Page 5 of Single Dad Dilemma
At 3:30 p.m., my phone would ring with a video call, and the two faces I loved most would fill the screen.
Bryce was almost twelve, Maggie almost eleven, and they were old enough now to remember to call as soon as they got off the bus. Our conversations were often mundane—discussing homework, telling them to stop arguing with each other, and reminding my daughterthat she was not, in fact, allowed to try to access government databases in her spare time.
Prior to that 3:30 phone call, it was rare for me to hear from them, unless someone was sick or—as they’d done time and time again since my ex, Rachel, had moved across the country with her healthy alimony payment—they’d successfully run off another nanny, housekeeper, or tutor.
It was during one of the later fifteen-minute increments, just past 5:00 p.m. on a Wednesday, that my phone began ringing.
It wasn’t either of the kids, and it wasn’t from the house phone, so I silenced the ringer and returned my focus to the front of the conference room.
Wednesday evenings, I tried to sit in on positional meetings; today, I was in the running back’s meeting. Miguel, my running back’s coach, had some film from last week’s game up on the screen, pausing it to show a breakdown in one of our routes, when my phone rang again.
Everyone turned to look at me.
I cleared my throat and silenced the ringtone again, eyeing the same number with a growing sense of unease. When a voicemail came through, I muttered an apology and brought the phone up to my ear.
“Mr. King, it’s Jill. I’m sorry for bothering you again, and I apologize for not giving you my new cell number, but I have no idea where the kids are, and they’re not answering their phones. Again. This is the fourth time this has happened in the last two weeks, and with all due respect, sir, you do not pay me enough to keep track of them likethis.”
I let out a slow, deep breath, disconnecting the call with a firm tap of my thumb. “My apologies at having to leave early; I have something that needs my attention at home.”
My offensive coordinator, who’d worked with me for the last five years, gave me a curious look. “Everything okay, Coach?”
I managed a tight smile. “My children seem to be missing.”
No one was fazed by this information.
Miguel snickered at the front of the room. Darius, our leading rusher, smothered a smile behind his hand. My OC nodded slowly. “Maggie must’ve been bored again.”
“Looks to be that way,” I said, tone even despite the surge in my blood pressure. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The walk back to my office was blissfully uninterrupted. Most of the front office staff knew not to stop me unless they’d gone through Bridget to find a fifteen-minute slot. With only two games left in the regular season, the offices were drenched in Christmas decor—gold and white and silver seemed to be the theme this year, contrasting with the red and white of the Buffalo logo.
In my hand, my cell phone got heavier and heavier the longer I walked, but I would not be having this conversation within earshot of anyone besides Bridget. I turned the last corner, entering the lobby for my office, as well as the offices for the offensive and defensive coordinators, and my assistant coach.
Anchored in the middle of the space of lush carpets, deep leather chairs, and a silver version of the logo on the wall was Bridget’s command center—a massive desk that dwarfed her petite frame. At the moment, it was empty. A glance at the clock told me she was likely eating dinner. She usually did from 5:00 to 5:30 when I was in position meetings.
The moment I cleared my office door, I stopped short. There was a full-size Christmas tree in the corner—half covered with red, silver, and white ornaments—and another smaller one with bare branches. I pinched the bridge of my nose and pulled up Jill’s number.
“Mr. King,” she answered, the irritation bleeding into every individual letter of my name.
“I’m sorry for the delay; I was in a meeting and didn’t recognize the number. Did you find them yet?”
She let out a disgruntled scoff. “Yes. They’re at the neighbors’ house.”
My brow furrowed. “Which ones? Scott and Patty are gone until February, and they’re the only neighbors they know.”
“Well, Scott and Patty have averyfriendly house sitter who has a dog, so ...”
I tipped my head back. “So my kids are playing with the dog.”
She made a tight, uncomfortable sound. “They’ve informed me they’re not coming home. SoI’minformingyouthat I quit.”
My jaw clenched tight, and I let my frustration escape in a tiny, harsh puff of air. “Jill, please just give me through the end of the week.”
“You hired me to be a housekeeper. You also told me your kids would need very little supervision once they were home from school, and that is not the case.” She cleared her throat. “I have no desire to be a babysitter, sir, especially not foryourkids, no matter how much you pay me.”
As I took a seat in my leather chair, I glanced at the rest of my carefully constructed schedule and mentally delegated about half of it to my assistant coach, who hopefully would forgive me. “I can be home in an hour. Please ... just ... give me an hour.”
“They’ll be at the neighbors’ with their house sitter when you get home,” she informed me. “Who was not very friendly tomewhen I tried to get the kids to come back. Not the kind of woman I’d want my kids around.”
