This made the national news?
I fling my phone somewhere on my bed and scrub my face with my hands. Fuck. Now I’m definitely on a pedestal. How the hell did this take on a life of its own in one day? And according to this article, the donations are up to eighty grand. Thousands of people have given. Major fucking pedestal happening.
No. Nooo. Don’t think about it. Do not do it. I’ll pass out if I do.
Beer. Cardio. Jerking off—I try to think of everyday things that relieve pressure instead of creating it.
The wave of tension melts from my chest. I sit up and sigh. That was a close call, but I did it. See, you got this, Dean. I simply need to stay focused. I’ll have to maintain strict control over my emotions going forward, and everything will be fine. No more meltdowns on the field.
I hit the shower, knowing I have a long day ahead. I need to buy books, call Flip, schedule that therapist appointment, and confirm Lara’s taking Fia tonight.
While I go downtown with the mountain fresh bodywash—a man’s balls can never be too clean—my mind shuffles through my to-do list. Honestly, none of the items sound enticing except for talking to Lara. I kinda can’t wait to see her.
I finish my shower, towel off, and give her a call from my room while I dress.
“Wow, if it isn’t dad of the year,” she says.
My hackles rise. Pedestal alert. Pedestal alert. “Let’s not insult all the men out there who’ve suffered sleepless nights and invested years of their lives being good fathers.”
“Agreed. But can you explain how you’re trending as hashtag Hot Daddy Dean and the internet is exploding with a pic of you and Fia?”
So no mention of my panic attack. Guess that’s a plus. “One of my teammates probably posted it.”
“Well, they are getting one thing right.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask.
“Your stepping up to take care of her—no questions asked—is pretty awesome.”
I groan.
“What?”
“I’m not a hero,” I say tightly. “I’m just watching her until her mom comes back, which I know she will.”
“You sure?”
“Have you seen Fia?” I say. “Who wouldn’t come back for her?”
“She is pretty damned cute. Kind of Gerber baby meets cherub. She’s lucky. My cousin Riley was so ugly they nicknamed him Cheese Log.”
Mean. “Why?”
“His face sort of looked like a long rectangle, almost like a brick of Velveeta with lips and eyes. Except he always had snot crusted on his nose—allergy condition—so I guess they thought he looked more like cheese covered in nut chunks.”
“Poor kid.”
“Naw. He’s normal looking now, but wow, the looks he got when he was a baby. No one wanted to take his picture. But Fia, she’s like a sweet little yummy gumball you just want to gobble up.”
“Does this mean I shouldn’t ask you to sit for her tonight because you’ll try to chew on her?”
“Maybe. But I promise to stick to the toes. Baby toes are the cutest.”
Okay… “I hadn’t noticed. Mostly because I’m usually trying to get formula in her mouth or shit off her butt and vag—”
“Thank you, Dean. I get it.”
“What? You said you’re going to sit for me tonight, right? You might have to get in there and do some extreme cleaning. By the way, why did nature give girls so many cracks and crevices? Seems a little unhygienic to me. I had to give her three butt baths in the sink yesterday.” It’s a full-time job keeping her clean.
“You’re actually making me feel skeeved out about my own body right now.”
“You? I doubt there’s a place on your body I wouldn’t kiss or lick.” What the hell am I saying? I can’t be flirting with her.
“Nice segue into a suck-up there, Dean. Yes. I can sit for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Which other nights will you need me?”
I give it some thought. Nina said she could help out. Unfortunately, both Lara and Nina have day jobs, and my to-do list is growing. I need to get to the gym. I also have to put in some hours at the Ranch and go shopping for supplies for Fia. They delivered my groceries last night when I was out, but she needs socks and something warmer than her leotard. So yeah, I’ll need someone to watch her in the daytime for a few hours this week. I could use some of the donations—just a few hundred bucks—to pay for daycare a couple of afternoons.
I hear a knock at the front door. It’s probably Coach dropping off Fia.
“I’m not sure yet. Can I get back to you?” I say.
“Sure.”
“Thanks. See you around five. I have to go.” I end the call, feeling unusually anxious, but in a good way. Baby’s here!
I rush to the door and find Coach’s wife. I know who she is, since she goes to all the games, but we’ve only exchanged a few hellos over the years.