Page 7 of Skate the Line

I glance back to the purple curtains and reread the cardboard sign:Free Tarot Readings— Donations appreciated!

My heart beats with a little bit of anticipation as I type.

Me: If I ask for more information about this hockey player you think I’d be a good nanny for, will you stop sending me facts about Chicago every hour? Also, you suck at Photoshop.

Ruby: Jillian already bought your ticket. You leave tomorrow.

Her face pops up on the screen with an incoming call a second later.

I roll my eyes.

Chicago, here I come.

Four

RHODES

“Thank Scottie for me,”—again—Isay to our goalie, Emory.

He brushes me off as he heads toward his car. This is his first season with the Blue Devils, but he’s made a name for himself, and he’s made a name for this team too.

Not to mention, his wife has saved my ass multiple times. Whenever I have a situation with a nanny, she steps in and takes care of Ellie for me. It’s not her responsibility, though, and every single fucking time a nanny “goes to the bathroom”and doesn’t come back during one of my games, my anger rises to unfathomable levels.

I glance at Ellie’s rosy cheeks. It’s not often I let emotions cloud my judgment or alter my thoughts, butdamn.There’s a pang of sadness lingering in the back of my mind when I glance at my daughter.

My mom said that my endless nanny situation is affecting Ellie, and I practically told her to fuck off in the politest way I could think of.

But she’s right.

Every time a nanny leaves my daughter high and dry, the wound digs deeper.

“Where do you think Laken went?” Ellie innocently asks.

She grabs onto my hand, and we walk in the direction of my truck. I try to think of a good reason for the disappearing act of her new nanny that she’ll actually believe, but she isn’t stupid. Ellie is smarter than most kids her age—at least according to her kindergarten teacher.

Last week, I had my first parent-teacher conference. I was prepared for a rundown on Ellie’s grades and maybe a few examples of how well she writes her name, but instead, what I got was a fucking intervention.

Ellie’s education isn’t our concern, Mr. Volkova. It’s her social and emotional development.

I sat in that tiny-ass chair while her teacher and Mrs. Honor, the guidance counselor, reamed me with question after question regarding Ellie’s life outside of school. They wanted to know what her schedule was like, if there was stability in her life—particularly since I’m away a lot of the time due to my hockey schedule—how she handles not having a mother figure in her life, if she does age-appropriate activities…

To top it all off, they implied that Ellie attending my games on a school night surrounded by rowdy fans, most tipsy on alcohol, isn’t age appropriate.

They weren’t wrong, but what I wanted to say wasfuck off.

I’m doing the best I can.

I’m a single father who has a rigorous work schedule who can’t keep a nanny happy for more than one week at this point.

“Did you finish your homework?” I ask Ellie, ignoring her question about our recent runaway.

I catch her weary look in the rearview. “I don’t have homework, Daddy. I’m in kindergarten.”

Ah, right.

“I knew that.” I turn the truck on and play it cool. “I was just trying to catch you in a lie.”

Ellie crosses her arms and pouts. “I don't lie to you.”

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