Page 14 of Ice, Love, & Other Penalties

I laugh tiredly. “I’d say pathetic more than juicy. But where to even start . . .”

“At the beginning, obviously,” Lyric says. “I’m ready, coffee in hand, for the whole scoop.”

A small, incredulous laugh escapes me as I dive into my eventful morning with all the details just like my sister likes it.

“So let me get this straight. Somehow, Jude roped you into taking care of this little girl named Myra.”

I sigh. “Yeah, just temporarily until I find a permanent nanny situation.”

Unsurprisingly Lyric laughs either at me for being so naïve or my brother for overpromising things to his players. “Classic Jude, dragging you along,” she manages between chuckles. “But come on, there has to be more to this than just playing babysitter. You usually like children and are really good with them. What’s bothering you?”

I hesitate, the image of Tyberius flashing across my mind. “Well, here’s the thing . . .” I trail my voice, then clear my throat. “Myra’s dad.”

“You don’t like him or is it the mom?” she asks.

“As I mentioned, he’s a single dad. No mom in the picture,” I clarify. “Just search for Tyberius Nolan Brynes. Go ahead, open your internet browser and just type his name. The man is . . . let’s just say, distractingly hot.”

“Ooh, do tell,” Lyric says eagerly. “On a scale of one to spilling-scalding-coffee-on-myself-because-I’m-ogling, how hot are we talking?”

“Definitely might cause third degree coffee burns,” I confess with a blush and small laugh.

I might not be fair to him. There’s a lot more so I add, “He’s the whole package—we’re talking tall, rugged, carefree yet deliberate style. And don’t even get me started on his muscles or the fact he’s an athlete.” I fan myself dramatically. “Let’s just say Tyberius Brynes is a walking, talking distraction I do not need in my life right now.”

There’s a brief pause of silence before I hear Lyric’s snicker through the phone. “Mm-hmm, sounds like you really, really like him, Indie. But hot single dads don’t just come as eye candy—there’s also a kindergartener attached.”

I exhale loudly. “Of course, total no-go zone. I know better than anyone that older men, especially hockey players, are bad news.” The words slip out before I can censor myself and to save face I add, “More so if there are children involved.”

“That’s not the statement I expected to hear,” she says, concern in her voice. “Have you . . . have you been with another hockey player before?”

I wince. “It was nothing serious,” I mutter evasively. “One of my hookups as usual.”

No one in my family knows what happened with Frederick. No one. I feel ashamed of telling them what I did. If I hadn’t been throwing myself at him . . . and then to top it all I had to quit school because I was having panic attacks during classes. Other times I would freeze in the middle of the coffee shop or the bookstore.

Some of my cousins lived there and would come to help me, but it became impossible to live alone. Mom and Dad took me home. The therapist told them I was probably not ready to live in another state away from my family or handle the responsibilities of a college student. There was also the possibility that I was burnt out thrown in mix. I worked really hard during high school, they assumed I was probably too tired to continue.

Statistics about successful high schoolers not being able to function outside a well-established routine were brought to their attention. I not only let them believe that all of it was true. I convinced myself that was the only reason why my anxiety was out of control.

Right after, I started working odd jobs for my family. Everyone had something for me. Once I had saved enough money, I moved out of my parents’ house. It gave the illusion that I was fine and that nothing, nothing shakes me up. The anxiety is gone, it was just a child missing her family. The truth is that the night terrors are still there and sometimes I’m leaning against one of the walls of my house trying to calm down.

“Uh-oh, I searched this Brynes guy and just spilled coffee down my shirt. Literally,” Lyric exclaims. “No wonder you’re so flustered—I’d probably drop my panties if he so much as winked at me.”

I roll my eyes but huff a small laugh, relieved when she doesn’t press about the hockey dude I hooked up with. “So now you see my problem.”

Lyric’s laughter fills the car once more. “Well, you should charge Jude a lot for babysitting this guy’s adorable daughter. Also, make sure those fees include a ‘distraction tax’ for dealing with the hot as fuck single dad.”

I chuckle. “Oh, I fully plan to invoice with a lot of surcharges including emotional distress.”

“Still, you haven’t told me who the other guy was,” she circles back to that.

I groan, banging my head against the steering wheel.

“You thought I would forget.” she scoffs. “I don’t think so. I bet it explains your whole ‘triple f’ dating strategy nowadays.”

“My what? Triple f?” I ask confused.

“‘Fun, fuck, fly’ dating strategy,” she responds. “You know, having fun little trysts but no real relationships. I’m not shaming you, but it’s weird that you of all people avoid getting attached.”

“Me of all people?”

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