just lived through.
I slump forward, bracing myself on the edge of the crib, clutching the white-painted rails with trembling hands. My breath is shallow, ragged. The images from that dream, those cold, angry faces, their voices laced with hate, won’t leave me. I know it’s not real, but it sure as hell felt real.
I don’t sleep another minute. Since I’m already up, I check for updates on the I-70 pileup. No fatalities reported. Miraculously, the lanes were cleared within a few hours. But there’s still no word on Strisik or Panabaker. I hope they’re okay.
When Luna starts to stir, those soft little coos I love so much, I scoop her up and hold her for a minute. As I trace the curve of her cheek, soft as velvet, I wonder how anyone could look at her and not fall in love.
Everyone who’s ever met her says the same thing: she’s cute, sweet, silly, and endlessly lovable. I hope the guys see that too.
***
The stadium is buzzing this morning, probably with talk about the pileup.
I could track down David, Andy, or Shane. Ask how the players are doing. But I don’t. I can’t. Because every time Ipicture their faces, all I see is the dream, twisted with disgust, voices sharp and cruel. The memory clings to me like smoke, curling through my thoughts no matter how hard I try to shake it off.
Even if their real reaction wouldn’t be that extreme, rejection is still on the table. And I’ve worked too damn hard to shield Luna from anything that might break her. I won’t let this be the thing that does.
At least my family, my dad and my brother, loved her from the start. Even before I had it all figured out. Even when I didn’t have answers.
Wyatt, for all his overprotective-cop energy, adores her. Sure, when I told him I was pregnant, he nearly blew a fuse and swore he’d gun down the bastard responsible. I wasn’t exactly on his favorites list either. He can be judgy as hell. Guess that comes with the badge. But once he cooled off, he turned into the best damn uncle a girl could ask for.
Never, not once, did Wyatt look at us the way those three did in my dream.
To stop myself from spiraling further, I knock once and step into Cecille’s office. “Morning. So, any updates on Strisik or Panabaker?”
She looks up from her computer. “Morning, Leighton. Yeah. They managed to brake in time, but a pickup behind them rear-ended their car into the one in front. Panabaker had a nasty gash on his head, bled a lot, but he passed concussion protocols.He should be cleared in a couple of weeks, once the stitches have healed. Strisik’s worse. Broken clavicle and jaw. He’ll be out for months.”
My chest sinks. “That’s tough. I bet he hates being sidelined.” Athletes live for the game. One missed match is rough. Weeks or months? Devastating.
“He’s definitely not thrilled,” Cecille says, aligning her stapler and tape dispenser with neat precision. “Everything good on your end?”
“Great.” I offer a fake smile, rehearsed, the kind that lifts my cheeks but doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
She notices. Of course, she does.
“Well, let me know if that ever changes.”
