My mind drifts to Tori. It keeps doing that lately.
I think about our session yesterday. The way she dug her thumb into that knot near my spine while I told her about my nonexistent dating life.Six years. No one since Maisie’s mom.
Her hands had slowed on my back.
No one in six years?
I’d played it off.Haven’t had time. Between hockey and Maze, there’s not a lot left over.
And she’d told me about her disasters. CrossFit guy with the crypto pie charts. Venmo guy who made her pay for spinach dip. A radiologist who talked about himself in the third person.
I remember lying on that table thinking—What is wrong with men?
Because Tori Wells? She’s sharp. Quick. Doesn’t miss anything and doesn’t let you get away with anything either. She’s got this dry humor that catches me off guard, and when she smiles—really smiles—it changes her whole face.
And yeah. She’s gorgeous.
Dark hair she wears pulled back, and I keep wondering what it looks like down. Brown eyes that see way more than I want them to. Soft lips that are usually telling me I’m doing something wrong, which shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. She’s got curvesshe tries to hide under scrubs and athletic wear. It doesn’t work. I’ve noticed. Tried not to, but I’ve noticed.
Any guy with a functioning brain would see Tori and count himself lucky. Instead, she’s stuck with finance bros and men who can’t cough up eight dollars.
Makes no sense.
I roll onto my side and try to stop thinking about my physical therapist.
It doesn’t work.
• • •
The nanny interviews are a disaster.
Candidate one shows up that afternoon. Twenty-two, blonde, spends the first ten minutes looking around my townhouse like she’s mentally redecorating.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “do the other players ever come over? Like, for team dinners?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s so cool. I saw Logan Palmer at a club once. He’s even hotter in person.” She giggles. “Is he single?”
“I’m looking for someone to watch my daughter. Not set up my teammates.”
She blinks like this hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh, totally. I’m great with kids. I love babysitting my cousin.”
“Thanks for coming in,” I say, standing. “I’ll be in touch.”
I won’t.
Candidate two is better. Mid-forties, experienced, and she has good references. She also asks the right questions about Maisie’s routine. I’m starting to feel hopeful until—
“I should mention, I’m not available on weekends. Saturdays are date night with my husband, and Sundays are church.”
I blink at her. This was all spelled out in the job posting she applied for. “Most of my games are on weekends.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “I assumed you’d have those covered.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t need full-time help.”
She leaves looking offended.
