“Aubrey, get moving. I have to drop you off before practice, and I can’t afford to be late again.” I bite back a groan as a car horn blares outside. “Rooks is already outside waiting. Which means you need to move it, move it.”
“You move it, move it,” says the mountain of stuffed animals seconds before a head of blonde curls pops out from under the comforter. “Can’t I just go to the rink with you?” Aubrey asks.
No one warned me of the constant guilt trips a nine-year-old is capable of, either.
“No can do, missy. It’ll be too long of a day, and you need to get your schoolwork done before tomorrow. You’ll stay with Ms. Shona until lunch. Either Uncle Rooks or I will grab you before our afternoon skate.”
“Ms. Shona smells like old people,” she grumbles, her pert little nose turning up.
“Well, she was born in the 1940s, so do with that information what you will. But also, not nice.”
“No one’s ever claimed me to be nice.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and silently count backward from ten while questioning every decision I’ve made in the last five years.
“Up. Dressed. Brushed teeth. Out the door. Ten minutes or I take your tablet.”
Her feet hit the floor before I make it to the stairs. Threatening her e-reader always works.
I sling my gear bag and Aubrey’s bookbag over my shoulder then flick on the floodlights and step onto the porch, cursing the rain. Better than Georgia humidity, but not by much.
The lights inside the blue pickup truck cut on as my best friend and right winger jumps out, clad in a full rain suit.
“Waiting for floodwaters or something, Rookie?”
“Says the man who came to practice with hot pink nail polish on last week. Where’s little bit?”
“Getting dressed. Hopefully,” I mumble as I sling our bags into the back seat, ignoring the glare burning into my back.
“Coach is ready to rip us a new one if we’re late again.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I grumble.
As we move back into the house, he glances toward Aubrey’s room
“Look, man. I know you’re doing the best you can, but don’t you think it’s time to consider a nanny like Coach suggested?”
I shrug one shoulder, hating how much my gut stings at the idea. The thought of leaving Aubrey with someone new makes me feel like I’m abandoning her. “Can’t leave her with someone when we hit the road. She isn’t even ten, and she’s seen too damn much. Besides, Aubrey won’t stay with someone she doesn’t know and like. And since she doesn’t like anyone who doesn’t travel with us...”
He rummages through our protein bar collection before changing his mind and snagging a Twix bar. “All I’m saying is, if you keep dropping the ball on this, Coach is likely to shift you off our first line. And we need you up there.”
I know Rooker is right. While Thorn might be a good friend, he’s always been the coach first. He can’t let his starting center consistently show up late.
Rooks bites into his candy before pointing the chocolate bar at me.
“Whatever you’re going to say, the answer is no,” I mutter.
He ignores me, continuing. “You know who would be willing?”
“No.”
“Come on, Si.” He drops his voice, glancing toward where Aubrey should appear any second now. “That girl would drop everything if you said you needed her help.”
Turning my back to him as I try to find something to occupy my hands—and the still-massive hole in my heart—I fight to bite my tongue. “That’s the point,” I finally say. “Oakley has a life of her own. She travels a lot and doesn’t like being tied down.”
“Yeah, but she’s the only person Aubrey actually likes to spend time with outside of the team wives.”
I close the dishwasher and lean heavily against it, my hands braced on the counter behind me. “She doesn’t know about the custody battle,” I mutter, scanning behind Rooker. The lastthing I need is Aubrey hearing us discuss Oakley Slater. They used to have a standing weekly video call, but with preseason and Oakley’s travel schedule, they haven’t been able to keep up with it for the last few weeks.
