Prologue

I stare through the glass window as a nurse walks around from baby to baby, doing some sort of exam. I feel like I'm in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. The faint sound of machines beeping in the hallway and the smell of hospital cleaner usually bother me. Right now, my brain is too numb to even think about it all.

"She was on her phone, and"—the brunette sniffles, wiping her eyes—"I guess she wasn't paying attention and pulled right in front of oncoming traffic."

I hear her talking. The girl who is the best friend of the woman I now have a child with. A woman who … is dead. I hear her voice, sort of. But nothing makes sense.

I'm nobody's dad. I'm Logan Sterns—right winger for the New England Bay Sharks. I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated last year in a briefs campaign. A photo shoot that got me more ass than an airport toilet seat. I'm fierce on the ice. Feared even. But I'm a good time off of it.

I can't be a father. I wouldn't know the first fucking thing about it.

"Are you going to, you know …" she begins to say but pauses. "Be able to care for her?"

Her.

As in my baby. A baby I didn't even know existed until an hour ago.

The nurse gets to her. My daughter, apparently.

After a few moments of examining her, she glances up at me nervously. When she looks me in the eye, I can read the pity all over her face.

She feels bad for me because she thinks I lost someone today. The way she's looking at me, she's hurting for me. When I'm so much of a piece of shit that I can hardly remember hooking up with this woman.

A woman who is dead.

I look at the baby again, watching her mouth open before she brings her fist to her mouth.

I don't deserve to be her dad. When she's older and she asks me about her mom, I won't even know what the hell to tell her.

She sucks on her tiny fist before she scrunches her face up in a look of pure disgust, and tears fill my eyes out of absolutely nowhere.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I can't pull myself away from watching her.

The nurse pokes her head out the door. "Mr. Sterns? Would you like to hold your daughter?"

Putting my palm on the glass, I lean closer. "I … I don't know how. I … I might drop her. I've never—"

Taking a few steps toward me, she gives my arm a pat. "You're going to do fine." Turning around, she points to a vacant room with a bed and a recliner in it that is right next to a large picture window. "Go on and sit in there. I'll bring her to you."

For a moment, I freeze. My feet stay in place, and I can't move. But when I see her walking back into the room and slowly lifting the baby up, my feet take me into the room, and I sit down in the recliner just as she brings her in.

The nurse makes it look so easy. Then again, she's in her late fifties, I'd say, and she's likely done this for a long time. Looking at her name tag, I take note that her name is Judy.

"Just relax, love," she whispers with a smile before slowly setting the bundled-up baby in my arms. "Support her neck. You're doing just fine."

I look down at her, and I feel … everything. Her eyes are closed, but she squirms slightly, trying to get her fist back into her mouth.

"She's hungry, it seems." Judy chuckles. "I'll go get you a bottle. And before you panic, don't. I'll give you a feeding and burping lesson." She pauses. "She still needs a name, you know."

My heart races, and I feel panic soar through my body. But when Judy leaves and the baby's eyes slowly open, even though it's clear she can't look directly at me, I dip my head down closer.

"It's all going to be okay, baby girl. I promise." I kiss the top of her head, feeling tears spill from my eyes and down my cheeks. "I don't know the first thing about taking care of a baby, but I promise … I'm going to protect you with all I am." I breathe her in before looking at her again. "Amelia," I whisper, "that's your name."

I choose to name her after my mother. Because my mom would have given anything to be here right now to meet her granddaughter. She was truly one of the best humans. Since cancer took her way too soon, my daughter will carry on her name.

Goddammit, I wish my mom were here now to tell me how I'm going to take care of this baby.