Page 80 of The Nanny Goal

Emery sure as fuck makes me smile, even when she shouldn’t. Even when she’s mad at me.

If it wasn’t incriminating as fuck, I’d find the trainer who saw us together on the ice and drag her out to testify to how recently I’ve smiled in this building.

But I don’t need my teammates to start thinking about something being different about me. Not right now. We’re on the cusp of making the playoffs. Tomorrow is an important game in that regard, too, to get us two important points and move us even further into safety.

My teammates want a win to beat Max Tilman.

I want a win to extend my streak, because seven wins in a row…surely that will secure my starting spot in the playoffs.

And if not, then I’ll turn my attention to the next game after that. Eight. Nine would put me in the lead across the league for the season. Ten would break me away not only from Makie’s recent seasons, but most of the pack, and put me in Vezina territory.

Not the point.

The point is always the play-offs. Team first, personal accomplishments second.

But for the young man who just two years ago was eager to get a single start, and then fucking missed it because he was at the fucking hospital becoming a dad, it’s hard to pretend this run of wins doesn’t matter.

It fucking matters to me.

* * *

The house smells like apples and cinnamon when I return from practice, and it sounds…exactly like the arena I just left.

“That’s it, pass it to me, put it on my tape!”

There’s a little whacking sound, hard plastic hitting rubber. No actual tape on those mini sticks, but Emery is right into it, and from Inessa’s giggles, so is my daughter.

Beneath it all is the upbeat bounce of a pop song, and even before I take my shoes off, I can picture the scene in the kitchen. Emery’s phone propped against something, a custom playlist for Inessa on the screen. The two of them on the floor as something amazing cools on the stove. Apple pie? A cobbler?

It’s wild how quickly Emery’s presence has changed my home.

Quietly, I pad down the hall. The hockey game has stopped and they’re whispering to each other.

I stop in the doorway.

Emery’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with Inessa in front of her.

Inessa is patiently, miraculously sitting still while Emery weaves a braid down one side of my daughter’s head.

I fucking stop breathing.

It makes no sense, because it’s nice to see.

There’s no reason for my chest to feel caved in.

She picks up a tiny pink brush that usually lives beside the couch, and causes non-stop protests when I try to use it. But Inessa has no complaints as Emery smooths out the other side of her hair, then repeats the quick but neat-looking braid.

“Papa!” Inessa calls when she spots me. She scrambles to her feet and grabs a mini stick, hacking at the rubber ball, sending into a cardboard box pinned between two kitchen chairs. “Goal!”

“Nice,” I praise. “Very good goal.”

I cross to Emery and offer her a hand up. She takes it, a flicker of guarded carefulness on her face when the predictable warm current of energy flows between us.

I pull her to her feet, letting her bump into me a little. A good excuse to wrap my arm around her hips and see that she’s standing just fine before letting go.

“You’ve turned her into a proper hockey girl,” I murmur. “Didn’t take long.”

“She’s a natural.” Emery’s voice is steady, but her eyes keep moving—like she doesn’t quite trust herself to look at me too long, but she can’t help but glance back every few seconds.

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