“Yeah, well, I guess that’s life. Curveballs.”
“And you stepped up like a champ, an example to young men everywhere of how to take responsibility for their actions.”
I don’t want to be an example. I just want to play football. Which is why I am not keeping Fia, no matter what. “Thank you, but I really don’t plan to raise—”
“The team started a fund for you. They all put in money to help with daycare cost and diapers and all the other stuff you’re going to need.”
“They did?” That’s really fucking nice of them.
“Yes, sir,” Coach says. “And I called in a favor over at the local station. They’re running the story on the ten o’clock news, but the guys already started posting on one of those social media places—Instabook or Twittgram or whatever. Donations are pouring in. You’re a real example to the community, Dean.”
I can’t seem to talk. Mostly because Coach just said people are giving me money to help with Fia. But what will everyone say when they find out I’m not keeping her? Either Marli is coming back, or Fia goes into the foster system. They’ll all hate me. They’ll skin me alive with bad PR.
“I can tell from your expression, son, that you’re overwhelmed with gratitude.” Coach smiles, and the nurse comes in holding a packet of papers. “I’ll be out in the waiting room. I can take you by my house to pick up Fia. Igor already drove your truck home.”
“Um, thanks, Coach.”
“You bet, kid.” He leaves, and I hear him mumble, “Sure is a damned cute baby.”
So, in other words, he doubts she’s mine. Well, same boat here, buddy.
The nurse starts unhooking me from the monitors. “It’s really great of you to take on fatherhood like that. I don’t know what I’d do if someone just dropped a baby on my lap.” She flashes an appreciative, doe-eyed smile at me.
Dammit. She thinks I’m some hero. I’m not. I haven’t taken on fatherhood. I just kept a baby alive for a day.
She goes through a bunch of instructions about my diet—stay away from caffeine, alcohol, and any form of stimulants. Get plenty of sleep. Drink fluids. Follow up with the therapist.
I thank her, and she leaves so I can dress.
I slide on my jeans and dig out my cell from my front pocket. I type my name into the search engine, and my story immediately pops up.
Oh God. It’s worse than I thought. In a matter of hours, my “situation” has gone viral. “Twelve thousand dollars?” I swallow hard. That’s the amount of cash people have donated.
Why? Why are they doing this? It’s just so…fucking nice!
My chest starts to tighten uncomfortably. The room starts to spin. I lie back down on the gurney and press the red button to call for help.
CHAPTER NINE
I’m released from the hospital late that night with a prescription for mild anxiety and a strong lecture from the ER doctor to make sure I go see that therapist.
Fia stayed with Coach since there was no point waking her up to drag her to my place in the middle of the night. He says they’ll drop her off first thing tomorrow.
The next morning, I’m in bed, waking up later than normal. Physically, I feel fine, but there’s no denying I’ve uncovered an issue. I’m allergic to kindness or affection or good attention, whatever you call it when people want to shower you with niceness for no other reason than they think you’re awesome.
I’m far from awesome.
Yeah, sure, I work hard for the things I want. I’m loyal to my brother, a guy society’s written off. I take my responsibilities seriously. I do not believe in leaving things to chance or allowing circumstances to define me. All good traits.
But I have plenty of bad characteristics, too. For example, I don’t like complicated, which includes relationships with women. I don’t trust easily. I don’t like being put up on a pedestal. I’m just a guy doing his best. And—
That’s it. The epiphany hits me like a head-on collision with a linebacker. It’s the whole pedestal thing. That’s what my trigger is. I can’t handle the pressure of everyone treating me like I’m perfect when I’m not. I don’t want their adoration because it feels like a lie. No, I have no problem with being respected as an athlete, but a pedestal takes it to a whole new level.
I grab my phone from the nightstand to assess the latest developments in my situation. If I’m lucky, my story will die down in a day, and I can get on with my life. As for the money, no one says I have to take it. I can quietly return the funds. Right?
My eyes scan the latest headlines. What the…? “Young college football player becomes insta-dad with surprise baby. Team, community, and university rally to help him afford daycare and diapers.”