If you would have asked Chris years ago if he’d settle down and have a family, he would have rolled his eyes and scoffed. To him domesticity was just a pipe dream, a lofty idea that he’d entertain when he was drunk out of his mind. Yet here he is now, playing house for a child that’s not his. A child of a man who he failed horrifically. A child to whom he now dedicates every breath and heartbeat to in their father's name.

“Hey kiddo, breakfast is on the table.”

His gruff voice emerges from behind the newspaper, his nose buried in it as he squints to read the small print. Damn, he’s getting old. With each passing day, week, month, and year spent away from the field, he has become more acutely aware of his own mortality.