Page 96 of The Nanny Goal

“And she always will, even when she’s in Switzerland.”

“Switzerland!”

“It’s a long story. She’s following her dreams.”

“Silly girl. She should dream of marrying a handsome goalie.”

I laugh out loud. “Oh, Mama. That’s nobody’s dream, I hate to tell you.”

My father brings a mug to my mother, with extra milk just the way she likes it. “Are you waiting for someone to dream of you?”

I frown. “No.”

“Whatever her dream is, you make that happen. And then you will be her dream, too.”

“I didn’t come down here for relationship advice, because I do not have a relationship. I also don’t have time for a relationship.”

Literally the only interrupted time I’ve managed to find with Emery was pre-dawn. The thrill of that is going to wear off sooner than later for her.

We don’t have a relationship. We have a secret connection. It’s intense and profound, and while I will never forget her, I know the part of our story where we are actuallytogetheris temporary.

* * *

It doesn’t stop me from looking for her as soon as we skate onto the ice for the warmup that night, and my chest gets warm and puffs up as soon as I catch sight of her at the glass.

And my heart beats faster.

Moya polovinka.

She’s in the VIP area, holding Inessa up, helping her stand on the narrow ledge of the boards.

They’re both wearing my number, and I’m glad my parents aren’t here to see that, because how do I explain this isn’t a relationship?

It’s just not.

It can’t be.

But I’m not lying to myself about how good it feels that, for the time that I do have her, she’s giving me this—no scaling of the glass required.

Even bruised, Emery Granger’s big heart is a thing of wonder.

After stopping to high-five Inessa through the glass and give Emery a blush-inducing wink, I join my teammates in the looping warm up flow.

Calgary is doing the same thing on the other half of the ice, and the tension is already crackling.

I break away from the group, slide into the crease, and drop into my rhythm—glide, stretch, butterfly, pop back up. Talk to the net, praise the posts. The usual routine.

But at the same time, I’m clocking the energy in front of me.

On our side of the ice, Armstrong looks like a lion who has been just let out of his pen. More than once, he looks towards the VIP area. His girlfriend, Shannon, is standing at the back of the WAGs, and they don’t stay at the glass for very long.

Once they leave, he starts prowling back and forth at the centre red line. It doesn’t take long for Max Tilman to start mirroring him on the Calgary side. He’s a sharp-looking player, sleek like a panther, and while Armstrong outweighs him by a good twenty pounds or more, Tilman has speed on his side, and the sharp snap of his skates on the ice as he picks up his pace sounds…violent. There’s no way around that.

I’m too far away to hear if they say anything to each other, but it doesn’t take long for Marsh to cut his warm-up short, grab Rusty, and push him to the exit.

Tilman stays on the ice.

The warm-up clock ticks down, and the number of people still stretching and skating starts to dwindle.

---