Page 23 of Punked By the Playmaker
And why was I only finding out now? Why hadn’t whoever had given birth to her contacted me?
Shouldn’t I have been able to feel that there was a piece of me out there somewhere?
What the hell was I supposed to do with her?
This wasn’t a part of my plans. I wasn’t cut out to be anyone’s dad.
“Levi? Are you okay?”
The scared voice of the girl standing opposite me cut through my haze of panic, and my lungs miraculously expanded, allowing me to take a deep breath for the first time in what felt like hours.
“Yeah,” I huffed out. “Just having an existential crisis. No big deal.”
Her forehead creased. “Uh . . .”
“Can youpleasecome in while we sort all this out?”
“Fine.” Maisie trudged forward into the house.
Shutting the door, I led her to the living room, noting my forgotten beer and snacks atop the coffee table.
Less than half an hour ago, my life had made sense. Now, I didn’t know which way was up.
My daughter—damn, it was strange to even think that—slipped a backpack off her shoulders and dropped onto the couch.
I took a seat on the loveseat across from her. “Those genetic results that led you to me . . . They didn’t link you to a mother?”
If we could find her other biological parent, that would be ideal. Sure, now that I knew I had a kid, I’d want some kind of visitation, but full-time care of a preteen wasn’t something I was equipped to handle. Not now. Possibly not ever.
Maisie shook her head. “The only living relatives listed were you, Jennifer Nixon-Price, Charles Nixon, and Evelyn Nixon.”
“Those are my sister and parents,” I confirmed. “There wasn’t anything in the adoption paperwork?” It made sense that my name might have been left off documents, but surely, there had to be something that listed the mother.
“It was a closed adoption; the records were sealed. Everything went through an agency. My parents never met my bio mom.”
Of fucking course. Because that was just my luck.
Standing, I began to pace. “Okay, okay.”
This was too big to handle alone. I needed help. But I didn’t know who to call.
My parents would be over the moon at this news, welcoming Maisie into the Nixon fold as their first grandchild and expecting me to step up as a single dad—something I wasn’t ready to jump into with both feet.
Jenn would probably laugh her ass off before telling me, “I told you so.” She’d been warning me for years that my promiscuous lifestyle was going to come back to bite me.
My teammates were all younger than me. A few of the guys had kids, but they were little, still babies and toddlers. They wouldn’t know what to do with a preteen girl.
Wait. There was exactly one person I knew who was local to San Diego and in a similar position, raising a kid around Maisie’s age.
Arizona.
“I need to make a call,” I declared, phone already in hand. “Can I leave you alone for a minute?”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “I’m twelve, not two.”
Twelve. That was good information to have.
“Be right back.”
