Chapter Four
BEST LAID PLANS
Zayden
The kitchen is warm, the radiator clicking softly in the corner when I enter. And Mrs. Hendricks is crying.
Not dramatic, heaving sobs—just quiet tears streaming down her face as she sits across from me at the kitchen table, twisting a tissue in her hands.
She’s been with us for two years. She knows Maisie’s favorite cereal, her bedtime routine, and which stuffed animal she needs when she’s sick.
She’s the closest thing to stability my daughter has besides me.
And she’s leaving.
“The baby came two weeks early,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “A little girl. Six pounds, two ounces. They’re both healthy, but my daughter—she’s overwhelmed. She needs me.”
“Of course she does.” I keep my voice steady even as my stomach drops. “Family comes first.”
“I’m so sorry. I know the timing is terrible, and Maisie—” Her voice cracks. “I love that little girl.”
“She loves you too.” I reach across and squeeze her hand. “When do you need to leave?”
“Saturday. I already booked the flight.” She winces. “I know that’s only a week; I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. Saturday is the day before the road trip starts. “We’ll figure it out.”
She gives me a watery smile. We both know “figure it out” isn’t a plan. And this is an absolute disaster.
Through the doorway, I can hear Maisie in the living room, the soft murmur of her cartoon. She doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t know that the woman who braids her hair and makes her favorite mac and cheese and knows exactly how she likes her sandwiches cut is about to disappear from her life.
Another person leaving. Another hole to fill.
· · ·
That night, after Maisie’s asleep, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
One week. Mrs. Hendricks leaves Saturday. Road trip starts Sunday—Chicago, Detroit, then Boston. Which means I need someone to watch Maisie from Sunday through Wednesday while I’m gone.
Four days. I need to find coverage for four days.
I rub my hands over my face and try to breathe.
This is the part no one tells you about single parenting.
It’s not the tantrums or the sleepless nights—it’s the logistics.
The constant math of making a life work when you’re the only adult in the equation.
Every road trip is a puzzle. Every person I depend on is one emergency away from leaving me stranded.
I roll onto my side, then onto my back again. The pillow is too flat. The room is too quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat, steady and insistent, reminding me that I’m awake when I should be sleeping.
Tomorrow I have practice, a PT session, and somehow I need to find time to interview nanny candidates. The schedule is a Tetris game I’m losing.
My mind drifts to Tori. It keeps doing that lately.
I think about our session yesterday. The way she dug her thumb into that knot near my spine while I told her about my nonexistent dating life. Six years. No one since Maisie’s mom.
Her hands had slowed on my back.
No one in six years?
I’d played it off. Haven’t had time. Between hockey and Maze, there’s not a lot left over.
And she’d told me about her disasters. CrossFit guy with the crypto pie charts. Venmo guy who made her pay for spinach dip. A radiologist who talked about himself in the third person.
I remember lying on that table thinking—What is wrong with men?
Because Tori Wells? She’s sharp. Quick. Doesn’t miss anything and doesn’t let you get away with anything either. She’s got this dry humor that catches me off guard, and when she smiles—really smiles—it changes her whole face.
And yeah. She’s gorgeous.
Dark hair she wears pulled back, and I keep wondering what it looks like down.
Brown eyes that see way more than I want them to.
Soft lips that are usually telling me I’m doing something wrong, which shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
She’s got curves she tries to hide under scrubs and athletic wear.
It doesn’t work. I’ve noticed. Tried not to, but I’ve noticed.
Any guy with a functioning brain would see Tori and count himself lucky. Instead, she’s stuck with finance bros and men who can’t cough up eight dollars.
Makes no sense.
I roll onto my side and try to stop thinking about my physical therapist.
It doesn’t work.
· · ·
The nanny interviews are a disaster.
Candidate one shows up that afternoon. Twenty-two, blonde, spends the first ten minutes looking around my townhouse like she’s mentally redecorating.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “do the other players ever come over? Like, for team dinners?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s so cool. I saw Logan Palmer at a club once. He’s even hotter in person.” She giggles. “Is he single?”
“I’m looking for someone to watch my daughter. Not set up my teammates.”
She blinks like this hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh, totally. I’m great with kids. I love babysitting my cousin.”
“Thanks for coming in,” I say, standing. “I’ll be in touch.”
I won’t.
Candidate two is better. Mid-forties, experienced, and she has good references. She also asks the right questions about Maisie’s routine. I’m starting to feel hopeful until—
“I should mention, I’m not available on weekends. Saturdays are date night with my husband, and Sundays are church.”
I blink at her. This was all spelled out in the job posting she applied for. “Most of my games are on weekends.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “I assumed you’d have those covered.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t need full-time help.”
She leaves looking offended.
Candidate three doesn’t show up at all. I wait forty-five minutes before accepting she’s not coming.
Three interviews. Zero options.
I’m running out of time.
· · ·
Wednesday night. I’m making spaghetti—one of four things I can cook without burning—when Maisie wanders into the kitchen.
She’s already in pajamas even though bedtime isn’t for another hour. Stuffed elephant tucked under her arm. She looks small and serious, the way she does when she’s working up to something.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, shadow?”
“Is Mrs. Hendricks really leaving?”
I set down the wooden spoon and crouch to her level. “Yeah, baby. Her daughter had a baby, remember? She needs to go help.”
“Like a grandma.”
“Exactly like a grandma.”
Maisie’s forehead wrinkles. “Will the new nanny be nice?”
“I’m going to find someone great.” The words come out automatically. “I promise.”
But she doesn’t nod and accept it like she usually does. She looks at me with those dark eyes—my eyes, everyone says—and her expression goes careful. Guarded.
“You always promise,” she says.
It’s not an accusation. That’s what kills me. She’s not angry, not hurt—she’s just stating a fact. A statement of how the world works according to Maisie Bishop, age six.
People promise things. Sometimes they keep them. Sometimes they don’t.
Best not to expect too much.
My chest squeezes so tight I can barely breathe.
“Hey.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”
She does.
“I know things have been hard. Your mom not being around, me traveling, people coming and going. I know that’s confusing.”
She watches me with that too-old expression.
“But I’m going to find someone good. Someone nice who’s going to take care of you when I can’t be here. And if the first person doesn’t work out, I’ll keep looking.”
“What if there isn’t a right person?”
The question hits like a cross-check.
She’s not asking about nannies. She’s asking about people. Whether anyone besides me is ever going to show up for her and stay.
I don’t have a good answer. Can’t promise everyone will be reliable. Can’t undo the damage Sienna did by walking out, or the parade of caregivers who’ve come and gone.
All I can do is be here.
“There’s always a right person,” I say. “Sometimes it just takes a while to find them.”
She considers this. “Okay.”
I pull her into a hug. She smells like strawberry shampoo and the grape popsicle she had after school.
She’s so small. I forget sometimes, because her personality is so big, her observations so sharp. But wrapped in my arms, she’s still just a little girl. All knobby elbows and baby-fine hair and a heartbeat I can feel fluttering against my chest.
I want to protect her from everything. Every disappointment, every letdown, every person who might promise something and fail to deliver.
I can’t. I know I can’t.
But God, I want to.
“I love you, Maisie girl.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
She squirms away after a few seconds and wanders to the living room. A minute later, the TV clicks on and I hear Bluey in the background.
I stay hunched over the stove and try to focus on pasta sauce.
I hate this. Hate that she hedges her expectations. That she’s six and already knows promises don’t always mean anything. I’d give anything to unlearn that for her. To show her that some promises actually hold. The problem is, I’m not sure if I believe it myself anymore.
I finish making dinner and pretend I’m fine.
Later, after she’s asleep, I grab my phone and do what I should’ve done three days ago.
I text Bree Lockwood—my teammate Archer’s wife.
Hey, huge favor. My nanny is leaving for Florida to watch her grandbaby. And the road trip starts Sunday. Any chance you could take Maze until we’re back Wednesday?
The three dots appear almost immediately. Bree’s a night owl, thank God.
Of course. She can stay here with the twins. They’ll love it.
Relief floods through me so hard my hands shake.
You’re a lifesaver. I owe you.
You owe me nothing. Hockey families stick together. But Zay—you need a full-time nanny. What’s your long-term plan?
I stare at the screen.
I don’t have a long-term plan. I have duct tape and prayers and a list of agencies that can’t find anyone who meets my “scheduling requirements.”
Working on it, I type back.
Let me know if you need help. Seriously.
I set the phone down and tip my head back against the couch.
This time, I got lucky. Bree came through. But she’s got her own kids, her own life. I can’t keep asking her to bail me out every time something falls apart.
And something always falls apart.
My phone buzzes again with a different number.
Tori: Reminder to ice that shoulder before bed. 20 minutes. No excuses.
I picture her on the other end—probably in her own apartment, maybe curled up on a couch of her own, phone in hand. Does she text all her patients reminders? Probably. She seems like the type to be thorough.
But it’s nine-thirty at night. She’s thinking about my shoulder at nine-thirty at night.
I shouldn’t read into that. I read into it anyway.
Yes ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of it.
Three dots. Then: That’s what I like to hear. See you tomorrow, Bishop.
I set the phone down.
Crisis averted. For now. But I’m one emergency away from total disaster, and I know it.
And somehow, a text from Tori is the first thing that’s made me smile all week.
I’m in trouble.