Page 32 of The Nanny Goal

A stern-looking woman sits stiffly on the couch. She looks straight out of central casting for nannies who leave children with lasting nightmares. I worked with some early childhood education students for two summers at a hockey day camp and they didn’t resemble this woman at all.

“This is Ms. Petrova,” Alexei introduces her. “And these are the Grangers. Emery is my new chef.”

I’d like to think there’s a hitch in his voice as he explains my presence in his house, that it’s hard for him to describe me asstaff, but the truth is that it sounds just fine.

He’s the same elegant European prince he always has been, an elite athletic star, and I’m the Midwest hayseed who will cook for him. Literally the hired help, and if I hear anything, it’s probably relief. Anything else that happened, once, was clearly a mistake to be swept under the rug.

I should just be lucky he doesn’t ask me to do that for him, too.

The nanny candidate ignores us and focuses on Inessa’s behaviour. “Does the child always run after you like that?” Her brows snap together, and while I like to frown at Alexei as much as the next girl, I don’t like it at all when this woman does it. “She needs structure. I can provide this.”

Something in her tone makes me uneasy. Inessa must feel it too because she’s clinging to Alexei’s leg like it’s a life raft.

“Inessa,” Ms. Petrova says sharply, followed by something in Russian. I don’t understand the words, but her tone is clear: get out from behind your father’s legs.

Inessa’s bottom lip trembles.

The next Russian instruction is clearer.Nyet plachamust mean no crying, and boy does that get my back up, because frankly, sometimes a girl just has to cry.

“She needs to learn proper behaviour,” Ms. Petrova continues. “No hiding behind legs. Stand straight, speak when spoken to.”

My parents exchange a look. I can’t help myself.

“She’s two,” I say in disbelief.

Ms. Petrova’s eyes narrow at me. “Discipline begins early. The child needs routine now more than ever, when her grandmother is unexpectedly out of the picture.”

Alexei coughs, interrupting us before I can turn this into a stand-off.

My parents pick up on that, loudly changing the subject to the hockey game tonight in Toronto that they’re going to see.

“How about you, son?” my dad asks. “The team giving you a few days off here?”

Alexei looks uneasy. “Yes.”

“Back in my day, we didn’t take time off in the season. Wasn’t even there for two of my kids’ births.”

I wince, and the way Alexei’s attention leaps to my face, I know I haven’t done a good job of keeping that reaction to myself.

His gaze is so hard to read.

And as my mother quickly smooths over what my dad said, Alexei’s eyes stay on me.

“Times have changed,” my mom says. “And the team has other goalies.”

Since he’s still looking at me, I can’t miss the brief flinch.

At this point in the season, every game he sits out—and someone else plays—is a chance for someone else to scoop the starting position in the first round of the playoffs.

Last year, the Highlanders only had one round.

Even though I did my best to ignore Alexei’s season this year, I know how much he wants to be a difference maker in changing that outcome.

“I’m just saying,” my dad protests.

“Shush,” my mom says.

“He’s right,” Alexei says at the same time as I say, “It’s complicated, Mom.”

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