by Cathryn Fox
The Body Checker
Cathryn Fox
Contents
Copyright
1. Jonah
2. Quinn
3. Jonah
4. Quinn
5. Jonah
6. Quinn
7. Jonah
8. Quinn
9. Jonah
10. Quinn
11. Jonah
12. Quinn
13. Jonah
14. Quinn
15. Jonah
16. Quinn
17. Jonah
18. Quinn
Afterword
Single Dad Next Door
About Cathryn
Also by Cathryn Fox
Copyright
Copyright 2018 by Cathryn Fox
Published by Cathryn Fox
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN 978-1-928056-91-1
ISBN Print 978-1-928056-90-4
1
Jonah
A loud thump from one of the many upstairs bedrooms pulls me awake. I shift on the sofa, open one eye, and groan. Partly because my place is a disaster after last night’s—all night—party, and partly because I have a killer fucking headache that’s blurring my vision.
I turn over, using slow, easy movements, and the beer bottles lined up on the coffee table sway as I try to blink the room into focus. I steal a glance at the massive clock on my wall, each tick of the second hand amplified in my head as I discover it’s just past noon. Christ, I’ve only been asleep for a few hours.
I close my eyes as I think about finding my way to my comfortable king-size bed, but another loud thump sets off a pounding behind my eyes. I’m going to fucking kill whoever is stomping around upstairs. But when the noise continues, I realize the banging isn’t coming from one of the bedrooms, it’s coming from my front door.
I drag my hands through my mussed hair, smoothing it down, and swallow against a dry throat as I try to pull myself together.
Who the hell would be at my door this early on a Saturday morning? All my buddies are asleep in my house. Most have flown back to Boston, my hometown and the spot where I’ll be hanging out after a successful season, to celebrate my massive contract extension with the Seattle Shooters, and anyone who knows me, knows I like to sleep in when I’m not on the road.
The knocking continues. “Okay, I’m coming,” I yell, and reluctantly climb from the sofa. I grumble under my breath, trip over a pizza box, and stumble to the door. “What?” I asks as I open it, the noon-hour sun burning the shit out of my eyes. I shade my face with my hand, take in the woman on my stoop.
“Jonah,” Shari says, and holds a small pink bundle out to me. A small pink bundle that looks as bad-tempered as I feel.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as the baby in Shari’s arms lets out a loud shriek. Jesus. I falter backward, my head ready to explode from the godawful noise.
“What’s going on is I’m tired, Jonah. I haven’t slept in four months, and now it’s your turn to take care of her.”
I squint and look into the baby’s blue eyes, take in her tear-streaked cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
“Meet Daisy,” she says and shoves the baby into my arms. She cries louder, and I’m sure my head just cracked at the base of my skull.
“Daisy?” I say.
“Yeah, Daisy. Your daughter.”
My head rears back. Oh, fuck no. I must be hearing her wrong. Has to be the hangover messing with my ability to comprehend. I pinch my eyes shut and open them again, hoping I’m hallucinating, but nope—Shari and the baby are still there. “What did you just say?”
“Meet Daisy. She’s your daughter.” Shari pulls a big bag from her shoulders and drops it in front of my bare feet. “You have enough formula and diapers for a couple days. I suggest you do some shopping.”
She turns to leave, and I reach out and cup her elbow. “Oh no, no way is this child mine.” I try to hand the squirming bundle back, but Shari folds her arms and steps backward, out of my reach.
“Oh, she’s yours, all right.”
I rack my brain, Think back to the last time Shari was in my bed. “We used protection. I always use protection,” I remind her. “You’re making a mistake. This kid can’t be mine.”
“She can and she is.” She gives me a look that suggests I’m dense. “The condom broke, remember?”
Wait, was that with Shari?
“No, I don’t remember.” Okay, I’ve been with a few girls—or a lot—but I don’t remember a condom breaking when I was with Shari. But it’s possible it could have. Judging from the bundle in my arms, I’d say it’s more than possible. Still, I’m not ready to accept it as truth. I give a hard shake of my head and the room spins around me. “You’ve got to be mistaken.”
“She’s four months old, Jonah. A little over a year ago, I was in your hotel room in Philly, and the condom broke.”
I remember Philly. Shari had flown there, and we had one hell of a wild weekend, but no way am I ready for a baby, to be a father, which is why I always wear protection.
“Wait, didn’t you say you were on the pill?” If I’m remembering correctly, she told me not to bother with the condom, but I used one anyway.
“So you remember that, but you don’t remember the condom breaking?”
I search for clarity. Stupid fucking hangover. “I don’t know what I remember. But what I do know is, you can’t leave her here with me,” I say, and hold the baby out to her. “I don’t know the first things about babies.”
“Then you’d better read a book, or google it.” Before I can stop her, Shari races down the front steps and hops into her car. The doors slams and without so much as a glance our way, she drives off.
I stand there, the baby still in my outstretched arms as I glance up and down the street.
What the fuck just happened?
Mrs. Johnson, my next door neighbor, leisurely strolls down her driveway, and when her head angles my way, I step back and shut the door. Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
The baby’s lower lip trembles as she stares up at me, no doubt as terrified as I am.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m an idiot and have no idea how to talk to a baby. She wails again, and I cradle her in my arms the best I can and pick up the bag. I walk to
the sofa, sit down and rifle through it. I find a pacifier, and put it in Daisy’s mouth, and for all of one second she’s satisfied. But before I can pat myself on the back for a job well done, she spits it out and cries some more.
Fuck me!
Panicked, my gaze lands on my cell phone. I pick it up and do a quick search.
What to do when a four-month-old cries.
Okay, shit, she’s hungry, and I have to warm her bottle and test it on my arm to ensure it’s room temperature. I find a bottle in the bag and hurry to the kitchen to warm it. Since I’m smart enough to know rubber can’t go in the microwave, I unscrew the top and place the bottle inside, nuking it for ten seconds. I bounce Daisy gently, trying to console her as I wait for the microwave to beep.
“What the hell, man?” my best friend Zander says from the doorway.
I turn to him, and I must have panic written all over my face, because his eyes go wide and he hurries across the room, coming to my rescue. Zander has a younger sister, took care of he growing up. Surely to God, he’ll know what to do with Daisy.
“Dude, what the fuck?” he asks as he takes the wailing baby from my arms. The microwave beeps and I grab her bottle. I screw the top back on, shake it, and test it on my arm. I have no fucking idea if it’s too hot or not.
Zander holds his arm out, and I squeeze a few drops for him to test.
“It’s fine,” he says, and puts the bottle into Daisy’s mouth. Her tears stop instantly, and she gobbles the milk. “You want to explain what’s going on here?”
I hold my pounding head and gesture toward the living room, needing to sit before I do a face plant. Zander follows me in. He takes the sofa and I take the chair across from him.
“Shari stopped by,” I begin, and Zander nods. He knows who I’m talking about. Shari is a puck bunny, and has slept with almost every guy on our team.
He quirks a brow. “And?”
“And she said the baby is mine.” I shake my head, refusing to believe it, or to entertain the idea for one second longer.
“Oh man,” he whispers under his breath.
“How did this even happen…?”
“Dude, if you don’t know that,” he teases.
“She can’t be mine, Zander. I always use protection.”
“Protection doesn’t always work, and sometimes condoms break.”
“Yeah, she said mine broke, but I don’t remember. Then again, we all got pretty fucked up after kicking Philly’s ass.”
He nods and goes quiet, the way he always does when he’s puzzling something out. “The condom must have broken, Jonah. I can’t imagine Shari would lie about something like that?”
I plant my elbows on my knees and rest my forehead in my hands as my heart beats triple time against my ribs. “Yeah, I guess.” Little hungry gulping sounds fill the silence, and the pounding in my head subsides slightly. I look at the baby.
Am I really her father?
“I’m not equipped to take care of a child,” I say. Jesus, I was an only child growing up, and pretty much catered to by a doting mom. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’ve never had to care about anyone or anything but myself, and I’d call my mother to help right now but she and Dad are away on holiday for the next couple weeks.
“No, but I know who is equipped,” Zander says.
I lift my head to find Zander feeding the baby with one hand and digging his phone from his back pocket with the other.
“Who?” I ask.
“Quinn.”
The invisible belt squeezing my chest eases, and I nod. As a daycare teacher, Zander’s younger sister might be equipped to help, but that doesn’t mean she will. She doesn’t even like me. Why would she step up to the plate to help out?
I listen to the one-sided conversation, and when Zander ends the call, I hold my breath, praying the news is good.
“She’s on her way.”
Air rushes from my lungs. “Thank fuck.”
“Hey, watch your language in front of the child.”
“Shit, right.”
Zander glares at me, until footsteps on the stairs catch our attention.
“Zander?” Liz asks hesitantly as her gaze moves around the room, settling on the little pink bundle in his arms.
“She’s not mine,” he says to the only girl he’s ever been serious about. “She’s Jonah’s.”
“You’re kidding me.” She plunks herself down beside Zander. “I had no idea you had a daughter, Jonah.”
“That makes two of us,” I say.
Liz gathers her hair and pulls an elastic from her wrist to tie it up. “Who’s the mother?” she asks.
I open my mouth but Zander answers for me. “Shari,” he says. He takes the bottle from the baby’s mouth and puts her over his shoulder. Jesus, he’s a natural with her. Then again, his mother left when he was young, leaving her two children behind. Quinn was just an infant herself, and at four years old, Zander had to take on a lot of responsibility. I’m sure feeding his baby sister was one of them.
“Watch and learn, Jonah.” He taps the baby’s back, Daisy lets out a loud burb. Christ, she could put a locker room full of hockey players to shame. Zander chuckles.
“Does she have a name?” Liz asks.
“Daisy,” I say, and Liz makes an aww sound.
She touches the baby’s little hand. “That’s so pretty.” She looks at the baby, then at me. “She kind of looks like you, Jonah.”
“She looks like Winston Churchill,” Zander says, and Liz slaps him.
“That’s awful. She’s beautiful.”
Zander cradles her in his arms again, and now that she has a full belly, she falls asleep.
I look at the bundle all wrapped up in a pink blanket. No way. Now way can I do this. I try to breathe through a fresh burst of panic. But now suddenly I can’t seem to fill my lungs.
“She needs a crib,” Zander says.
A crib? Sure, like I have one of those just laying around.
“Can I hold her for a bit?” Liz asks. Zander hands the baby over, and I root through the bag again, to see what supplies Shari left for me.
“You’re not going to find a crib in there,” Zander ribs, a crooked grin on his face.
“Funny,” I say, in no mood for his humor. I find a few more bottles, a stack of diapers and a couple changes of clothes. What the hell do I do when I run out?
Hopefully Shari will come to her senses by then, and come back and rescue her child. What kind of mother just leaves her baby with a guy who has no clue how to take care of her anyway? Then again do, I even want her to come back after a stunt like that?
Daisy makes a cooing sound as Liz snuggles her, and while I’m terrified of the little bundle, it scares me more to think Shari could have just left her somewhere alone, no one to take care of her. An uneasy shiver moves through me, and as I feel a strange protective tug, Zander points to the bottles.
“You’d better put them in the fridge.”
“Yeah.” I gather up the bottles and the cans of formula. Needing a moment to myself, to wrap my brain around this turn of events, I hurry to the kitchen and open the fridge. I shake my head when I find nothing but beer and wine. A baby can’t live on takeout. Wait, does a four-month-old even eat solid food?
Christ, I am so fucked.
My doorbells rings and I head back to the living room to find Zander opening the door for his sister. Her hair in a frazzled mess, she steps around him, plants her hands on her hips and gives me a scalding glare.
Air leaves my lungs in a rush, like I’d just been body checked. For a tiny might of a girl, her scowl sure packs a punch
She waves her finger at me, her mess of short blonde hair bobbing around her chin. “First things first, if you’re going to have a baby in here, you need to get this place cleaned up,” she says. I take in the room from her eyes. Empty pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, bags of chips and dozens of bottles are littered throughout the room. Yeah, okay, it’s a pigsty, but we were
celebrating.
“I’m not even convinced she’s mine, Quinn.”
The amber flecks in her blue eyes flare bright. Could she hate me any more? “Clean up,” she says, “and put a damn shirt on already.” She starts stacking bottles in her arm, clinking them together, and Zander reaches for the pizza boxes to help.
I stand there, dumfounded. Wait, Quinn is going at this situation like I’m actually going to keep the child here with me, in my house.
Oh, hell no. I’m not fit to be a father.
“I can’t keep Daisy here, Quinn,” I say, pointing to the sleeping baby in Liz’s arms. “I have no idea how to take care of a baby.” I grip my hair. “Jesus, I have a career to think about, and the last thing I want is to be a father or settle down with a family.”
She glares at me, and so help me God, if looks could kill, I’d be riding shotgun on the bus to Hell.
“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she says.
Jesus, does she have to be so mean? Yeah, okay, I know I’m a selfish prick, but at least I know it and don’t pretend otherwise. And yeah, she’s right. It is too late for that.
2
Quinn
I’m so pissed off, I’m sure there is steam coming out of my ears. I can’t stand for a man to shirk his responsibilities, and seeing Jonah standing there, denying the baby is even his, makes me want to throat punch him.
I’ve never, for one minute, liked the way my brother or his best friend lived, puck bunnies in their beds every night. At least now Zander has seemed to settle down with Liz. Seriously though, did Jonah not think that it would catch up to him? That something like this would eventually happen? Sure, he’s the golden boy of the NHL, but this is reality, and he needs to clean up his act and stand up to be the man Daisy needs him to be. She deserves that much from him. Especially after being abandoned by her mother.