Page 11 of The Spice Play

The hard lines of his face softened slightly, no longer matching the silver tones of his hair. “Last nanny didn’t work out?”

“Not after she tried to steal a Rolex,” I chuckled.

He nodded to himself more than me, pushing a single hand through his hair as his eyes stared off into the stands behind us. “Christ. You have the worst luck with that shit,” he grumbled. “I’ll send you a link to the agency my daughter uses.”

“That would be wildly helpful.”

“Mhm. Just get your fucking act together and focus, Blue, so we can get this drill over with and run your cross-overs,” he snapped, but the words were still soft, his eyes flicking quickly to me before he started to reverse. “We need you focused on the ice when you’re here, so I’ll help. Now get your speed up, Bluesy, or else we’re not going to make it into the playoffs this year.”

Chapter 5

Nelly

The fact that I’d spent the last week imagining Sebastian’s hands on me every time I touched myself was something I would be taking to the grave.

But that hadn’t stopped me from googling him, and finding absolutely nothing.

No one on any of my socials who looked remotely like him had the nameSebastian Anthonyin the greater Atlanta area. Part of me wondered if he wasn’t from here and was just passing through, but the other half of me wondered if everything had been a lie or if he was simply not the kind of person to have social media. It wasn’t like he’d given me his number in return so I could text him, which I probably wouldn’t have done out of sheer embarrassment, but the option wasn’t even there.

And he hadn’t followed up with me, either.

I tried not to let that bother me. It was harder said than done after Morris had practically drilled into me that I was terrible in bed, but I tried nonetheless. Thankfully, Rosie had assigned me to a new client — someone whowas offering full-time work for once, with somewhere to stay on their property in one of the superbly nice areas of Atlanta. I’d been trying to get my hands on something full-time for months now, andfinally, Rosie had been able to snag me something after the last job had fallen through.

All I knew was that it was a single-father situation and that he played hockey professionally for some local team. The child’s name was Matty, and he was five — a perfect age for me. Little enough to still be adorable and chaotic but old enough to tell me what they need and when.

I took the final few sips of my take-out sweet tea before kicking open the door of my red 2005 Chevy Silverado. It was a hand-me-down from my dad that he’d given me on my sixteenth birthday, and by some miracle, I’d managed to keep it alive for almost ten years.

I’d never set foot in the Peach Arena, but there was a first for everything.

I was only ten minutes early, but Rosie had warned me that the dad I was meeting might be late because of practice, so I was content to sit in the stands if they’d let me and wait around. I’d never once watched hockey — I didn’t even know wehada hockey team, considering how hot and muggy it was here.

I walked through the entrance without any hiccups, and no one even turned in my direction. But it was the man standing outside the double doors that were shut behind him, the ones that lead into the ice rink, that gave me pause. He was clearly security from the earpiece on the side of his head and the uniform, but it was the way he glared at me as if I was trouble that had me second-guessing myself. I’d been told to meet him inside, so surely…?

“Uh, hi,” I said, coming to a stop in front of the stern-faced man with blonde hair and a five-o’clock shadow. “Can I go in?”

“Closed practice,” he said.

I opened my mouth but couldn’t find the words I wanted to say fast enough.

“No puck bunnies.”

My cheeks heated instantly, spreading little fires throughout my face. “I’m not—look, I’m here to meet one of the players.”

His expression fell flat, disappointment radiating from him.

“Not like that,” I insisted, pulling my phone from my purse haphazardly. “I have a meeting.”

“You’re press?” he scoffed. “Your organization should have known better. They don’t do interviews during closed practice times. You’ll have to reschedule.”

“No, I’m not press,” I huffed. I pulled up my email from Rosie about the meeting time, looking for anything in it that would give me information about what to do here, but I came up short. Instead, I turned my phone around to show him instead. “Sorry, I’m not trying to cause a problem. I’m just supposed to be speaking to one of the players about nannying for them, and they asked me to meet them inside.”

“What’s your name?”

“Penelope Moreno. Or Nelly.”

He pulled up his walkie-talkie to his mouth, speaking almost too quietly for me to hear. “Can you check if someone named Penelope Moreno, or Nelly, has been added to the list?”

The list? How fucking exclusive is this?

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