Chapter 2
Shea Ellis
There was a time—still seems like yesterday—when, after I made it home from the hockey game, I was mobbed at the door by my three adoring children. I'll never forget the way those kids looked up at Daddy with these huge, disbelieving eyes. Because I was the same guy they'd just watched on television: the captain of the Boston Brawlers. A real live hero.
These days, now that my kids were a little more grown up? Well, things were a bit different.
I sighed as I climbed out of my car, shut the automatic garage door behind me and stepped into the house. The living room was pitch-black, but music was loudly playing.
Huh. Strange.
“Hello? I'm home,” I called out to nobody, my hand blindly reaching along the wall until I found the light switch.
I flicked on the light, and a dagger plunged straight in my heart.
Sitting in total darkness, and on complete opposite ends of the sofa—guilty much?—was my fourteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, and a shaggy-haired boy in baggy clothes.
“Who's this? What's going on in here?” I asked sternly.
“Nothing!” Chloe barked.
“Nothing, huh.” I stole a peek at my wristwatch. It was 10:30 at night. I walked over to the stereo and killed the music. “It's almost your bedtime, Chloe.”
She groaned.
I stepped behind the couch and clapped a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“His name is Adam,” Chloe said, adopting that timeless teen affect—the one that sounds like, 'Ugh, oh my God, Dad, you are so embarrassing me right now!'
This Adam character looked like he was a couple grades older than Chloe. I gritted my teeth and extended my hand for a shake. “Hi, Adam, I'm Mr. Ellis.”
Gulping loudly, Adam stuck out his limp, quivering hand. I gave his hand a good squeeze. Not hard enough that he'd yelp out in pain … but hard enough to let him know that an overprotective, hockey-playing father means business.
“H-hi, Mr. Ellis,” he said, quivering like a nervous puppy. “It's nice to meet you.”
“Oh, I bet it is,” I chuckled as I pulled him off the couch and to his feet. “Well, Chloe, it's a school night, so I think it's time for Adam to go home.”
Chloe folded her arms. “Dad …!”
I pulled my car keys from my pocket and jangled them. “Come with me, Adam. I'll give you a ride.”
He raised a skateboard into the air. “This is my transportation, Mr. Ellis.”
“I can't let you ride home so late, Adam. It's dark out. Wouldn't be safe. Plus, I think we need to have a little chat.”
“Okay,” he said in surrender. “T-thank you, Mr. Ellis.”
I set my hand on the back of Adam's scrawny neck and guided the trembling teen to the door. “And Chloe, we'll have a little chat of our own when I get back.”
“Whatever.” With an exaggerated eye-roll, Chloe stamped off to her bedroom.
***
After getting to know Adam a little better—and giving him a good grilling about his intentions with my daughter—I came home for good.
First, I found the nanny, Estel, asleep in the den. She was wrapped up in a blanket, with a knitting project in her lap and the TV droning in the background.
Asleep again?
I touched her shoulder. “Pst. Estel. Hey. Wake up.”
With a smack of her lips, Estel woke. “Oh! Hello there, Shea, I was just resting my eyes for a minute.”
Yeah, I'm sure.
“Listen, Estel. I caught Chloe with a boy. Unsupervised.”
“Oh—Adam, you mean?”
“Wait, you knew he was here?”
“Yes.”
“And you left them alone?”
“He seems like a nice boy. They weren't up to anything bad,” Estel said. Then she asked uncertainly, “Er, were they up to anything bad?”
I sighed. “I don't know. I found them in the living room with the lights off. I don't know what they were up to—my mind won't even begin to let me go there—but I can't imagine it was good.”
Estel waved her hand at me as if all this were no big deal. “Oh, Shea. You know how teens are these days.”
“Ugh.” I didn't know what Estel was trying to imply about what that twerp was trying to do with my daughter, but my insides revolted at the mere suggestion of something inappropriate. “No, Estel, I don't.”
She gave a shrug.
“Where are the boys?” I asked Estel, even though I figured I knew the answer.
“Downstairs, I'd imagine.”
I left Estel and made my way downstairs. Sure enough, my ten-year-old twins, Cameron and Nicholas, were embroiled in a fierce game of one-on-one inside the soundproofed confines of their indoor rink.
Years ago, when it became obvious that the boys loved hockey as much as their dad—and were destroying lamps and breaking windows with their indoor roughhousing—I paid a pretty penny to have this modern marvel built. The floor was made of synthetic ice, so they could skate on it with real ice skates. It's not the same feeling as skating on real ice, but it's as close as you can get to the real thing. The rink also had a net, boards, glass, a scoreboard, and even a little penalty box to sit in. Best of all, the entire thing was soundproof and virtually indestructible, so the boys can shoot and hit in there all day long and not break anything or make a huge ruckus.
I slipped on my skates, opened the door to the rink, and entered the boys' world. The air in their rink was hot and humid and hard to breathe. Thankfully, they didn't truly stink yet … that would still be in the years to come.
“Hey, boys! Really worked up a sweat in here, eh?”
They were both red faced and their shirts were soaked through. “Hey, Dad!” they said at the same time, but neither turned to look—their game was too heated. Cam was intent on trying to deke and dangle his way around Nick, but Nick's defense was rock-solid.
I glided over and helped Nick out, lifting Cam's stick into the air so Nick could snatch the unprotected puck away.
“DAD!” Cam shrieked.
And when Nick raced away with the puck and roofed it into the empty net and threw his arms into the air to celebrate his victory, Cam really let me have it.
“Great! Thanks a lot, Dad! That was game point! What'd you have to do that for?!”
With a frown, I ruffled his hair. “Aw, I'm sorry, bud. I didn't know your game was so serious. I was just messing around. But it is your bedtime, anyway.” I scooped up the loose puck and tried to get back on his good side. “Hey, Cam. One last shot. Lemme see that one-timer.”
With a fire in his eyes, Cam set up, stick cocked and ready to release.
“Call it first,” I said.
“Crossbar,” he said with determination.
I feathered a pass right into Cam's wheelhouse. He channeled that fury into his release and blasted the puck off his blade. A cannon of a shot caromed right off his target, the crossbar, with a loud iron clang.
I gave my son a clap on the back. “Nice shot there, buddy.” He certainly didn't get it from me—his shot might be harder than mine already.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cam mumbled, still a little incensed at his dad.
“How was the game, Dad?” Nick asked.
“We lost.” I paused. “You boys didn't watch, eh?”
“Nope,” they said at the same time.
I wasn't surprised. These days, my sons weren't even fans of my team. It sucks, but I guess it's just a part of watching your kids grow up. They were Chicago fans instead. Their favorite players? Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane, of course. Last time we played Chicago, I met with Kaner and Toewser after the game and asked them to autograph a stick for my boys.
Yeah, it's a little embarrassing for a vet like me to tell some younger guy that he's my sons' favorite player. But whatever. They were both classy about it. And when I gave those sticks to the twins, the look in their eyes made it all worth it.
“So if you weren't watching the game, what were you up to instead?” I asked.
They looked at each other, then me.
Cam shrugged. “We've been down here.”
“Wait, you've been down here the entire time? Since I left?”
They nodded.
“Did you boys do your homework?”
Their heads hung low and they toed at the fake ice.
“Did you eat dinner, at least?”
“Estel told us we could eat when we're ready,” Nick said.
I sighed. “You boys gotta eat if you want to grow big and strong. How many times do I have to tell you? Nutrition is just as important as practice and training. Head upstairs and eat some dinner. Then do your homework.”
“But the food Estel makes is so gross,” Cam whined.
“Yeah, we hate her cooking,” Nick added.
I shrugged. “Sometimes, you just gotta eat what you get, boys.”
The boys grumbled as they coasted off the ice.
***
The dreaded talk with Chloe was next.
I went to her bedroom. Aggressive music blared so loudly from her speakers, the bass made the floor and walls shake.
For God's sake. I should've soundproofed her room instead of that rink.
“Chloe!” I yelled, knocking on her door. She didn't answer, so I knocked harder and louder. She couldn't hear a thing over her music.
When she still didn't answer the door, I didn't have a choice—I turned the knob and entered her room.
The domain of a rebellious teen girl: walls painted radioactive green, pictures of her friends that she'd glued to the wall (sigh), posters of bands and movies and teen heartthrobs taped from floor to ceiling. I'd never let Chloe know it, but every time I entered this place, I was a little intimidated by a world I can't possibly understand.
Chloe finally saw me standing in her doorway. Her face twisted with outrage and she flung her iPad aside. She killed the music and started ranting, arms waving in the air.
“Dad! You can't just barge in here like that! Ever hear of a thing called privacy?!”
I groaned. “Ever hear of the volume knob? I tried knocking but you couldn't hear me over this death metal.”
“It's not death metal, Dad. You really think I'd listen to death metal? Who do you even think I am? Do you even know me at all?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I'm not a music expert, Chloe. I like jazz and country.”
“Uuuugh.” Her head rolled back and she let out an exasperated howl. I guess I couldn't have possibly said anything more offensive to a teenage girl. “Don't remind me.”
“Look, if you can't hear me banging on your door, your music is too loud.”
She rolled her eyes. “All you care about is rules this, rules that. You never let me do anything.”
“Listen.” I took a seat on her bed and patted the spot next to me. The moody teen made me wait a beat before she reluctantly made her way over, her head and shoulders swaying with an unbelievable amount of sass. “Maybe I do have a lot of rules. But that's because you're still a child—”
She groaned at that word.
“Okay, fine, you're a teen. But legally, you're still a minor, got it? And that means I'm responsible for your care. And that means you have to follow my rules. And Chloe, you know the rules. You know you're not supposed to have friends here past nine o'clock. And you know you're not allowed to be unsupervised with boys.”
“We weren't unsupervised. Estel knows that Adam was over. I even introduced her to him.”
“Right. But I found Estel asleep in the den, so she wasn't really watching you, was she? Which means you were unsupervised.”
“So what? Now it's my job to make sure the nanny stays awake? I don't think so! Besides, me and Adam could've snuck up to my bedroom if we really wanted to be 'unsupervised' so badly.”
The nuclear level of sarcasm she slathered on that word, 'unsupervised'—and the fact that it was obviously code for something else in her mind—made my throat clench.
No no no, not my baby girl.
“Just obey the rules, Chloe. I don't think I'm asking a whole heck of a lot here. Okay? Are we good?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Sometimes, a dad has to settle for a sarcastic whatever.
“So is that all you wanted to talk to me about or what?” she asked, her eyes flicking towards the door—an obvious hint that it was time for Dad to hit the road.
“Do you always have to be this sarcastic?” I asked.
Chloe groaned, her head making an exaggerated roll around her shoulders.
Right. Wrong question to ask a teen.
“Forget it. Listen, I actually did want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“The Brawlers' season ends in two months.”
“And?”
“Well, just like every other year, the team is throwing the end-of-the-year gala. It's the team's last bit of fun before the playoffs begin and the real grind begins.” I patted her thigh. “I was hoping you'd go as my date again this year?”
She let out a deep sigh. “Oh, God. Not this again.”
I reared back, both surprised and maybe even a little hurt. “But you went with me last year.”
And every year since the divorce.
“Yeah, and every year I've been mortified on the inside. Like, who decides to bring their daughter as their date? No one else, Dad, only you! The other players bring their wives and girlfriends … do you have any idea how weird it is to be your date? I'm too old for that. It's not cute anymore, it's just creepy. Everyone's looking at us and laughing.”
I made a sour face. “They're not laughing at us. They think you're adorable.”
“That's weird too. I'm not 'adorable' anymore and I don't want to go, Dad.”
I slapped my palms on my knees. “Well. Fine. Can't make you do anything you don't want to do.” I sat up and made a beeline for the door. “Don't stay up too late.”
She sighed with a hint of remorse. “Dad …”
“Goodnight, Chloe.”
***
I made my way back downstairs, where Estel was gathering up her things. She was getting ready to head home.
“Listen, Estel. I don't think this is going to work out anymore.”
“Huh.” Estel took a second to let that sink in. “You sure, Shea?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, okay. Do you need time to find a replacement first or anything …?”
“No, I think I'll just pay you the last of what I owe you.”
“Okay.”
I have to admit, I wasn't entirely sure about firing Estel. I was expecting her to plead to keep her job, or at least ask what went wrong—and maybe I'd reconsider. But the fact that she didn't even try to fight for her job told me all I needed to know.
The search for a decent nanny continues.