“Oh, Dad…that’s a bad word.”
No shit.
I smile at her as I rub my hip. That’s definitely going to leave a bruise. “Sorry, Rubes. I’ll put a dollar in the swear jar.”
She merely nods her acceptance of my apology and turns worried eyes back to the toilet.
“You have to save it,” she implores.
Yeah…that’s not going to happen. Not now. Not ever.
“Sure, baby,” I tell her as I take her by the shoulder and turn her toward the bathroom door. I swear the spider glares at me with a million red, evil eyes. “Go on down and get breakfast. Violet’s fixing your cereal. I’ll get the spider out.”
“Okay,” Ruby says as she pulls away from me, but continues to give me instructions. “But let it out the front door and I’ll bring it some food later.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I assure her as she disappears down the stairs. When I hear her feet hit the bottom landing, I turn toward the toilet, intent on a quick flush to put me out of my misery.
Except when I look in the bowl, the fucking thing is gone.
I’ll just go ahead and admit it. Spiders scare the living hell out of me. I have no clue why, and while I would battle the biggest, baddest monster to the death for my daughters, I’d much rather flush a little spider down the toilet.
I immediately scramble backward out of the bathroom, grabbing the doorknob and shutting it quickly behind me. My heart is racing a million miles an hour, the thought of that furry hell beast now loose in my house.
Just one more thing on the list of things I still need to do today.
Get the girls dressed and ready for school.
Take the girls to school.
Clean up the spilled laundry detergent.
Finish the laundry.
Arm myself with a can of hairspray and a lighter to torch the rogue spider in the bathroom.
Pick up my dry cleaning.
Work out.
Team practice.
Pick up the girls from Kate and Zack’s house.
Dinner.
Baths.
Story time and cuddling.
Go to bed because I’ll be exhausted.
Easy as fucking pie, and I’ll get up and do it all over again the next day with a smile on my face. I’m finding life as a single parent isn’t as daunting as I thought it would be and I’ve finally found my groove.
And my role as a single dad isn’t the only place I’ve found my groove, because as it stands right now I happen to be playing some of the best hockey of my career with the Carolina Cold Fury. That would be the same team that I let down during the playoffs last season, ending our shot at a Cup run.
As I stand here on December’s doorstep, we are two months into the season. Twenty-three games down. Sixteen games won. My goals against average is hovering at a 1.92 and my save percentage is .936. Best goalie stats in the league and I’m on fucking fire. If I continue with this streak, I’ve got another shot at a Vezina Trophy. More important, if my stamina holds out, we are looking at another serious run at the championship, which would help ease my guilty conscience. Not nearly as important, but something that does give me a small bit of pleasure, I want to yell out to all those doubters, naysayers, and assholes who have called me too old to still be playing hockey, In your face!
I just turned thirty-two, for Christ’s sake. I’ve still got years left in the league the way I’m playing.
My phone gives a short chime and I pull it out of my pocket. I can’t help the curl of slight disgust that comes to my lips when I see an email from Hensley. Most people would agree: A man is allowed to be disgusted by his wife when she sleeps with another man. Even more so when that other man is a teammate.
But that’s not why I curl my lips and wrinkle my nose. No, I’m pretty much past that, and I know I’m past it because I just don’t think about it anymore. In fact, I’m expecting the final divorce decree in the mail any day now. Our hearing was last month in Boston and my lawyer assured me it would sail through with no hitches, mainly because Hensley and I were able to agree on a division of our assets and custody of the girls coming to me.
No…there is absolutely not a single remaining bitter feeling left in me about the loss of my wife and her betrayal to our marriage. It’s over and I’m ready to move on.
I am, however, completely affronted by Hensley’s attitude toward her daughters. Those precious silver-eyed beauties whom she dumped on my doorstep before she checked out of their lives so she could run around the country with her boy toy during hockey season.
A quick glance at her email and my stomach knots up. A simple reminder that she’ll be in town next week when the Boston Eagles—my former team—will be here in Raleigh to play the Cold Fury. Because Hensley is still currently fucking my former Eagle teammate Patric Sutter, and living with him on the road, she’ll be here for a visit. Obviously, she wants to spend some time with Violet and Ruby.
I hit Reply, but before my fingers can even begin to type what I hope will be a fairly calm response—because let’s face it, I’m not going to keep her away from the girls—my phone starts ringing, immediately followed by a picture of Zack popping up.
Zack Grantham.
My teammate. My best friend.
Boyfriend to Kate Francis, my girls’ part-time nanny and the angel who helped me get grounded when I needed it most.
“What’s up?” I say, leaning back against the hallway wall. I keep an eye on the space below the bathroom door, making sure the spider doesn’t come prowling out. I have my foot poised to strike out and stomp the little fucker if it shows.