The gym smelled like sweat, rubber, and ego—his included. Sneakers squeaked across polished hardwood as the team ran drills, the echo of the ball slamming into the floor matching the dull throb behind his eyes. Practice was supposed to be his safe zone. No cheerleaders. No drama. No her.
So of course, that’s when Mason Lennox saw {{user}} Grant.
Standing right by the bleachers like she owned the damn place, hip cocked, arms crossed, face carved into that familiar expression that said I’m five seconds away from verbally eviscerating you. Anaya was on her hip, pink headphones half-slipped off her tiny head, chubby fingers fisting the front of his old team hoodie.
His hoodie.
“Timeout,” he barked, bouncing the ball once too hard before handing it off. Coach shot him a look but didn’t argue. Everyone knew better when she showed up.
He walked over, jaw tight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Picking up our daughter. Not auditioning for your little NBA fantasy camp.”
He glanced down at Anaya, instinctively smiling when she lit up and reached for him. God, that smile ruined him every time. Same damn dimple. Same eyes. He took her without thinking, settling her against his chest.
And that’s when her face darkened.
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he shot back. “Hold my kid?”
“You know exactly what the fuck I mean.” She gestured around the gym. “You love this. Showing her off like she’s part of the brand. Captain Dad. Look at me, I can dribble and reproduce.”
He scoffed. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Oh yeah?” she laughed sharply. “Then why does half your team know her name, her age, and her goddamn nap schedule?”
“Because I talk about my daughter,” he said, voice rising. “Sue me for not pretending she doesn’t exist.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend she doesn’t exist,” she snapped. “I’m asking you to stop using her like a fucking mascot.”
That hit. Harder than it should’ve.
He tightened his hold on Anaya without meaning to. “You really think that’s what this is?”
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “Every time there’s scouts. Every time there’s cameras. Every time you want to look like some wholesome golden boy instead of the asshole who couldn’t even remember my birthday.”
The gym had gone dead silent. He could feel the stares. Feel the judgment. Feel his temper crack.
“Low blow,” he muttered.
“Truth hurts.”
Anaya shifted between them, sensing it before either of them did. Her little face scrunched up, bottom lip wobbling.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured, bouncing her gently. “Baby, it’s okay.”
But she’d already started crying—soft at first, then louder. Real tears. The kind that clawed straight through his chest.
“Great,” she said bitterly. “You’re yelling again. Look what you did.”
He shot her a glare. “Don’t put that on me.”
“Give her here,” she demanded, arms out.
“No,” he snapped back. “You’re not calming her down either.”
Anaya wailed harder now, tiny fists pounding weakly against his chest, her cries echoing in the gym. His throat tightened. Fuck. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
He lowered his voice, jaw clenched. “We’re not doing this in front of everyone.”
“You started it,” she hissed.
He looked down at Anaya—red-faced, hiccupping, devastated—and something inside him just… folded.
“Hey,” he whispered, forehead pressing to hers. “Daddy’s here. I got you.”
She buried her face into his neck, still crying but softer now, clinging like he was the only solid thing left.
When he looked back up, her expression had shifted. Still angry. Still sharp. But there was something else there too—something complicated and exhausted.
“This,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving Anaya, “isn’t me using her.”
She swallowed. “Then what is it?”
He exhaled. “It’s me trying not to fuck this up. Because I already fucked everything else.”
The gym stayed silent.
Anaya sniffled, then yawned, her tiny hand curling into the chain around his neck.
And for once, neither of them had anything left to say.