Page 11 of Ice, Love, & Other Penalties

“Yeah, we’re not the same at all,” Myra says in agreement.

“Exactly.” I give her an encouraging nod. “So, it’s best if you and I get to know each other and come up with a routine that works for us.”

She lets out a resigned sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Okay, but I probably won’t like any of this,” she grumbles. “We should go back to Florida with my friends.”

I bite back a laugh at her dramatics, but then stop and realize that the nanny quitting has just unraveled her feelings about the move.

Maybe this is something we should look into more closely. When I drop her at school, I plan on reminding her teacher that she’s not only new to the school but also to the city.

Right now, it’s my job to ensure that she feels welcomed. Maybe I can try to set up a few dates with Cora who’s around her age. This won’t be easy, but I’ll make it work.

“Come on, I’m pretty sure we can make this fun,” I cajole as we head to the kitchen, Myra dragging her feet on the stairs behind me.

We stand side by side at the sink, where I show Myra how to rinse the dishes before carefully handing them to her to put in the dishwasher. She seems unsure at first, but eventually gets the hang of where things go. As we work, we chat about everything under the sun—her favorite animals (she wants a cat and maybe a dog someday), what she’s learning in school, and her friends.

Lucky for her, I come equipped with a cat and a dog who’ll be great at helping me with Myra’s transition.

After the kitchen is tidy again, we move on to her room. Together, we pick up scattered toys, organize books, and smooth out the crumpled sheets to make her bed. It’s not just about getting the cleaning done but also spending quality time together and teaching her responsibility. By the time we finish, the room looks like a brand-new space, and the pride shining in Myra’s eyes makes every bit of effort worthwhile.

We even pick up a pair of shoes that match her outfit—and I convince her to switch her mismatched socks too.

“All ready for school?” I ask.

She self-consciously touches her hair and the messy ponytail she didn’t want me to touch earlier, a hint of uncertainty in her bright green eyes. “Would you mind making it pretty?”

“Of course, sweetie.” I pick up a brush from her dresser and gently work through the tangles, then sweep her wavy hair up into a cute, updo, adding a bow I find in a drawer.

With her hair done, it’s time to get in the car. The drive to school is brief, and even though the streets are bustling with the morning rush and the school parking lot is teeming with cars, luck is on our side. I find the perfect parking spot at Dad’s recording company, conveniently located across the street from Myra’s school. Spotting his car already there, I make a mental note to drop by for a visit.

Hand in hand, we make our way into the school, navigating through the lively corridors to her kindergarten classroom. Letting go of her hand at the door feels unexpectedly hard, a pang of separation anxiety pulling at my heartstrings. Yet, she dashes into the colorful, inviting room with enthusiasm, her pink unicorn backpack bobbing with each step. Turning around, she sends me a joyful wave goodbye. Her smile is so bright and infectious, it lifts the weight off my shoulders.

“Have an amazing day, Myra,” I call after her. “I’ll see you this afternoon.” For now, at least, the previous anxiety seems to dissipate.

Before I leave, I give a quick heads up to her teacher about Myra’s current situation. Once the school drop-off is complete, I have to start the most important task: finding a new nanny.

I don’t think I have the strength to handle a sweet little girl who needs a lot of emotional support, while still finding a way to avoid her father. Even though I came to their rescue today, I’m not exactly a superhero.

Chapter Seven

Tyberius

Stepping into the crisp chill of the arena from the cozy warmth of home, a blend of comfort and anticipation settles over me. The unique sound of the rink—the scrape of skates, the distant thud of pucks, the muffled calls of players—fills the air, grounding me in the reality of the day ahead.

Hockey was the constant in a childhood of variables, beginning at age six in the Rhode Island Club for Underprivileged Kids. For me, it was a lot more than a game. It was my lifeline, a way to channel energy and emotion when life at home became too much. A way to get snacks and food when my mother didn’t have money or chose to buy booze instead of feeding me. It also gave me a sense of belonging and direction during those hard years.

I spent so much time perfecting my game that opportunities opened—private clubs wanted me on their roster, leading to coveted scholarships. Then recruitment from high schools and eventually the full ride to play college hockey. The cherry on top was being able to play professionally. Making a living of the one thing that might’ve saved my life while growing up.

Stepping into the locker room transports me back through those formative years as I don my gear. The rest of the world narrows to my singular focus—preparation and leading this team ahead. I change quickly, the ritual as familiar as breathing.

With my armor in place, I stride out of the locker room, the sounds of the rink growing louder, more insistent. The sharp scent of the ice, mixed with the faint aroma of rubber and steel from the equipment—I’m home.

Jude Decker is there by the edge of the rink, tablet in hand, next to the coaches. Probably making notes for tomorrow’s game.

“Jude,” I call out as I reach him.

“Ty, I’m glad you could make it on time,” he states. “I take it Indie arrived at your house as requested.”

“Indie?” I furrow my brow and then I remembered the woman from the relocation team telling Myra her name was Indie. “Yeah, Indigo Walker arrived earlier than I expected.”

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