Page 8 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie (Second Chance Hockey Players #2)

Chapter six

Blake

N ext.

I rub a hand down my face as the door opens, and another woman steps in.

That makes seven interviews in three days.

Seven. And not a single person has been the right fit.

So far, I’ve met a self-proclaimed “child whisperer,” the one who learns on the job, or - like the last one - thinks watching two toddlers is basically the same as babysitting a goldfish.

God help me.

The woman in front of me flops down into the chair like she’s settling in for a Netflix marathon. She pops her gum loudly, completely unfazed by my mother’s disapproving stare.

I glance at her resume, and before I can say anything, my mother leans forward with a tight smile.

"Spit it out," she says.

The woman blinks. “Huh?”

"The gum. Get rid of it."

There’s a beat of silence before the woman plucks the gum from her mouth and - dear God - was about to stick it to the underside of her chair.

“Nope,” mom stops her before she can stick it in. “Don’t you dare do that. Find somewhere else to stuff it.”

The woman lets out an exaggerated sigh but reaches into her bag, grabbing a tissue to spit the gum into.

Mom smiles, tight and polite. “Much better. Now we can continue.”

"Sure!" She says brightly, smacking her hands on her thighs. "Fire away."

I press my fingers to my temple. “It says here, Miss Martins that you worked at a daycare?”

“’Just Zoey’ and yeah.”

I wait for more.

…Nothing.

“Okay,” I exhale. “What would you do if one of the kids throws a tantrum?”

She pops her gum. Loudly. “Ignore it.”

I blink. “Ignore it?”

“Yup.” She grins. “They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

I glance at Mom. She’s staring at the woman like she just insulted her entire bloodline.

“And if ignoring doesn’t work?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Give ‘em candy.”

Mom’s hand twitches on the table. "Tell me, because I’m really interested, how many places have you worked?"

Miss Martins tilts her head, thinking. “Like…, three? Oh, and I babysit my cousins sometimes.”

“And those places you worked,” Mom continues smoothly, “how long did you last at each?”

Miss Martins shifts in her seat. “Uh…, two of them? A month. The last one…, maybe close to two?”

Mom hums, nodding like she just got confirmation that the earth is, in fact, round. Then she leans forward with a small, polite smile.

“Well, Miss Martins, I sincerely hope your next job lasts longer than your last three, but it definitely won’t be here.”

Miss Martins blinks. “Wait…”

Mom stands. “We won’t be needing you. Thank you for your time.”

I fight the urge to laugh as Miss Martins huffs, snatches up her purse, and storms out. The door swings shut behind her, leaving a blessed silence in the room.

Mom sighs. “I need tea.”

I rub my temples. “I need a miracle.”

I sigh. “Next.”

The next applicant enters - a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed neatly, her résumé typed and professional. Already an improvement.

I sit up slightly. “Miss Carter, tell me about your experience.”

“I’ve worked as a professional nanny for six years,” she says. “Before that, I was a preschool teacher.”

I nod, interested. “And how would you handle a child having a meltdown?”

“Depends on the reason. If they’re overwhelmed, I’d remove them from the situation and help them calm down. If it’s attention-seeking behavior, I’d redirect. Tantrums usually have an underlying cause.”

Mom and I exchange glances.

“Interesting,” I say. “And discipline?”

She folds her hands. “Children need consistency, not punishment. Discipline should be about teaching, not control.”

Mom beams. “That’s a lovely philosophy.”

I glance at the résumé again, suppressing my first hopeful feeling in days.

“We’ll be in touch,” I say.

She smiles. “I look forward to it.”

As she walks out, I exhale.

Mom smirks. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

I nod. “She was promising.”

Mom claps her hands. “Let’s keep going.”

A few interviews later, another candidate walks in - a young woman, maybe late twenties, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. She sits with confidence, hands folded in her lap.

“Miss Daniels,” I begin, “tell us about your background.”

“I’ve been a nanny for three families, each for about two years,” she says. “I also have a degree in early childhood education.”

I glance at Mom. She looks just as intrigued.

“And why did you leave your last position?” I ask.

She smiles. “The kids grew up. The youngest started school full-time, so they no longer needed a nanny.”

A valid answer.

“What’s your approach to discipline?”

“Firm but fair,” she says. “Boundaries are important but so is understanding. Children act out for a reason. If you address the cause, you solve the behavior.”

Mom nods approvingly. “And how do you feel about working with a single father?”

She shrugs. “I’ve done it before. As long as the expectations are clear, I’m comfortable.”

I sit back, thoughtful. I like her. She’s professional, confident, and seems to know what she’s doing.

“We’ll get back to you soon,” I say.

She shakes my hand. “I hope to hear from you.”

As she leaves, Mom turns to me. “Two more to go, right?”

I exhale. “Yeah, yeah.”

The next woman walks in wearing a dress that belongs at a nightclub. She sits, crosses her legs, and gives me a slow smile.

“Anita,” I start, already bracing myself, “what do you think is the most important part of childcare?”

She leans in, dragging a manicured finger along the edge of my desk. “Aside from taking care of the kids?” She bites her lip. “Keeping the father happy, of course.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

She gives me a slow once-over like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet. “A nanny should take care of everything. And I do mean everything. Blake, a man like you…”

I cut her off. “Out. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She huffs, flipping her hair before strutting away.

I rub my temples. I wave toward the door. “Next.”

The final candidate marches in, clipboard in hand, looking like she’s ready to lead a military drill. I glance at her résumé. “You have quite a bit of experience.”

She nods sharply. “Fifteen years.”

Hmm…

“What do you think is the key to managing young children?”

Her eyes sharpen. “Structure. Discipline. No nonsense.”

Mom tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“I run a tight ship,” the woman states. “No tantrums. No coddling. Children must learn obedience.”

I open my mouth, but she keeps going. “My previous employer didn’t understand that, of course. Thought I was too strict. But children need structure . I kept mine on a schedule so tight, they didn’t have time to act out.”

I frown. “And how do you handle a child who’s upset?”

“Easy. I remove privileges. No toys. No playtime. No unnecessary affection.”

Mother gasps. “No affection? You do know these are children , not prisoners , right?”

She lifts her chin. “Affection creates entitlement.”

I push my chair back. “Okay. We’re done here.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“This isn’t a military camp.” I gesture to the door. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She mutters something about soft parenting under her breath before storming out.

Mom folds her arms. “So?”

I drag my hands down my face. “Two promising candidates.”

She smirks. “Progress.”

***That evening***

The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the backyard as I sit on the porch, watching Nico and Mia chase each other across the grass. Their laughter fills the air, carefree and light, and for the first time today, I feel a little bit of the tension ease from my shoulders.

I lean back, stretching my legs out in front of me.

Mum and I decided to have the two promising prospects meet the kids next week.

Hopefully, the kids warm up to one of them.

Speaking of warming up, my mind is instantly transported to the kids with Whitney.

About the way Nico and Mia reacted to her.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected it. At least, not the level of interaction they had with her three days ago.

Normally, they are reserved around strangers, especially women they don’t know well. It takes time for them to warm up, for them to trust. But with Whitney… There was no hesitation. No guarded glances or quiet shyness.

Just instant comfort.

And I remember how easy she made them have fun - how she got down to their level, how she spoke to them, and how they responded to her.

Without thinking, I call them over. “Guys, come here for a second.”

They stop running and race toward me, breathless and grinning.

“What’s up, Daddy?” Mia asks, plopping onto my lap.

Nico leans against my leg, still catching his breath.

I clear my throat. “Do you remember, Whitney?”

Mia nods immediately. “She’s nice.”

Nico grins. “I like her. I want to play with her again.”

Something tightens in my chest.

I glance at Mia who nods.

I rub the back of my neck. The logical part of me - the part that needs to find a nanny and move on - knows that reaching out to Whitney might be an option. A good one.

The thought lingers, settling somewhere in my ribs, heavy and restless.

Would it really be so bad to ask her to help out for a while?

A temporary arrangement - just until I figure things out. Just until I hire someone.

But even as I try to frame it as something logical, as something purely for the kids, another part of me - the part I don’t want to acknowledge - knows better.

Maybe it’s because it’s not just about Nico and Mia.

It’s about me.

About how I never really stopped feeling the way I did back then. About how I still carry the guilt of everything that happened between us. About how being around her again stirs up things I buried a long time ago.

I run a hand down my face.

I should let it go. I should hire a nanny and move on.

But as I watch my kids race back into the yard, laughing, their words still echoing in my head, I know it’s too late.

I’m already considering it.

And that…, that might be a problem.