Chapter 43
TATE
“Dad?” Bea asks me on the way home from school that day.
I turn the music down, a classic rock playlist Bea asked me to put on, and glance in the rearview mirror. “What’s up?”
We have a game tonight and I need to be back at the arena in an hour, but I pick her up from school when I can.
“Can I take guitar lessons?”
I give her a curious look. “You want to learn to play guitar? Since when?”
“Since Jordan played records for me. She said I was cool because I like good music.”
My heart squeezes. My prickly, anti-social employee told my kid she was cool. Come on. How am I not supposed to melt at that?
I’m definitely not supposed to be coming with her panties wrapped around my dick, though. Shame and guilt thread through me, and I fight back a sigh.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
This morning, another pair sat on the floor outside my bedroom door. It’s like that cat can sense when I’m trying not to think about the woman in my guesthouse.
Now I have two pairs of her panties in my bedside table. Today. I’ll give her panties back today. Tonight. After the game.
Maybe tomorrow.
“I want to learn to play the songs,” Bea says, and I pull my focus back to her, where it belongs.
I love the idea of Bea learning an instrument. “Can you commit to three months of lessons? Even if it’s hard?”
She nods. “Even if it’s hard.”
“Alright.” I smile at her. “I’ll get you a guitar and sign you up for lessons.”
As I drive, Bea hums to the song, and my mind wanders to what Jordan told me last night about the UBC team.
They turned their backs on her. So did her father. No wonder she keeps everyone at a distance.
She hasn’t had anyone in her corner for a long, long time.
“Dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Jordan’s really nice.”
There’s that squeeze in my chest again. “She is, isn’t she?”
“Maybe she’ll stay in the guesthouse forever.”
Ah. “She’s going to move out at the beginning of the summer, after the season’s over. Remember?”
Bea’s quiet for a moment, frowning out the window. “But maybe she can stay, anyways.”
It’s concerning, that I’m asking myself the same thing, and that’s exactly why we need this conversation. Because if I, a grown man, am getting ideas about the noncommittal woman who has a long history of being happily alone, what chance does my daughter have of not getting attached?
“She isn’t going to stay,” I tell her with a firm look.
I want to say more. I want to tell her that maybe we can arrange for her to visit Jordan, or for Jordan to come by, but I don’t want to get Bea’s hopes up for something that might not happen.
Her expression falls, and I hate myself.
It’s the fucking hardest part of parenting, that I want to prevent my child from experiencing any pain in this unforgiving world. And yet, it’s part of life. And it’s my duty to teach Bea who to trust and who not to trust.
“Maybe we can go to the music store tomorrow and look at the guitars,” I say, and she lights up.
That evening before the game, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
It’s from my brother, Noah. A screenshot of some picture on social media from the charity event the team went to right after Jordan joined.
In the photo, we’re on the red carpet. I’m looking down at her with a tilt to my mouth and a warmth in my eyes, and she’s smiling a little, like she’s trying not to.
Looking fucking lovely in that red dress.
Who’s this??? Noah asks. She’s cute.
A sharp stab hits me in the gut. My colleague, I respond.
Never seen you look at a ‘colleague’ like that before, Noah texts with a wink, and I sigh.
I know, and that’s the problem.