19. Nora
NORA
Friday night games have become my favorite part of the week, which is a sentence I never expected to apply to myself about hockey.
Michelle is already in our usual seats when Harper and I arrive, with Liam's jersey on, her dark hair in a ponytail, and two coffees in hand. She passes one to me without being asked.
"You're my favorite person," I tell her.
"I know." She peers into the carrier at Harper. "She's wearing the jersey again."
"Tyler insists. For luck, apparently."
"It's working." Michelle settles back. "Liam says the guys are actually starting to respect him. Even some of the veterans who were icing him out."
Something warm moves through my chest that I choose not to comment on.
"That's good," I say. Keeping my voice neutral—professional—like I'm just the nanny who happens to be here.
Michelle gives me a look that says she sees straight through me but doesn't call me on it. Yet.
The arena fills. I know the rhythm of game nights now: the anthem, the starting lineups, the specific noise the crowd makes when the home team takes the ice.
I know which section has the best view of Tyler's usual position.
I know that Michelle will explain any play I don't understand, and that Harper will be extremely interested during the first period and deeply asleep during the third period.
I also know I spend an unreasonable amount of warm-up time looking for number 17.
Tyler appears on the ice, and even from up here, I can see the focus on his face, the version of him that exists only when he's skating, when the thing he's best at is happening beneath his feet.
He glances toward the family section.
"You know he's playing for you two, right?" Michelle says.
"He's playing for the team."
"Sure. That's why he points at your section every time he scores." She adjusts the diaper bag at her feet. "And why he looks up here approximately every thirty seconds during warm-ups.”
"Michelle—"
"I'm just saying." She's grinning now, clearly enjoying this. "The way Tyler talks about you when you're not around, according to Liam. And the way he looks at you during games." She tilts her head. "You're not just the nanny anymore, Nora, and I’m pretty sure you haven't been for a while."
I want to argue. I want to maintain the professional distance, explain the boundary, and remind both of us what the arrangement is.
The puck drops before I can formulate anything worth saying.
The first period is intense. Physical, fast, with both teams feeling each other out. Tyler is on the ice for his first shift, and I'm watching him more closely than I should, tracking his movements, and holding my breath when players get too physical.
Harper squirms on my lap, and I adjust her.
Halfway through the period, Tyler makes a play that has the whole arena on its feet.
He's at the blue line when Danny gets the puck deep in the offensive zone. Two defenders are collapsing, blocking the shooting lane, and the play is about to die.
Then Tyler sees the gap.
He cuts across, hand up, asking for the puck, and Danny threads a pass through two defenders that shouldn't be physically possible. Tyler one-times it and redirects it across the crease to Rodriguez, sending it crashing into the net.
Goal.
The crowd explodes, and I’m on my feet, screaming before I've decided to stand, Harper startling in my arms.
"Holy shit," Michelle yells over the noise. "That pass was fucking beautiful!"
Tyler's getting mobbed by his teammates, and everyone’s piling on Rodriguez, but when they separate, he skates directly toward our section. Makes eye contact with me through the glass. The grin on his face is pure joy.
My heart stutters.
I settle back into my seat, bouncing Harper gently.
"Yeah, you're totally just the nanny," Michelle says beside me.
I don't have a response to that.
Second period, Tyler's line is dominating. Controlling possession and setting up in the offensive zone, the other team is unable to keep up with their speed.
Midway through, Tyler steals the puck at the blue line. Their defenseman is trying to pass it up the boards; Tyler reads it perfectly, jumps the lane, and picks it off clean. Suddenly, there's nothing but open ice between him and the goalie.
Breakaway.
The arena goes from loud to deafening. Tyler is skating hard, the puck on his stick, one defender chasing and not closing the gap. He crosses the blue line, dekes left, and the goalie bites.
Tyler goes right. Slides it into the five-hole.
Goal.
I'm screaming again, keeping Harper secure even as I jump to my feet. She's wide-eyed, taking in all the chaos around her.
"Yeah, you're absolutely just the nanny," Michelle says. Louder this time.
Tyler's already turned toward our section, pointing at us with both hands, his grin visible even from here. The crowd is going insane; his teammates are tackling him in celebration, and all I can think is that he scored and his first instinct was to look for us.
For me.
Third period, Falcons are up three-one, but Montreal is pushing hard. Tyler's everywhere, blocking shots, breaking up plays, defending hard. Harper is getting drowsy against my shoulder, fighting sleep.
With five minutes left, Tyler intercepts a pass in the defensive zone and turns it up ice immediately. Danny streaks down the wing, calling for it, and Tyler hits him in stride with a pass that looks choreographed.
Danny buries it. Four to one. Game over.
Final buzzer. The three stars.
Third star: Rodriguez. Second star: Danny. First star: Tyler West.
The arena erupts.
Tyler skates back out, waves to the crowd, and when his eyes find our section, I'm not prepared for what happens to my chest.
He was incredible tonight. Absolutely dominant. And seeing him out there, doing the thing he loves, being this good at it, I'm so proud I could burst.
And that's the problem.
Because I'm not supposed to feel this way. I'm supposed to be professional and detached here because it's my job to care for his daughter. But watching him point at us after his goal, watching him skate around the ice with pure joy on his face, I can't pretend anymore.
I'm not just supporting my employer.
I'm falling for him.
Not in love, not yet. But falling. Tumbling toward something that terrifies me and draws me in equally.
Maybe it started that first day when he picked Harper up like she was made of glass and looked at her like he couldn't believe she was real.
Maybe it was the nursery floor, or the couch, or watching him get emotional over her very first jersey.
Maybe it's been building through midnight conversations and the way he calls me Red.
I don't know when it started.
I just know I can't stop it.
"You okay?" Michelle asks quietly, glancing at Harper, fully asleep against my shoulder.
"Yeah." My voice sounds strange. "That was a really good game."
She gives me a knowing look, but doesn't push, and I'm grateful.
We make our way down to the family area. Harper is heavy and warm, completely asleep. Other families gather, waiting for their players.
Tyler appears before I'm ready.
Freshly showered, hair damp, wearing jeans and his Falcons hoodie, his smile when he sees us is bright enough to power the arena.
"Did you see Daddy play, baby girl?"
He takes Harper from me gently, and she doesn't even wake, just relocates against his chest. Then he lifts her high, above his head, grinning up at her sleeping face like she hung the moon. He brings her back down safely and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"First star, Red. Did you see?"
"I saw." My voice comes out softer than I intend. "You were amazing, Ty."
His eyes lock on mine. The joy on his face shifts into something deeper, something heated, and I can't look away.
"You were there," he says quietly. Like that explains everything. "That's what mattered."
Michelle clears her throat. "I'm gonna find Liam. See you guys later."
She disappears, and then it's just us. Tyler is holding Harper; I’m standing too close, both of us are in each other's space like we're the only people in this emptying arena.
"We should get her home," I say finally.
"Yeah." But he doesn't move. "Yeah, we should."
In the car, Harper asleep in the back, Tyler reaches across the center console, and his hand covers mine where it's resting on my knee. Not moving. Just there, warm and deliberate, asking nothing.
I look at our hands.
I turn mine over.
We drive home like that, his hand in mine, neither of us saying a word, and the silence feels like the most honest thing we've managed in weeks.
"Hell of a game," I say when he pulls into the driveway.
"Hell of a night," he agrees.
He's looking at me, and I realize here and now that we're not talking about hockey.