Rescuing the Player

Chapter 3

Hayes

It's 4:42 am. I'm in the kitchen warming up a bottle for the third time tonight. Little Savannah is screaming louder than anything that tiny should be able to accomplish.

"It's coming," I groan. "Just give me a minute."

She doesn't. Her cries only grow louder, reaching an ear-piercing pitch.

"Come on, baby," I plead, looking down at my three-week-old daughter's scrunched-up face. It's bright red with tears streaming down her cheeks while her tiny fists flail in the air.

After checking the temperature of the formula, following the instructions the nurse I hired showed me during the first few days, I scoop up my daughter and make my way to the living room. Collapsing onto the couch, I give her the bottle. She sucks eagerly, and I lean my head back against the wall behind it and sigh deeply.

I can't even begin to describe how exhausted I am. The last three weeks have felt like an eternity, yet they've flown by in a blur. So much has happened, and my entire life has been turned upside down.

Hanna didn't make it. She passed away in her sleep just a couple of days after the accident.

Now, I find myself thrust into the role of a single dad with absolutely no clue what I'm doing. It's like navigating through a maze blindfolded, relying on trial and error to figure things out, and hoping I don't mess up too badly along the way.

As Savannah sucks greedily on the bottle, I use my thumb to swipe away the tears that are lingering on her cheeks. My thoughts drift back to Hanna's funeral. It was a tough day, filled with emotions I wasn't expecting, or prepared to handle. It was difficult. I wasn't her biggest fan, but I never wanted her dead, despite what her mom thinks. She had a breakdown in the church after the service, blamed me for Hanna's death, and threatened to take Savannah away from me.

I still don't know how I feel about it. Part of me wonders if Savannah would be better off with someone other than me? Someone who actually knows what they're doing when it comes to raising kids, especially infants. I mean, I spent the first few days terrified of even picking her up, convinced I'd hurt her somehow.

Literally, anyone other than me would probably be better for her. But, she's a Cartwright and I am her father, and even though I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't want to just hand her over to someone else either.

Sometimes you know what you have, but not what you get. I know from experience what it's like to be pushed aside for what's perceived to be more important things. My mom tried her best to raise me and my brothers, but she had four boys, and our dad's demands that she attend all kinds of galas and conferences with him meant we spent a lot of our time with nannies.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with nannies, and in hindsight, we were probably better off with them. They didn't reprimand us simply for being rowdy little boys.

I need to figure out this whole day care situation once I go back to the office full time, and I might need to hire a nanny. But I don't want her to be raised by one. I don't want my daughter to grow up not knowing her parents, the way I did.

Valerie—Preston's new wife—has been a godsend. As a single mom before marrying Preston, she gets it. She knows exactly what I'm going through. She even dragged Preston with her during their honeymoon to buy me what she considered essential items. And I have to say they have helped.

Andrew and Easton have also pitched in. What used to be my spare bedroom now looks like a perfectly respectable baby room, complete with all sorts of toys and gadgets. Many of them she won't be able to use for years, but that's okay.