Page 35 of Hockey Nanny

He stood, pushing up from the chair with care, as if any sudden movement might crack what little calm he had left.

“No need,” he said. “Have a good night, Carissa.”

Then he walked out.

Just like that. No lecture. No questions. No chance to soften the blow. The door closed behind him, the sound small but final, and I was left staring at the space he’d occupied, my reflection faint in the dark window.

My stomach twisted with a fire I couldn’t put out, and I pressed my palms into my thighs, trying to steady myself. This wasn’t about me. It had never been. Dawson had taken in a kid who needed consistency, and stability. Routine. People who stayed. I’d promised to be part of that. To keep things simple. Safe.

And tonight I’d chosen otherwise.

Boone’s shirt felt heavier now, like evidence. Like a mistake I’d carried back with me. I imagined Henry waking up in the morning, asking for breakfast, for a schedule that suddenly no longer included me. The thought lodged sharp and ugly in my chest.

What if this cost him more upheaval? What if my wants had cracked something Dawson had been trying so hard to build?

I stood, pacing the length of the drawing room once before forcing myself to stop. Spiraling wouldn’t fix it. But the fear stayed, curling tight, whispering all the worst outcomes.

I’d wanted one night. One moment of letting go.

Now I had to face what that might take with it.

14

~

Carissa

The rotors thumped against the sky, reverberating through my palms. I tugged the collective up a fraction too late and the nose dipped. I caught it before my instructor could say anything, and corrected. My hands still shook though, and the cyclic felt heavier than it should.

I tried to sink into the motions that were supposed to clear my head. Usually, being in the air meant everything else fell away, but not today. My pulse rattled in time with the rotors. My hands weren’t steady. My foot slipped off the pedal for a half-second and the yaw jerked.

“Adjust your trim,” the instructor’s voice threaded through the headset.

I muttered an acknowledgment, fumbling with the controls, overcompensating, and caught the helicopter twitching under me. My foot slipped off the pedal for a second, yaw jerking, and I muttered again, trying to hide the spike of panic.

Every twitch made me question myself. My head kept drifting to Dawson and his cold shoulder all week, the silence, the look in his eyes the night before. I was sure I’d be fired after the whole thing with Boone, but that didn’t happen. All I had for company was the strained sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Carissa, focus.”

“I am,” I said, voice tight, tighter than I meant, echoing inside the helmet.

The city unfolded beneath me, glinting and indifferent. The wind tugged at the skids, at my hair through the vents of the helmet, and for a moment I imagined it could carry some of the tension away. That the sky would somehow separate me from this hell-week. But every gauge felt like a reminder that I wasn’t where I should be. Not in the air, not at work, not in my own skin.

“Let’s run a hover,” the instructor said.

I coaxed the helicopter into place, gripping the cyclic so hard my knuckles ached, letting my eyes dart between instruments and horizon, half-watching, half-waiting for more failure. My mind snapped to the evening ahead, and I forced myself to breathe. Dad. That was the lifeline in this mess. Catching the game with him, then dinner after. Solid ground in the storm. My pulse eased slightly. I could focus on the lift beneath me and the sound of the rotors, imagining him there, calm, smiling. A welcome, easy end to this day.

“You here, Carissa?” My instructor’s voice threaded through the helmet.

“Here,” I muttered, foot nudging the pedal again. “It’s… been a rough week.”

“I can tell. How about we leave all that stuff on the ground next time?”

I nodded again, my jaw tight. I felt raw, stretched thin, waiting for a judgment I’d already imagined. I let the cyclic rest in the center, took a breath, and steered us back down.

Landing was a relief and a tease at once. The rotors slowed, vibration fading, leaving silence in the cockpit except for thefaint whistle of wind through the vents. I shut off the headset and let the helicopter settle beneath me.

Stepping out, the sun leaned toward late afternoon, painting the tarmac deep gold that would soon turn orange. Tonight. All I had to do was get to the game, and then it would be my dad’s time. He’d fix this heavy cloud hanging over me.