Page 202 of Chosen By a Baller 3: Playin’ For Keeps

And judging by the little girl currently laid against her daddy’s chest like she paid bills in this house, I’d say I moved in the right damn direction.

Kyrie was back doing what he loved, too, and if anything, getting shot had made him appreciate football more. His ass still complained about practice, still came home talking shit about somebody on the team getting on his nerves, and still acted like every catch he made was the greatest catch anybody had ever seen.

So, basically, nothing had changed.

Except now, the second he walked through the door, football became the last thing on his mind. Because his daughter had him wrapped around her tiny little finger.

I watched as Kyrie lifted her closer to his face.

“You good, Daddy’s baby?”

Her little hand reached up and caught him near his mouth.

I laughed.

“See? She telling you to shut the hell up too.”

Kyrie cut his eyes at me.

“Don’t talk about my daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so I ain’t carry her for nine months?”

“I helped.”

My head slowly turned in his direction.

“Nigga, you did what?”

“You heard me.”

“The only thing you helped do was put her in there.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Couldn't have did it without me.”

I stared at him.

This fucking man.

“I pushed that big-headed child out,” I added.

His smile disappeared.

“Don’t call my daughter big-headed.”

“She got your head.”

“Ain’t shit wrong with my head.”

I looked at his head.

Then back at him.

“Fuck you, Sianni.”