Page 96 of The Game Plan
Moving deeper into the room, she drapes an arm over the top of the rocker while the other rubs gently against Lennon’s back. “I didn’t hear her cry.”
“It’s no problem. Were you up late?”
She nods. “I had to watch a couple of TV show episodes and write a paper.”
“I can see why you fell asleep.” I chuckle, and she smiles down at us.
“You’re really good at this whole dad thing.”
My throat tightens as I think about my dad and the example he set for us. He was always involved. Well, as much as he could be, given his coaching schedule. “I’m trying.”
“We both are.”
“One day, she’ll ask about us and how we got to this point. I only hope she doesn’t focus on the mess, on the man who didn’t want her, and knows that he doesn’t matter.”
“You’re her dad, Grant. On paper and in our hearts. It doesn’t matter that you two don’t share DNA because she’s going to grow up with you.”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. I’ll never understand how a man can’t step up and become a father. But at the end of the day, I’m glad he didn’t. His poor decision gave me a chance to have my girls.
The morning comes quickly after our late-night feeding. It’s getting harder and harder to leave the apartment and head into work, but I know it’s a phase that will pass. As I pour a mug of coffee, I hear Lennon let out a wail.
Abandoning my coffee, I change back into dad mode. Pushing open the nursery, I find a squirming Lennon. Her little headmoves from side to side as she fights against the swaddle, keeping her arms at her sides. As I inhale, I smell the reason for her early morning wakeup.
“Someone is a stinky girl,” I mumble, scooping her up.
The Velcro springs free from the swaddle, and so do her tiny limbs as she kicks her legs and stretches her arms. It takes a handful of wipes to clean her mess, and she lets me know how much she doesn’t appreciate the cold wipes each time I swipe her bum.
With a clean diaper and a full belly, her eyes grow heavy as she drifts off to sleep again. I tuck her back into her crib and make my escape. It’s only when I’m halfway to the football facility that I realize I have spit-up on my shoulder.
Welcome to dad life; you never know what you’ll be covered in.
Thankfully, there’s never a shortage of shirts for the football team. Between the athletic department and sponsors, new merchandise keeps coming in. A rap on my door makes me call for the person to come in while I slip a fresh shirt over my head.
Coach Hawke, the head wide receiver coach, enters my office with a laugh. “Forget your shirt this morning?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Lennon left a present on my shoulder.”
He scrunches his nose. “I’m glad I don’t have kids. I don’t think I could handle all the bodily fluids.”
“You get used to it.”
He shrugs. “You look like you haven’t slept in years.”
“More like a week. But thanks for telling me I looked like shit before my daughter was born.” I chuckle, running a hand down my face. My beard needs a trim; it’s longer than I normally wear, and it itches.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, taking a drink of his coffee. “Anyway, wanted to let you know you’re doing a good jobof navigating everything. A lot of guys your age wouldn’t have stepped up to the plate.”
“Well, I’ve never been good at baseball.”
Hawke huffs a laugh. “Smartass.”
“Did you need anything else, or did you come in here to give me shit?”
“I need you to keep an extra eye on Williams. He’s under the microscope again with more NIL deals coming in, and his performance is slipping.”
I nod. Jeremiah Williams is our freshman receiver who thinks he has more talent than god. And I’ll admit, he’s a damn good player, but his ego is going to prevent him from going far.
Hawke gives my desk a tap with his knuckles before he leaves my office. I sit there as my mind drifts home. Staring at the picture of the three of us sitting on my desk, I pull out my phone.
