Chapter 35
Shea
It was hours past noon when I finally jumped in the shower and washed the sticky remnants of last night, and this morning, off my body. We still had a little time until Cynthia dropped the kids off at the house.
Technically, once we got out of bed, we agreed to keep our hands off each other. But that proved easier said than done. Brynn moved about the house, bopping around, humming to herself, wiggling her butt. She had such a youthful, vibrant glow about her after we'd fucked and made love all night and morning. It was way too hard not to give her ass a hearty smack every time our paths crossed.
“Shea!” she said, spinning around and holding an accusatory finger in my face. “You can't do that! Remember, when the kids are here, we have to act normal!”
“I know, I know,” I grinned.
Guess I'm having a hard time keeping my hands to myself, too.
But the time finally came when we heard Cynthia's car pull into the driveway, followed by a series of car doors slamming. I went out to greet the kids at the door step.
“Hey Chloe,” I said, giving her a hug. “How was school?”
“Fine! How was your night?” she asked with a coy grin.
“I had a good time.” I patted her head. “Slick move to get us out of the house, by the way.”
“Gee, Dad, I just don't know what you mean,” Chloe said, slathering it on real thick.
“Uh huh. I bet.”
Nick and Cam were next, and I greeted them both with big hugs.
“Hey there boys,” I said, adopting my gruff Dad voice. “How was the weekend at your mom's?”
“Good,” they said.
“You guys gotta beat Tampa tomorrow, Dad!” Cam said.
I ruffled his hair. “I hear ya, bud. It's not over 'til it's over.”
Nick tugged on my hand excitedly. “I don't have any homework, Dad. Can you come shoot some pucks with me in the rink?”
“Yeah, me too!” Cam said.
“Sure thing, guys.” I glanced up and noticed Cynthia's car still sitting in the driveway. “I'll meet you two down there. Just let me have a quick chat with your mom first.”
“Okay!” they said, running off.
I walked over to her car and the window rolled down. Cynthia regarded me with her barely-contained disdain.
“Hey, Cynthia. I think we need to have a chat.”
“I was going to say the same thing.” Cynthia launched into her rant, without pausing to hear what I wanted to say. “I don't know what ideas your nanny put in Chloe's head while they were home alone this weekend, but Chloe has it in her mind now that she should go to therapy?”
I nodded. “Yeah. And?”
“My daughter isn't crazy. She doesn't need therapy. Absolutely not. I'm putting my foot down on that.”
“She's open to it, Cynthia. You can't stop her from going.”
Futilely, she huffed and puffed. “But—but!”
“Look, Cynthia. I don't know if you realize it or not, but our daughter has been carrying guilt for years over the thing with Buddy—”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, lord, here we go again—always throwing Buddy Parker in my face. I make one mistake and you'll never let me forget it, will you? No wonder Chloe's always bringing it up! You're stuck in the past and you won't let your daughter move on, either!”
I shook my head. “You couldn't be more wrong. All this time, I've avoided talking about it with Chloe, because I figured it was better if we moved on and left it in the past. Now I'm realizing how wrong I was. I had no idea it was eating her up inside. All along, Chloe thought that she was the reason we got divorced.”
“Well …?” Cynthia raised a palm, begging the question.
My nostrils flared. “I seriously hope you're not suggesting that she was.”
“It's just funny, that's all. I mean, you did find out about the affair because of her, right? And then you went and filed for divorce immediately after. So, in a way, she was the reason.”
Blood boiled in my veins. “You're unbelievable. Listen to the words coming out of your mouth, Cynthia. You put our daughter in that position. She didn't want to be there. What a horrifying thing for an eight-year-old—to be the first one to find out that Mommy is cheating on Daddy.”
“Here we go, time for the guilt trip.” Cynthia rolled her eyes and reached for the window.
“Wait. Wait,” I said, measuring my voice. “I'm not trying to guilt trip you. I'm telling you, very simply, that as long as Chloe is willing to go to therapy and talk to a professional about this, I'm going to support her.”
“Sounds like a threat to me,” Cynthia said.
“Only because some part of you is scared that Chloe will learn the proper tools to sort out her issues.”
“Deep, Shea. Deep. Maybe you should become a therapist yourself?”
I ignored the smart remark. “I know you won't believe this, but I actually don't want you to have a shitty relationship with your daughter. I want you to figure your problems out and have a healthy relationship—because I want our daughter to be well-adjusted and have a happy life.”
“Oh, and since you have all the answers, I suppose you know just what I should do?”
Her comment might've been bait, but I took it anyway.
“Look. You have to stop blaming Chloe for the divorce. Because she's picking up on the fact that you blame her, consciously or otherwise. She's a smart girl, smarter than we realize, and she's perceptive as hell. And once she starts therapy, it's just a matter of time before she figures all this out. She's too smart not to, Cynthia. I just want you to figure it out before she does, so you can help her—and not be a roadblock to her healing.”
Cynthia looked as if she couldn't decide whether to scream at me in a rage or break into tears. In the end, she chose neither. Without a word, her expression went stony and solemn, and her window began to whir as it rolled up.
I watched her car race off, an emptiness inside me. It was an awful feeling, that my daughter might not ever have a healthy relationship with her mother. I knew in my heart that it would cause Chloe a lot more pain and anguish in the coming years—and I felt awful, knowing I'd played a big role in causing that pain. I was just a kid when I met Cynthia. A dumb kid, high on fame, and with a million-dollar contract burning a hole in my pocket. I hadn't known what to look for in a woman. I just hadn't known.
I walked back inside and saw all three kids gathered in the kitchen around Brynn. She was busy chopping vegetables for the night's meal. The twins, engaged in a frenzy to tell Brynn about their weekends, wrestled and jostled and shouted over each other. Chloe, the wise and elder sister, stood at Brynn's guard and kept her brothers in line—while she herself updated Brynn on the latest gossip from her day at school.
It was chaos, but a loving chaos, and Brynn flourished in it. She cared about those kids as if they were her own. It was no wonder they were so magnetically drawn to her, why they did what she asked without arguing or sneaking off to do something else. They respected her, looked up to her, they loved her.
I walked in and gave my kids one more big hug.
I hadn't known what to look for in a woman before, but I do now.
***
Two days later.
I strolled into the dressing room, my bag slung over my shoulder. The two days off—away from hockey and sneaking out with Brynn at any chance we got—had done me well.
But stepping into that room was like walking into a funeral. The mood was tense, the faces nervous, the usual jokes and laughs nonexistent.
The Boston Brawlers had lost their swagger.
“Chins up, boys,” I said as I took a seat at my stall. “It's way too morose in here. Why isn't anybody talking or having fun in here?”
Their defeated eyes looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
“Down 2-0 in our series, Boomer,” Brooks grumbled. “I'm not finding a whole lot to laugh about right now. Unless you got something to cheer us up?”
“Sure do.” I chuckled as I slipped out of my suit jacket. “Guys, I admit it. You were right all along.”
Everyone peeked up at me, eyes big and curious.
“About what?” Ilya asked.
“Brynn. The nanny. I've fallen head-over-heels for her.”
Note: yes, it was way too early to talk like that. But I was only putting on a show for the boys. Anything to drag their spirits out of the gutter. They needed something to laugh at. They needed to forget about the hole we'd dug ourselves and have a little fun.
And oh, it worked like a charm. A buzz immediately gripped the room:
“I fucking knew it!”
“Are you serious, Boomer?”
“He finally comes clean!”
“And I actually have you idiots to thank for helping me realize it,” I said, tearing off my undershirt and trading it for an athletic compression shirt.
“What do you mean?”
“Voting us King and Queen at the gala. Sneaky move, guys, but smart.”
“So something happened?!”
“I kissed her later that night. I'll be honest, I sorta made a mess of it, too. But boys, we've been trying to figure things out since then, and things are looking good for me. For the first time since the divorce, I'm actually feeling a little optimistic about a girl. So, I guess I owe you all an apology. Sorry boys. You read me like a book.”
My teammates went wild and launched a sortie of follow-up questions: how far had we gone, when was I going to pop the question (“quick, Boomer, do it before you retire and she realizes that you're just a boring nobody!”), what the hell we were going to tell my kids …
I shook my head. “Listen, guys. I don't know the answer to a lot of those questions. All I can say is that I like her a lot. And once this hockey thing is over, I can't wait to spend even more time with her and find out what the future holds. That said—as excited as I am to start the next chapter of my life? I don't want to do it a loser. I want to go out on top, I want to go to Brynn with a Cup. A champion.”
“Get Boomer a Cup so he can get the girl,” Radar repeated.
“That's some real Boomer thinking,” Brooks said, “but hell, I can get behind that.”
Lance, the Brawlers' future captain, took center stage in the room. “One game, boys. Let's walk out of here with a win tonight, and we'll build from there.”