Page 5 of The Nanny Goal

“Sure thing, little one.” I put her on my shoulders and hand her a couple of the wood chips, stashing the others in my pocket. They’re light enough that when they fall on my head, it’s not a problem, but I don’t need them all raining down on me at once.

She tosses the ones I gave her up, and I catch them, my hands snatching them mid-air…one, two, three.

“More juggles.”

I give her those three back, and we repeat it as I walk back home.

We’re halfway there when she realizes she’s been tricked.

“Papa!”

“I know, I know.”

She kicks her feet, protesting. I just hold on tight and put up with the complaining, because when we’re not going at her speed, it’s a pretty short walk.

And then she sees a bunny rabbit on the edge of our lawn, and all is forgiven.

We look at the rabbit until it darts away, then climb the stairs and head inside.

As we take off our coats and boots, I hear my parents talking in the kitchen, so I hope that means my mom is feeling better.

“…Granger road trip,” my dad says, laughing.

My pulse turns sluggish at the heavily accented way he says Emery’s last name. But it’s not about Emery, of course. My parents don’t know Forrest’s sister. They know of her, of course, but they’ve never met because Emery Granger won’t come within a hundred miles of an Artyomov.

My fault.

“Baba!” Inessa calls out.

“We’re…in the kitchen.”

I frown, not liking how tired my mom sounds. But when we find them, she has a bright smile for my daughter. “Why are you still wearing your nightgown?” She clucks as she quickly, deftly works the pyjamas out from under Inessa’s sweatshirt. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“No,” Inessa says, scowling.

I close my eyes and count backwards from five.

When I open them again, I see my mother rubbing her chest.

“Papa says you aren’t feeling well,” I murmur after kissing her forehead.

“I’m fine, don’t fuss. It’s just heartburn.”

“Do you want me to take Inessa with me to the rink?” It wouldn’t be ideal, but I don’t need to skate this morning, and she can come with me to the team meeting and to get the scouting reports.

But my mother shakes her head. “No, of course not. My sweet girl is no trouble.”

“She’s an Artyomov. She’s nothing but trouble.”

“Shush.” She laughs, though. “I’ll be careful about what I eat today. And I won’t let your father talk me into drinks with our friends tonight.”

“The Grangers?” I ask, as casually as I can, pretending I’m barely interested.

I’ve already put the pieces together. My buddy Forrest, a former teammate in Calgary, is one of five kids. Emery is his younger sister, but he has three older brothers, who also all play in the NHL.

Out of the 82 games a year I play, at least ten percent are played against a Granger. Tonight is no exception—Minnesota is in town to face us, and the oldest Granger, Camden, is their captain—and Forrest’s parents love to watch their kids play hockey.

“They asked about tickets,” my father explains.

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