Page 7 of Learn Your Lesson

Tonight, she was whipping up an elevated version of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese — something Ava loved, but I could also tolerate, with Chef putting herspin on it. The chicken was always well-cooked and juicy, seasoned to perfection without too much breading, and the pasta was so good I’d licked my plate clean the first time she made it. Add in that she always somehow found a way to sneak in vegetables and get Ava excited about them, and you could say Chef was first on my short list of things in life I was grateful for.

“Thank you for accommodating an extra guest,” I said to her as I sat at the kitchen island, wincing a bit as I did. Practice had been brutal, and so had the last few games. January was when every team in the league started getting a clearer picture of whether they had a shot at the playoffs or not, and we were hungry for the Cup this year.

“Are you kidding? I’m just happy youhavea guest.” She shook her head as she stirred the pasta. Her black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that swung a bit as she did. “I was beginning to worry you didn’t have any friends.”

“I have plenty of friends,” I grumbled.

“Uncle Mitch doesn’t count.”

“I have my team.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, leaning a hip against the edge of the stove and tapping the wooden spoon against her chin. “I think I met a few of your teammates. One time. In the five years I’ve known you.” She pointed the spoon at me. “You must be soclose.”

I leveled her with an unamused look as she shot me a wry grin. Chef Patel loved to give me shit.

I’d never tell her that I secretly liked it, too.

At the rink, I was all business. I always had a team to wrangle and a game to win. Somehow, in the last nine years, I’d gone from a decent rookie, to a promising rising star, to a fucking train wreck, and then to the best goalie in the league.

I was now a veteran player for the Tampa Bay Ospreys, and for the first time since I’d been a part of the franchise, we had a real shot at the Cup.

My sole focus rested in getting us there.

Which didn’t leave much time forfriends.

My teammates were like family, though. I may not have shown it as much as I should have, or in the ways most people were used to — but they knew I loved them. They knew I was there for them. Hell, if it wasn’t for me slapping them upside the head sometimes and making them think straight, half of them would probably be sent down to the AHL, or completely wiped fromanyleague.

I would push them. I would remind them of their priorities. I would show them how to play better, faster, stronger.

But no, I wasn’t going to party at the local puck bunny spots after a win, nor was I going to crack open a beer and shoot the shit at a barbecue in the off-season.

I didn’twantfriends.

I wanted a team.

I wanted the Stanley Cup.

And I wanted my daughter to be okay.

That last part was always the most difficult of the equation. Not only was I struggling more often than not to be a good, present father with a career that demanded so much of my time and attention, but I also apparently had a massive ineptitude when it came to finding a nanny to help me balance it all.

A heavy sigh left me at the thought of Ava standing in the car line waiting for thelastsorry excuse for a nanny I’d hired — the one I’d promptlyfiredjust thirty minutes ago. Actually, I’d let Chef Patel do the honors. She was all too eager after I’d told her what happened. Chef thought ofAva like her own daughter at this point, and she never did like that nanny.

I wasn’t too proud to admit that I wasn’t exactly the easiest guy to work for, but I also wasn’t going to apologize for laying out the expectations I had for my daughter’s caretaker.

It shouldn’t have been so fucking hard to find a competent female figure for Ava to connect with and look up to, to learn from and feel safe with.

But fuck if it wasn’t the most difficult game I’d ever played.

The security system announcing that someone was at the front gate shook me from the thought. I tried not to groan out loud as I pushed the button on my phone app that granted access, but Chef Patel chuckled — which told me I didn’t succeed.

“It’s just dinner,” she said in a way a mother might scold a child for throwing a tantrum over cleaning their room. “Besides, I looked up yourfriend,” she added, waggling her brows. “She’s quite pretty. Don’t think you’ll have to suffer too much.”

I ignored that comment and made my way to the driveway just in time to see Miss Knott opening the back door of an old Honda Accord.

Chef was wrong.

Miss Knott wasn’tquite pretty— she was fucking gorgeous.