Page 22 of Golden Goal

I peer down at her, rocking her gently as she finishes her bottle.

I might only have been a dad for twenty-four hours, but if you ask me, I’m already doing an amazing job.

I can only hope Hazel continues to be this easy.

Chapter nine

Rebecca

“You have got to be kidding me right now.”

I pull my pillow over my head, but it does nothing to drown out the crying baby. I was wrong about the apartment next door being empty.

So very wrong, apparently.

For the past three nights, a wailing baby has woken me up between two and three. Tonight, unlike the other nights, the crying hasn’t stopped after a few minutes, and I can’t fall back to sleep.

Getting to my feet, I pull on a sweatshirt and stomp through my apartment, stopping only to grab my keys and step into a pair of sandals. I fling my door open, march over to my neighbor’s, and bang on their door.

The crying stops, and my anger starts to fade.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come over here.

Maybe they didn’t hear me knocking and I can go back to my apartment. Pretend I wasn’t over here angry at three in the morning. Before I can move, the door opens, and my breath catches in my throat because Holt Abbott stands before me, wearing dark-gray athletic shorts slung low on his hips and holding a tiny baby.

He rears back. “Dr. Jansen,” he stammers, glancing around the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

“Rebecca, just Rebecca.” The words come out of my mouth before I realize it. “I live there.” I point toward my apartment.

My eyes trail down his body. I know I shouldn’t. He’s a patient and, technically, a coworker. But man, is he hot, all hard muscles and lines. I mean, I know this. I’ve seen the players without their shirts on before, but I never paid much attention to their appearances unless it was related to treating them, but now, I can’t help but see how hot Holt Abbott is. But there’s nothing wrong with admiring him, right? Admiring all the work he puts into his body. That’s all I’m doing.

“I didn’t know you had a baby.” I wince as the words leave my mouth. Smooth. Real smooth.

Before he can say anything, the wailing starts again. His shoulders droop, and he steps back, opening the door wider.

“You might as well come in. Hazel doesn’t like it when I stand still.”

I gape at him but silently follow him into his apartment. Well, shit, now I feel bad for all the times I’ve blasted Billy Joel thinking this apartment was empty. I hope he doesn’t hate me. At the same time, he could have left a note, knocked on the door, or something. I would have turned it down.

He leads me into the living room and over to the couch where he shoves the laundry that’s strewn all over it to one side and gestures for me to take a seat.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Probably need to clean up.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, looking at the empty baby bottles and take-out boxes scattered all over the coffee table.

“Everything okay, Holt?” Even as I ask the question, I can tell he’s not alright.

His eyes are red rimmed, bloodshot, with bags under them, and his hair is standing in all directions, as if he was pulling on it or running his hands through it. Nothing like the well-put-together, professional athlete I’ve been treating for the past week and a half.

“No, this time last week all I was worried about was when I was going to be cleared to play again,” he says, rocking the baby—his daughter—and pacing around the room.

“You can talk to me,” I whisper.

He sighs before telling me how he went from having an ex-girlfriend he hadn’t talked to in months, to suddenly having a daughter.

“She showed up and dumped Hazel on you?” I frown.

What kind of person does that to their child?