“I cannot simply stop calling myself Daddy. Not when the opportunity arises. Plus”—he grabs two giant blueberry muffins, shoving half of one in his mouth—“I’m wike da team daddy, wight?” It’s best not to entertain him in these types of scenarios, so I don’t. “Technically . . .” Axel Larsen, the Vipers’ general manager, pokes his head over our shoulders. “I’m the team daddy.” He winks at Carter. “Maybe I’ll be your daddy, Beckett.” Carter gasps, shoving a finger in Axel’s shoulder. “Holly Beckett is so far out of your league, she’s in outer space.”
