Chapter 30 Officer Daddy Cara #3
Her head tilts just slightly, and I imagine the way her big green eyes move over him before she answers him with only the pop of her mouth.
I snicker as he complies, nodding and placing the tip of a straw in her mouth, holding her lemonade for her while she sips it, until she decides she’s done, dismissing him with the simple flick of her wrist. He moves on, distributing a glass to each of the kids, and when he’s done, he turns on the bubble machine as Adam turns up the music, and those four boys scoop up the kids, twirling them through bubbles as they sing at the top of their lungs, and I swear the sound of all those never-ending giggles is the secret to happiness.
This is Emmett’s tactic. The effortless way he loves these tiny humans, makes them feel special and worthy, lives for their laughter. He’s a good uncle, a good foster parent, a good friend.
He’s a good man.
My good man.
And there is nothing in this world more attractive to me than that.
“This is dangerous for my ovaries,” Lennon mutters from behind her phone.
She switches to her camera, taking a few photos of the boys and the kids before picking her phone up again.
She flashes me the video she just took, and my heart warms all over again as I watch it.
“Abe’s face is covered by the bubbles. Good to post? ”
I nod as I climb off Olivia’s back, winking at Emmett as I climb the pool steps and his eyes roll down my dripping body. “Thanks, Len.”
She has this theory that it messes with the other team’s heads every time she posts a video of the boys being carefree the day before a big playoff game, instead of locking themselves down like robots.
While other teams eat, sleep, and breathe hockey during playoffs, these boys use their off days to unwind, reconnect, and have fun.
They always come back fresher and better for it.
“Oh. My. God.”
I look to Lennon as I grab a towel off my chair, her stare frozen on her phone. “What?”
Her eyes flick to mine, widening just slightly as I approach. She flips her phone down, slipping her sunglasses on, which does nothing to hide the deep flush that works its way into her bronzed cheeks. “Nothing.”
“Lennon.”
She keeps staring straight ahead, arms crossed over her chest, one leg slung over the other, feet bouncing.
“Lennon.”
“Oh, fine. Fuck.” She tears her sunglasses off. “How do you do that? How do you say only my name and get me to fold?”
“It’s a talent I’ve spent many, many years perfecting. Also, it’s hard to say no to extremely beautiful people such as myself.”
She chuckles, but it’s replaced with a sad smile. “You’re talented and extremely beautiful, you just said so. Remember that, okay?”
“Always,” I reply easily, but there’s a hitch in my voice reminding me there was a time not so long ago when I couldn’t find a single kind thing to say about myself.
Still, I take her phone without hesitation, my intrigue too strong to pause as the rest of the girls climb from the pool, gathering at my side to read the post on a popular trash hockey podcast’s Instagram page.
My jaw clenches, shoulders pulling taut as I look at the pictures.
One is Emmett and Abel, taken by Lennon after Abel’s first time watching a game in person, his face covered by a dinosaur emoji she’d placed on it before posting.
The second picture is me, head down and arms wrapped around myself as I leave the fertility clinic, and the two pictures are separated like the page has been ripped in half.
It’s the heading, though, that makes my stomach drop.
Marriage in crisis? Hockey’s golden couple and their last-ditch attempt to save their marriage.
Jennie scoffs, and Rosie grips my elbow.
“Put that shit down,” Olivia demands, but I twist away from her as she tries to grab the phone, gaze moving over the caption below the photo.
Vancouver Vipers’ star left-winger Emmett Brodie, seen here with unnamed foster child, says his marriage with event planner Cara Brodie is hanging on by a thread.
A source that used to be close to the family told us in an exclusive interview that things had been tense in the Brodie household long before the couple turned to fertility treatments.
“They’ve been trying basically forever to have a baby,” our source said.
“It’s become, like, Cara’s entire personality, and she’s already high-maintenance as it is.
The entire process—because she can’t have one, so they’re doing fertility treatments—sucked the joy out of Emmett.
Anyway, it was so uncomfortable. I had to remove myself from their lives after he basically propositioned me, suggesting I could give him what she couldn’t.
” Click the link in our bio to listen to the episode where we go over our exclusive interview with our source and try to answer everyone’s burning question: Are they only fostering as a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage?
“I said…” Olivia seethes, tugging the phone free from my grasp. “Put. That. Shit. Down.”
“I… I…” I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to say.
I don’t know what I’m feeling. There’s a rise to my chest and a pit in my stomach that says not good, but there’s the steady beat of my heart too, the way it doesn’t waver but instead keeps doing its job exactly the way it’s supposed to, the way it quietly whispers, It’s okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.
Am I?
“I need a minute” is what I settle on, and I put a hand out, stopping the four of them the second they take a step in my direction. “Alone. I’m fine, I promise. Just a minute to process this… this…”
“Fuckery,” Lennon whispers.
“Fuckery. Just a minute. Please.” I wait for them to nod before I amble through the patio door so I can pace the kitchen in privacy, the cool air a kiss of relief against my hot skin.
Still, I fan at my face, battling the wave of self-doubt, the sharp pinch of anger, until finally, I ground myself.
Bare feet flat on the cool floor, hands on my hips, eyes closed, and face up as I breathe.
And then: “What the fuuuck? Genuinely, what the fuck? Unnamed source, my ass. Natasha, you don’t have a subtle bone in your body,” I mutter about my ex-housekeeper.
“And as fucking if Emmett would stray. Unbelievable.”
A throat clears, and my eyes fly open, landing on Carter, halfway buried in the fridge. He closes the door slowly, eyes wide as if he’s been caught, because, well, he has been. He’s got a chocolate Oreo cupcake in one hand, and the smear on his lower lip tells me he’s already had at least one.
“Give me that,” I growl, snatching the cupcake and shoving half of it in my mouth. “No mo’ fo’ you.” I jab him in the chest before I devour the rest of the cupcake. “Dey fo’ afta dinna.”
He grins all too proudly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, well, well. Someone’s eating her feelings.”
I roll my eyes, wiping my mouth clean. “I’m not eating my—” I sigh, not interested in continuing this fight, but definitely not because I’m eating my feelings. Instead, I hold my hand out. “Phone?”
He fishes it out of his shorts pocket, unlocking it and handing it over without hesitation like I knew he would. These men have nothing to hide. I open Instagram, rolling my eyes when the app refreshes and the first post on his feed is from a page called @DadSaysJokes.
“They’re hilarious,” he tells me.
“I’m so sure,” I lie.
Navigating to the post I read just minutes ago, I show it to Carter, watching his smile dim and his jaw set as he reads through it.
“This is bullshit, Care.”
“I know it is, really, I do. I’m just—” I sigh, rubbing my temples.
“Listen, I’m all for women supporting women.
In fact, it’s pretty much my mission. We shouldn’t be tearing each other down.
But what in the absolute fuck is going on over here?
” I spread my arms wide, making a show of looking around.
“Is there something in the goddamn water? Why is there always someone lurking in the shadows, trying to break up happy couples? I didn’t sign up for this goddamn other woman trope bullshit.
It’s like someone is writing all our stories and thought Haha you know what would be so fun?
Throwing in a woman every once in a while whose main purpose is just to get everyone’s blood boiling and piss us off.
And you know what?” I jab Carter’s shoulder, punctuating my next words.
“I’m. Fucking. Sick. Of. It.” I throw my arms in the air. “Haven’t we been through enough?”
Carter’s brows jump as he watches my little performance, and the humor returns to his face.
“All right,” he says on a sigh, taking me by the elbow.
“Come here.” He tows me to the living room, taking a seat on the couch and patting the space beside him.
I take it with a huff, arms crossed over my chest, one leg slung over the other, bouncing away.
“In times of deep, deep trouble, I like to ask myself: WWCBD?”
My brow lifts, my leg stilling. “What the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Carter clears his throat, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. With all the seriousness in the world, he murmurs, “What would Carter Beckett do?”
I sigh, so deep, so long, I fear my soul may actually leave my body as I run a hand down my exhausted face. “Oh, dear God.”
Carter nods. “Deep, I know.”
“Philosophical, even.”
His eyes light. “Yes, exactly! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Ollie, but she—” He pauses, waving himself off. “Never mind. I’ll just have you repeat yourself to her later. The point is—”
“What would you do?”
“No, but also, yes.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. We’re gonna be here a while.