Griffin Michaels stood in the doorway, barefoot, exhausted, and?—
Holding a baby.
My brain short-circuited.
Everything about him looked… off. Messy dark hair, stubble shadowing his jaw, a t-shirt that had seen better days. Not his usual curated, media-friendly appearance. And in his arms, snug against his chest, was an actual infant.
For a long second, Griffin just stood there, staring at my father like he’d materialized out of thin air. His grip tightened on the baby, his fingers flexing against the blanket like he wasn’t sure if he was steadying it or himself.
“Didn’t realize I was getting the Carter Family Special.” His green eyes swept over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
It had been nearly a decade since I first met Griffin, back when he was still tearing up junior circuits and making an art form out of being insufferable. I’d dated his teammate, the same boy who’d all but forgotten I existed the second the season started.
I glanced at my father, my perfect mask slipping momentarily. “This is what you dragged me away from my friends for?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes.”
Griffin let out a dry laugh. “Glad to see I’m not the only one blindsided tonight.”
“If you handled your affairs properly, there’d be no surprises,” Julian said, his tone hard.
Griffin’s jaw ticked.
“We’re not having this conversation here.” Julian glanced back toward the gate. “I’d rather not give some lurking parasite the scoop of the season.”
The two-time world champion stepped aside. I followed Julian in, and got hit in the face by the scent of powdered formula, something vaguely floral from an open pack of wipes, and the synthetic newness of plastic.
The living room was a battlefield of baby supplies. Half-unpacked bags from a late-night supermarket run slumped on the kitchen island spilling nappies, tins of formula, and a rattle that still had the tag on. A sterilizer sat unopened on the counter, the instruction booklet abandoned next to it.
Liam, Griffin’s trainer, sat perched on the sofa arm. He lifted a brow. “Well. This should be good.”
Julian ignored him. “Sit.”
He gestured to the sofa, currently covered in an assortment of inappropriately aged baby toys. The newborn in his arms looked no more than four weeks old. The stuffed bear would suffocate her.
“Or you could just tell me why she’s here,” Griffin muttered.
My father adjusted his cuffs, ignoring his hostility. “Griffin requires assistance.”
“That much is obvious.”
“I am in the room, you know,” Griffin said, actually sounding affronted.
Funny, I didn’t think he had feelings to hurt.
“Her mother left her in your care. You are not equipped to handle this situation alone.” Julian gestured vaguely in my direction, as if presenting a new aerodynamic upgrade for the car rather than his daughter. “Violet is the solution to your lack of… infrastructure.”
My head snapped toward him. The mask slipped for a fraction of a second before I wrestled it back into place.
Excuse me?
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Griffin said.
“You absolutely do,” Julian said. “And frankly, Violet is the only person I trust with this. She is the best candidate to ensure it doesn’t affect your career or the team’s standing.”
Griffin looked at me, skeptical. “She hates me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I said, lying through my teeth as I channeled every ounce of media training I possessed. “I just think you’re high-maintenance. But family comes first, right?”
