It’s a disaster.
“I have a problem.”
“She doesn’t know you know he’s your son?” he asks, the question spinning my brain for a second, but I’m glad he’s not arguing with me about paternity testing now.
“No. Well, that too.” I squat down, needing to sit but not trusting the furniture. “I’m at her place, and it’s . . . it’s a hovel. It’s a studio apartment on the bad side of town. I don’t know if it’s subsidized housing, but it’s gotta be the cheapest place she could get. And it’s not set up for a baby. She never even unpacked the car seat. I gave her ten million dollars a month ago, and she’s . . . I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Andy hums thoughtfully but is otherwise quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time before finally saying, “You’ve given me a lot of good information here. With her social alone, I should be able to track any recent big purchases or new bank accounts. I’ll be able to see where she’s going. Just keep an eye on her for now. Make sure she’s not going to run.”
“She almost died. Or shediddie during the operation, the C-section, but they were able to resuscitate her. I don’t know if that counts.” When Andy goes silent, I clarify, “I just mean I don’t see her running any time soon. The doctor said it’ll be a long recovery.”
Still, Andy’s slow to respond, his tone hesitant. “Then just take care of her, okay? I don’t say that because she deserves it. But your kiddo does. Just focus on his needs for now, even if his biggest need is her.”
I don’t disagree with that. In a way, it’s a good thing I hate her so much. I won’t feel bad if I use her to get through the first couple months before I gun for custody.
I won’t feel bad. I can’t.
I end the call a minute later, telling Andy I need to clean, but I need to think to clean. I need to figure out what I need to do to clean.
I need to set up the baby stuff. I need to figure out what her plan is. I need to come up with my own plan on how to keep Donovan because there’s no fucking way I’m letting him out of my sight now. But all I’m doing is spinning, so I start with the easiest task: getting the car seat into Tilly’s car so I can actually get him out of the hospital.
Notan easy task, it turns out. It takes an hour and forty dollars between a car wash and gas to get Tilly’s car clean enough to put a baby in it, and I’m worried the hospital is going to bitch about it smelling like Lysol, so I have to keep the windows down to air it out.
All that, and then I can’t figure this fucking seat out. There are little pictures that supposedly explain how the seatbelt goes, but every time I try, the thing wobbles all over. The directions are written in actual Chinese.
I stand there in the parking lot, pacing between her car and Gabe’s truck, which he doesn’t seem to care that I still have, so that’s cool.
I pace out to the road.
I stare at the Jugs stadium, which happens to be only a couple miles away and soaring over the shorter buildings onthis side of Wilmington, and think about how much more awesome I am when I’m in there. I’m a fucking god in there. Here, I’m too stupid for a car seat.
I sign a couple autographs as people pass by, do double-takes, and come back. I consider asking the people who have kids with them to help me with the seat, but I’m a god to them, too. That would look weird.
I return to the car and the Chinese instructions. Gabe probably knows how to do this, but if he comes over here, he’ll ask questions I don’t have answers to. He’ll tell Joss about the shit hole Tilly’s living in, and that’ll stress Joss out.
Which will stress Gabe out to the max.
And he’ll do dumb shit. He’s the best center I’ve ever had. He’s the most reliable out on the field. He knows how to handle the stuff I suck at. He keeps the team in line. We vibe so hard. But when life has him stressing, he does dumb shit.
I look back at the Chinese directions. I do, in fact, know a guy who speaks Chinese. And has a kid. And I fucking hate him, but I think he’s the guy who can handle this.
There’s a stare-down in the parking lot when Lin Huang arrives. I can’t resist. Iwantto fuck him up. I hate the dude. He’s here to help, but fuck him.
He stands five yards away from me, eying me skeptically.
The wind shifts so slightly that I couldn’t say what the difference is, but he twitches like it’s altered the world beneath us.
“Truce?” I yell across the parking lot at him.
“You’re a psycho, Sinclair!” he yells back, proving the hatred is all mutual. Before we signed on to the Jugs, we were in the same division but on rival teams. After my first-stringQB got a concussion and was put on Injured Reserve, I had three games to prove myself before he was slated to return. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hopeful it was my chance to prove I deserved the top spot.
My chance was destroyed by Huang and his Miracle Leg. Six fucking field goals. Not a single touchdown accompanying them, but I only managed to see the ball into the end zone twice. It was supposed to bemytime to shine, and that asshole Huang hated me so much even then that he nearly ruined my entire career.
Fucking jacktwat.
“I don’t want to fight you!” Not exactly the truth, but it’s been almost a year since I last punched him, and it wasn’t even on purpose. But the way he shifts side to side makes me think he doesn’t believe me. Like I’m trying to prank him or something.
I would never do that. Not now. This is the worst time for a prank.
