Page 12 of Just One Season
I know better than to argue further with Bri, so I bite my tongue and instead tickle Ava in the side until she squirms out of my arms and sprints back to the kitchen.
When Bri showed up at my door six years ago with a pregnant belly claiming I was the father, I was horrified and disbelieving.
Bri had been the pretty but nerdy girl in high school who played the flute in band, with messy hair and glasses. I was all hockey, all the time, so I never even tried to date her back then, but I had a crush on her from afar. I lost track of Bri after high school, but apparently, she’d gotten her associates degree from a small community college and was sucked into our hometown of Pueblo by her loser boyfriend.
Six months before she showed up at my door, I’d run into Bri at a bar in Fort Collins. She told me she was in town for a bachelorette party weekend, three hours from Pueblo. She’d broken upwith her boyfriend a month earlier. We had one night together, then she went back home without even leaving her number.
And when she found out she was pregnant, and the doctors told her the estimated due date… she knew it was mine, not her ex’s.
Bri didn’t have one baby item with her when she arrived. Her parents weren’t willing to help. That town is full of useless, deadbeat, lying parents, which I know all too well.
How could I turn her away?
“Daddy! Come sit!”
I shrug and slide past Bri into her kitchen. We never tried to be together after that, and neither of us wanted to. These days, Bri is family. And when Ava had serious health issues a few years after she was born, we got through it together while she was treated at the fantastic children’s hospital in Denver.
“What’s up today, pumpkin?”
“I have kindergarten. Again! Then soccer practice. Are you picking me up?” Ava pours about a gallon of syrup on her pancakes before murdering one with a fork and taking a too-big bite. I subtly slide a banana closer to her.
“Sorry baby, I’ll be at hockey practice till late. Grace will grab you from school and take you to practice, okay?”
“Daddy, we still don’t have a soccer coach since Bella’s dad stopped helping. Are you sure you can’t do it?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t be there for most of the practices and some of the games. I’m sorry.” If there was a way I could do this for my daughter, I would. Not because the kids need me in particular to be their coach, but because it’d be another way to show her she’s my top priority. But I just can’t. Not with my schedule.
“Aw.” Ava sticks out her bottom lip.
“Hey, I have a funny story for you.”
“What, Daddy?” Ava pours more syrup on the last two bites ofher pancake. My blood sugar spikes just watching her. “Want some pancake?”
“Definitely not. I’ll eat at the arena. And pancakes soaked in maple syrup will not be an option.” Sometimes I wish I could eat like my daughter, but my hockey career depends on me taking care of my body. “Ava. There was a dog on the ice yesterday.”
“A dog??” Ava gasps with delight, fork halfway to her mouth. “What kind of dog?”
“I don’t know. It had a scrunched-up face.”
“Was it a pug? I love pugs!” She shoves the dripping bite of pancake in her mouth.
“I don’t think so.”
“A bulldog? A Boston terrier?” I should probably stop her from talking with her mouth full, but she’s too cute. I’m sure I’ll regret that rationale at some point.
“Maybe? How do you even know all these dog breeds?” I chuckle.
“I got a book from the library! Was it a big dog? A small dog?”
“Um, I’d say small.”
“She’s obsessed with this dog breed book,” Bri says. “I’ll have her bring it to your house.”
“What was the dog doing there?” Ava’s eyes are open comically wide as she absorbs every word I say.
“Well, it was running away from its owner and got into the rink, slipping and sliding everywhere. And then—ready for this?—it peed on the ice.”
Ava cackles wildly.
