Angela. She taught me what she liked, and I was a quick learner. Then I realized I liked it a lot of different ways. She was more than willing to let me experiment, let me figure out everything I liked and how to please her.
Two mornings later, she woke up, and after I told her thank you, she smiled and laughed a gentle laugh. There were no promises.
But I also did not think there would be consequences. Not of this magnitude.
“I…” I have no idea what to say but quickly scramble. First, I need to get dressed. In lightweight clothes because I’m sweating like I’ve finished a workout. As I tighten the towel around my waist, I realize I’m shaking. “I don’t know what to do.”
Her pink lips spread into a smile and I’m momentarily distracted from the fact I’m naked and there’s a strange baby screaming in my hallway.
Her smile is that distracting.
“Well, you could go get some clothes on. Take the note and the baby and let me get back to my Friday night.”
Right. The note. The baby. Possibly my baby. This cannot be.
She does have a point.
“Come in? For a moment? Please?”
I do need to get dressed so I step back and hurry down the hallway hoping like hell she does come in, then I send up more prayers that this is a joke. A horrible prank by a teammate. Newman would do this to me because he would think it’s funny.
But where would Newman get a baby? And why?
I am in trouble. Big trouble. Too many thoughts jumble in my mind as I reach my bedroom. I drop the towel and grab the first pair of sweats and shirt I can find, tugging them on, fearing for an attack of my heart. It is too fast. Racing.
I might need a doctor.
I need to get control before I see the pretty woman who I am certain might also be crazy.
Who brings a baby to my door and tells me it’s mine?
Crazy people. That’s who.
This is not happening. It cannot be. My season starts soon. Training camp. Pre-season. Six months of games, three nights a week, traveling.
I cannot be a father.
My hip bumps my dresser as that thought hits and I settle my ass to it, barely holding myself up. My knees might give out. I might faint.
Father.
I cannot be a father.
“Shit.” I scrub my face, heel of my palms press into my closed eyes. I cannot be a father. A dad. En far.
But there is also only one way to find out. From outside the door, the cries of the baby, who is definitely not mine, have quieted. I make my way toward the woman who might need to see a doctor for making up such a story to scare me. Perhaps she wants money. I will give her all of mine to take the baby away.
As I think it, another pain hits my chest.
If it is mine… do I want it to go away?
I reach the living room and pull to a stop. The girl is swaying slowly, hips swishing back and forth. Her back is to me, but as she moves, I see the blue and white blanket swish with the rhythm of her body.
It is quiet now, which is good.
“Who are you?” I don’t like calling her the woman. I’ve wondered her name for months since she started appearing in that doorway so close to mine.
She turns to me and in her arms is the baby. She’s holding a bottle and the baby is drinking. Quiet little sounds come from it and she grins down at the baby in her arms before tilting her head at me.
“What?”
“You. What is your name?”
“Paisley. Are you Mikah?”
She must want money if she knows my name. Perhaps she’s a fan. A puck bunny—that’s what my teammates call the girls who follow players and only want one thing from them.
“How did you know?” I wish she wasn’t so pretty. Sometimes it hurts to talk when all I want to do is look at her.
She points to an envelope on the table. The note.
“It’s on the outside. I didn’t know if it was your name or the baby’s, so I took a guess. Are you… are you okay?”
“A stranger shows up at my door with a baby in her arms, saying it’s mine. How okay am I supposed to be?” I wander to the table while I ask. I’m surprised by her gentle laugh.
“I suppose this isn’t your typical Friday night.”
She is funny. If I didn’t think I might throw up, I might laugh. No. This is not my typical Friday night. Mine are for resting. Not life-changing drama.
I say nothing and grab the envelope. I stare at it for a moment. Perhaps if I do not open it, I can pretend this didn’t happen. My fingers shake as I tear it open.
The envelope is larger than normal and thick and I’m careful as I pull out several folded papers.
The top one is the most important though as I instantly see my name, written in scrolling black ink.
* * *
Mikah,
His name is Angelo.
* * *
Emotion punches me in the chest. Angelo. I turn, see the woman. No, I see Paisley still rocking back and forth. Her gaze is on me, hand on the bottle still in the baby’s mouth. No, Angelo’s mouth.
A boy. I might have a son. My jaw tightens and I turn back to the letter that is now burning my fingertips.
* * *
He is yours. I promise, even though I’m sure you won’t believe me. I’ve done the best I can. I’m sorry. I can’t keep him. I thought I could, and I tried. I can’t do this. So Angelo is yours. All yours.
I found out I was pregnant in December and I debated contacting you and then I wondered how much you’d hate me, or if you’d want to do the “right” thing and make us a family. And I didn’t want either. We had a weekend, and I enjoyed it, but the family life… I’m sorry, but that isn’t what I want. So I tried to take care of him on my own but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mom.
I’m easy to find, but as painful as this is to say, and how horrible of a woman, a mother this makes me, I don’t want him back.
I have included his birth certificate and social security card. If you need to contact me, my name is on his certificate.
Angela
* * *
Angela. A hockey puck lodges in my throat and the paper in my hand crumples. She knew. She never said. She didn’t come to me. Not even for money.
I ball the paper in my fist and as I do, I see the paper beneath it.
Birth Certificate. It looks legal even though my name is not on it and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Does it give me hope that she’s lying? Or does it piss me off that she didn’t even allow him to claim me in name?
Angelo Martin.
If he’s mine, it should be Lutzgo.
Another swell of emotion tightens my chest, prevents my breathing. My breaths come in short spurts and I press my hand there as I turn, remembering Paisley is still here.
Holding my son.
“What the hell am I going to do?”
Her eyes widen and my knees buckle. Thank God for the couch that is right here because I grip the armrest before I go down and move to the couch.
“His name is Angelo,” I tell her, although I don’t feel like it’s my voice saying these words. It certainly doesn’t sound like my voice. “And he was born in July.”
And then I stare at the both of them.
I believe the woman who wrote the letter and what it says. The woman in front of me looks so comfortable, so beautiful holding my baby, and I have never held one in my life. I have no idea what to say.