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Duke
Iknockonmydaughter’s bedroom door. Again. “Tab, you need to open this.” I’m met with silence, so I try again. “Don’t you want me to tuck you in?” When there’s still no response, I sigh and lean my forehead against the closed door. “Come on, baby. This is going to be fine.”
“No, it isn’t.” My daughter’s voice is barely audible through the door. “I don’t want a nanny. I want Nana to watch me.” Since I told Tabby I officially hired a nanny, she’s been hiding in her room.
“You know why Nana can’t watch you.”
My mother-in-law broke her leg last month in Switzerland. She’s in rehab there, and they expect a full recovery, but I don’t know how long it’ll be until she can keep up with an active seven-year-old.
The door opens so fast, I might have lost my balance if I wasn’t a highly trained professional hockey player. Still, the quick movement makes my hamstrings scream. Stupid leg day.
Tabby stares up at me, a miniature version of myself. The same stubborn jaw and intense glare. At least half of her light brown hair has escaped from her ponytail, creating a cloud of flyaway chaos around her miserable face. “I promise, if Nana can watch me, I’ll be the best girl in the whole world.”
My stomach clenches. “Tabby, this has nothing to do with you not being a good girl.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” Her eyes swim with tears. She throws herself on her bed, burying her face in her elbow.
As always, I have no idea what to do when presented with tears, and that includes my daughter’s. I pick my way through the sea of clothing and toys in her room with the same trepidation I might approach a tiger. Lowering myself on the bed next to her, I consider patting her on the back. But I’m sure it would be awkward for both of us, so I don’t.
“We need help. Not because either of us is good or bad, but because we can’t do everything that we have to do alone.”
“We always have before.” Her muffled voice is so small I can barely hear it.
She’s not wrong. Since her mother died when she was a baby and it became only the two of us, we’ve managed ourselves. My mother-in-law would take care of Tabatha when I went out of town. On the few occasions she couldn’t watch her, I asked either Shelly Taylor or Hillary Schwartz. Other times, I used the childcare service my team recommended. It didn’t happen often, though. But between Sonya’s mom’s rehab and Tabby getting older, I decided this year we should hire someone to help us full time.
Tabby is painfully shy, and her shyness got worse toward the end of first grade, when she began to struggle in school. Her guidance counselor suggested a permanent caretaker versus a series of part-time help would be better in the long run. I hope that’s not wrong.
I brace myself to deliver the arguments I’ve already made to her. “We had Nana before. And you weren’t in school or gymnastics or ballet.” The extracurricular activities were my mother-in-law’s idea. She thought if Tabby could make some friends out of school, it would give her confidence in school. So far, all it’s done is run me all over and stress out my daughter. “I met the nanny today. Her name’s June.”
Tabby peeks at me from under her folded elbow. “You did?”
I muster up as much enthusiasm as I can. “I did.” She waits expectantly, so I wrack my brain for information that will be helpful. “She seems very… energetic.” I resist the urge to press a palm to my forehead. Energetic? That’s the best I can offer her?
It’s not like I can tell her what my real first impressions were. Gorgeous creamy skin, covered in the prettiest layer of freckles I’ve ever seen. I’ve never thought I was a freckle guy, but they suit June Harlow. Average height, but legs seemed a lot longer than average. Graceful hands and red hair. Bright hazel eyes.
In the beginning of this process, the recruiter described her as “a human ray of sunshine.” That sounded good, like perfect nanny material. Her education credentials are impeccable. As Raybourne pointed out, most of the other candidates didn’t have college degrees, let alone dual certifications in education. Compared to the other applicants, June Harlow’s list of referrals was also impressive. Countless people she babysits for and two different day care supervisors. Her bosses at the diner. A handful of neighbors from the foster home where she lived longest.
I don’t know that many people who would vouch for me, so I called a few of June’s references. I started with her day care supervisors. They only had the best things to say about her—that June is a natural with kids and gets along with everyone she meets. I learned she lived with Mama Lily, a retired librarian who took in as many foster kids as she could in her rambling house in the suburbs in New Jersey. I don’t know where June was before that, but when she got to Mama Lily, she was a model student and neighbor. She helped with lawn work, carried in groceries, and watched people’s pets. Mostly, she looked out for the younger kids.
A regular do-gooder.
When I connected with Mrs. Sharp, though, she convinced me June would be the right choice for Tabby. Apparently, June tutored her son, Matthew, last year. At eight, he struggled in school, couldn’t focus, got frustrated easily. He fell behind. But after he started working with June, he improved. This year, his grades are up, and he’s made friends. Most important to his mother, though, is that he regained his confidence.
His story sounds eerily close to Tabby’s, and I want his outcome for her.
Right now, I stare at my daughter. She’s never been confident. I used to worry it was because she was growing up without a mother, but when her grades plummeted last year at school, I wondered if there wasn’t more to it. But between training and my game schedule, I can’t keep a close enough eye on her. I need someone who can, someone who can help her. And June Harlow sounded like that kind of person.
Raybourne agreed. As the communications director, she liaisons between the players and public relations. It isn’t her job to help me hire a nanny. But last year the team dealt with a hurricane of scandals and bad publicity. The last thing our team needs is negative press, so I wanted to be sure whoever I brought on passed Raybourne’s impeccable judgment. After she met June, she stopped looking. She called me right away, yammering on about how this was the perfect fit. There was a list of glowing observations—optimistic, upbeat, open.
She wasn’t wrong. The woman I met today appears to be all those things. Trusting eyes, laugh lines, and an easy smile. And if June Harlow can help my Tabby, then she’s the right candidate for the job. I just need to forget the adorable dimple on her cheek and the way her eyes danced when she smiled. She’s going to be my employee. I have no business noticing dancing eyes and cute dimples.
“I really think you’re going to like her.” I hope that’s true. “With how much I need to travel, it’ll make me feel better that you’re here with someone you like and trust.” All of that is true, but more important, I know if I make it about me, Tabby will be more likely to go along with the arrangement. Tabby is shy, but she’s also fiercely protective of her loved ones. I’m not above leaning on that right now to coax my daughter to give this a chance—for both of us. “You know how important this year is going to be.” I don’t continue, but she nods. We both know I plan to retire at the end of the year. I’m almost thirty, and I have nearly constant back pain. This will be my last run, my last chance at a Stanley Cup. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I know, Dad.” She scoots to sit, folding her hands in her lap. Her voice sounds much too old to be coming from a seven-year-old. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right.” I offer her an imperious look, the one that makes rookies quake in their skates. She giggles.
“Daddy.” She rolls her eyes.
