Chapter 11

eleven

brYCE

Before Rusti arrives, I wake up Jolie. She tosses and turns until I say, “Emmaline is coming to spend the day with you. Let’s go make her breakfast.”

A yawn rumbles from her throat. I know her voice works; she just doesn’t use it.

“Hop up,” I say cheerfully. When she doesn’t move, I pull back the covers and pick her up. “Do you want to make her bacon and eggs or pancakes?”

When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “One blink for bacon and eggs or two blinks for pancakes.”

Pancakes win.

She drops her little face into the crux of my neck, softly breathing.

This is one recipe I don’t have to look up. In college, my roommates and I made pancakes on Sunday afternoons.

Jolie sits on the counter, and I show her the measuring cup and have her shake the mix into the cup until it reaches the red line. Then she does the same with the milk .

“Do you want to crack the egg?” I ask her, and she nods her head up and down. A smile crosses my face. Progress. “Tap it lightly against the edge of the bowl and then pull the shell apart.”

She lights up as I hand her the egg. Her little hand smacks against the bowl and when I say smacks it, I mean she obliterated the shell, screaming as she tries to jump off the counter. Somehow, I’m able to grab her before she falls.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get another egg.”

Snot is running from her nose, and she wipes it on the sleeve of her gown. At the same time, the doorman buzzes up. “Mr. Wynward, Ms. Rustavelli is here. Should I send her up?”

Thank God. “Yes, Felix.” I look at Jolie. “Do you want to meet Emmaline at the elevator?”

She nods. I really think we’re getting somewhere. Swiveling her around, I get under her arms and put her on my shoulders. “Emmaline won’t believe how much you’ve grown since last night.” My voice is more chipper than it’s ever been.

The elevator doors open, and I’m blown away by her fresh face without any makeup. She has a tote bag thrown over her shoulder. Emmaline drops her jaw and says, “Jolie, how did you grow taller than me?”

Jolie giggles as Emmaline moves into my personal space, and I know there’s not a single chance I can keep this platonic. Emmaline reaches up to tickle her. Then she grabs her from my shoulders and puts Jolie on her hip and follows me into the kitchen.

“We were making you pancakes. Are you hungry? ”

“Yes. I had to rearrange my schedule a bit, so I worked out this morning.”

“You are welcome to use my home gym.”

“I might.” She spots the bowl and the shattered egg, then reaches in the fridge, taking out another one and giving me a conciliatory glance “Jolie, let’s crack it on the counter instead of the bowl and if the shell doesn’t shatter, then tomorrow you can do it by yourself. Would you like that?”

Jolie acknowledges her with a head nod. She covers my little girl’s hand with hers, gracefully cracking the egg.

“Good girl,” I compliment Jolie, but Emmaline’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. I make a mental note to praise her if I ever get another chance. But right now, she wants to focus on Jolie. I’ll probably have to stand behind something every time Emmaline’s here.

As I stand with the spatula in hand, my daughter looks at me and then the mix. “Do you want me to stir, or do you want to do it?”

“Can you use your words and answer your dad?” Emmaline asks as she rubs Jolie’s back.

I’m surprised when Jolie touches my arm, indicating she wants to sir the batter together.

“Hey, last night you two reimagined the broccoli. Do you want to put something in the pancakes? Like blueberries?”

Jolie shakes her head, yes, so Emmaline gives Jolie a handful and lets her drop them into the bowl. When the cooktop griddle is hot enough, I pour the batter. I flip them onto a plate once they’re perfectly fluffy. Jolie’s shrieks in delight cause my heart to ricochet off my rib cage.

Emmaline pours the syrup and then Jolie sprinkles powdered sugar over the top. Add a glass of milk, and Jolie is eating breakfast after only one meltdown.

“You’re full of surprises, Wynward. How many things can you cook?”

I shrug my shoulders. “A few. In college, we grilled out a lot. We lived in what was called the Hockey Plex. It was an old apartment complex specifically for hockey players, but it did have outside grills and picnic tables and an open field behind it. Party central.”

She wedges off a piece of pancake with the side of her fork, sticks it between her sweet lips, and I swear I get a hard on as she slides it off her fork with her teeth.

To distract me, I glance at Jolie, who is nearly finished and has a milk mustache. Emmaline swallows a drink of milk herself and says, “Wynward, vote for the best milk mustache. Mine or Jolie’s?”

“Hmm.” I study them both by putting my fingers under their chins and turning them left and right. “The winner of the milk mustache competition is Jolie because hers looks like the wings of a jet and since I’m a Georgia Jet, Jolie wins.”

Jolie celebrates her victory in silence with only a grin that stretches from ear to ear.

“Wash your hands and meet us in the living room. Emmaline and I want to talk to you.” Sliding off the chair, Jolie follows my directions. Today is a good day.

“Are you ready to make a schedule?” Emmaline’s voice brings me back to reality.

I nod eagerly, ready to dive into her. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see Emmaline every day, even if it’s for Jolie and not me. Somehow, I have to get her out of my head. “Let’s do it. ”

I tap on my phone for my schedule as we walk into the den and sit on the couch. Emmaline pulls out a larger paper planner from her tote with a few colors of pens.

“Old school, huh?”

“I never trust my phone. I can’t tell you how many alarms I’ve set for eight at night instead of eight in the morning.”

As I crane my neck, the word gym is written in red. “I’m serious about you using my gym.”

“Thanks, but I do mixed martial arts and need to be in class a few days a week,” she says like it’s nothing.

“Wow, I didn’t expect that. How long have you been training?”

“Seven years or so. I wanted to have something that was mine. Roman has hockey, and I have MMA. I joined a class last week, so I’ll just do it early before coming here.”

We go over my schedule and realize I need to leave for practice in thirty minutes. Emmaline already had all the Jets games in her planner, but we add practice times for the month and a few professional obligations, parties, commercials, etc.

Jolie shuffles into the room with her bear that she holds close but not as tight as when she first arrived. I reach for her, sitting her on the cushion between us.

“Jolie, Emmaline is going to be your nanny. It means she’ll be here on most days whenever I have practice or work. She’ll bring you to the hockey games, read with you, play games, and teach you. Would you like that?”

She nods in excitement.

I hand Emmaline two cards. “You’ll need this key card for the elevator, which will bring you directly to the penthouse.” Then I hand her a black American Express card. “And this is for whatever you and Jolie need. If you want to go to the movies, shopping, or to the children’s museum. I ordered a card with your name on it, but it won’t be here for a day or two.”

“Thanks.”

I hop up from the couch and run upstairs to change out of my lounge pants and t-shirt into my practice gear. Since I’m running late, I just say, “See you girls later. Don’t hesitate to call me. Of course, I can’t answer until I’m in the locker room. If it’s an emergency, call the … shit, I’ll text you the office number.”

“We’ll be fine. Go before you’re late.”

With my lips pressed into a thin line, I agree and then hustle downstairs and drive my own vehicle to practice. I want my driver to be available for whatever Emmaline and Jolie need, but I forgot to tell Emmaline. Damn, I need to be more organized. I’m not used to thinking about others. Not that I’m a bad guy. I’m not. It’s just that this is all so new.

I tap on her contact and call. “Hey, I forgot to tell you that my driver is available to you. I’m sending you his contact number. If you and Jolie want to go anywhere, he’ll take you.”

She laughs. “Wynward, calm down. We’ll be fine, and I think we’ll stay in today and just hang out.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Her voice filters through my ear when her brother comes into view. “Are you fucking crazy?”

It’s obvious Emmaline has told him about our arrangement .

“My sister is a child counselor, not a fucking nanny. I didn’t mind her helping you out, but we live in a big fucking city, and I’m sure there are lots of professional nanny services. I don’t like this. Not at all,” he preaches. “She’s off limits.”

Rustavelli attempts to storm off, but I stop him in his tracks. “Yeah, she told me about the no hockey teammates rule.”

“Why in the fuck would she tell you about that? Did you ask her out? Did you try to get in her pants? Everyone knows how you bed hop.”

I chuckle. “Is that what it’s called? Bed hopping.” I break into a deep belly laugh as we’re walking into the locker room. Roman’s face is blood red and so to put him at ease, I say, “Sorry. I’ve never heard that term. I’m not dating anyone at the moment, but Jolie still isn’t speaking, and she’s fond of your sister. My daughter has been put through a traumatic experience with her fucking mom dropping her off like she’s groceries. So, I thought that since I know I can trust my teammate’s sister to not use the situation to blackmail me or get something out of it, she would be perfect. Plus, when Jolie decides to trust her, she’ll open up to me too.”

Roman is completely disarmed. “Damn, man. I’m sorry. It’s just… my sister has been through a lot, and she moved here for me. To support me. I guess I’m a little jealous that she won’t have the free time to hang out.”

“You’re welcome at my house anytime, Rustavelli.”

The fellas file into the locker room. Since it’s a late-morning practice, everyone is chatty. Reed flicks me with his practice jersey. “Are you sending Jolie to Admire, or did you like another school better?”

“I’m not sending her until January. Emmaline and I thought it would be best if I used this time to get to know her.”

“Jolie. He means get to know Jolie,” Roman insists.

“Somehow, I have to get her to speak. I’m hoping with Emmaline’s background, she can break through Jolie’s walls.”

Reed slaps my back. “You need to call her mom and ask her if this is normal for Jolie. Has she ever talked? Oh, and Brooke is going live with the app tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Francesca again after practice. I need to know why Jolie only has dresses and church shoes. I have so many questions.” I don’t address the dating app thing because I have zero time.

Coach comes in, banging his hand against the lockers. “Listen up. After warmups, we’re scrimmaging line one versus line two. Lines three and four will work in the practice area on shots. Then we’ll switch.”

“Yes, sir.”

The players nod, knowing that this is a chance to compete for a spot on the first line. Cross and Rustavelli share a look, their competitive sides already fired up. “Come on,” I say, clapping Cross on the shoulder. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

“Be there in one minute.” I glance at my phone and shoot Emmaline a text.

Me: Your brother is on my ass.

Emmaline: He’s a cub. I’m the tiger.

Fuck, if I don’t love her spunk .

She’s the one who said we needed to draw an imaginary line, yet she flirts and gets me riled up with her sass. The night we spent together was different, and now I know why. She lives free. Says what she wants. Does what she wants, including MMA. God, that’s hot. No wonder she let me bend her in all those positions. And why her strong legs and ass are toned even though they’re bigger than any girl I’ve been with.

Rustavelli slaps the back of my head. “Come on, Cap.”

Meeting my team on the ice, I lead warmups like any good captain. We work our way through stretches, skate the perimeter, line drills without the stick or puck, and then the coach begins the scrimmage.

Four hours later, I’m so anxious to return home to Emmaline and Jolie that I don’t even shower, but when I get there, no one’s home. Checking my phone, I missed a text.

Emmaline: Went for a walk to get some fresh air.

I hit the like emoji, take out a protein shake from the fridge, downing it in less than a minute. It’s nutrient rich, full of spinach, berries, and bananas, but the base is plain, unsweetened yogurt. I have a chef who comes three times a week to prepare my meals and shakes.

Since I can smell myself, I decide to shower and change before they return. While washing my hair and scrubbing my face, I find myself smiling, thinking about Jolie and Emmaline walking hand in hand down the street.

I wrap a white towel around my hips and shave. My phone vibrates against the marble counter, and I see an image of Jolie on the swings. She’s wearing a dress, but she has on a pair of miniature Nike Dunks. Her feet are high in the air, and she’s leaning back with her golden hair streaking through the air with exhilaration painted on her face.

And I want to spend my life making my little girl smile.

It reminds me to call Francesca. Her phone rings several times as I walk downstairs to grab a bottle of water. Just when I think I’m going to voicemail, she answers, “What? Is Jolie okay?” she asks, screaming above the techno music thumping in the background.

“We need to talk.”

“What?”

I shout, “Go somewhere you can hear me, now. We need to talk.”

She huffs and puffs into the phone, but the background music is waning. “I’m in the bathroom. What do you want?”

What do I want? Is she kidding?

“I’ve called twice and left messages, and you can’t find a half hour to return my calls about your daughter.”

“Get to the point.” Her voice is full of irritation. I can almost envision her wearing a tight spandex dress that hugs her slender frame, made up like a Barbie, rolling her eyes and jutting her hip out like I’m a pesky fly she’s trying to get rid of.

I let out a heavy breath. “Jolie hasn’t spoken a word since you dropped her off. Did she talk at home with you?”

“Of course. She must be uncomfortable with you.”

“You think? Damn it, Francesca, you just left her and didn’t let her ease into it. You didn’t stay for a couple of weeks and let her get to know me a little at a time. No, you snuck out of my house and left her. How could you leave this precious girl? She’s your daughter,” I say. I started out like a freight train, but now my voice is losing steam .

“Did you call to tell me what a bad mother I am?”

Maybe.

I grab the bottle of water and a protein bar from the iron basket on the counter and walk into the den. Frustrated, I run my fingers over my jaw and demand, “Just tell me about her speaking.”

“She’s a brat. Whenever she doesn’t get her way, she decides not to speak. Jolie is stubborn. But yes, she can and does speak.”

“What can I do to get her to speak to me? All she does is nod or blink.”

“I don’t know. Lukas knew something was wrong with her and said she couldn’t possibly be his.”

I mumble, “Yeah, cause he’s so fucking perfect.” I clear my throat. “So, there’s nothing to make her want to talk?”

“No, we just ignored it.”

What a piece of work.

“Why did you only pack dresses and dress shoes for her? She doesn’t have any pants or sweaters. It’s almost winter. And did she go to school before she came to live with me?”

“She needs to look like a little lady,” she says nonchalantly, as if she’s talking about a doll and not her daughter.

I took a deep breath, attempting to calm down, but I’m so angry that she would do this to her own flesh and blood. Just up and left her. “And why didn’t Lukas teach her to ice skate?”

“Because it’s not fucking lady like. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my husband and friends.”

“You do that.” I press my thumb on the end call button and throw the phone onto the couch. Thank God I didn’t throw it against the wall because I don’t have time to get another one. My feet feel like they’re stuck in mud, and I’m sinking with no way to get through to Jolie because her mother is trash.

I turn and find Emmaline staring at me, and I’m not sure why. Closing the distance between the girls and me, I say, “I love your shoes. Are those Nike Dunks?”

Jolie shakes her head in excitement.

I grab her hand. “I have the same ones. Do you want to see them?”

Emmaline says, “Yes, we do.”

That’s when I realize I’m in a towel and the look of desire darkens Emmaline’s green-blue eyes. When we reach my master suite, I open the door to my shoe closet and let the girls in. “I’m going to put on shorts. The Dunks are on the left, third or fourth shelf.”

Taking out a pair of underwear and shorts, I slip them on quickly and return to the closet.

“See, we have the same color. Where did you get them?” I ask Emmaline.

“There’s a sporting goods store around the corner; think it’s locally owned. We were walking past on the way to the park, and I thought tennis shoes were more appropriate for the park.”

Emmaline is a caring and sane person who knows you don’t wear patent leather shoes to play at the park. Unlike Francesca.

Jolie pulls out the Nikes that are the same as hers and then puts her feet inside my shoes and slides around. Her little feet can’t pick up size thirteen shoes.

Emmaline tips her head, and I follow her out to my bedroom. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop but was that Jolie’s mom?” she asks.

“Yeah, she’s no help. It’s sad, and I know how Jolie feels to be left. I’ll never do that to her.” Emmaline’s mouth parts as she admires my chest. “Emmaline, my eyes are up here.”

I let out a deep sigh, irritated over Emmaline putting us in the friendzone when there’s so much between us other than sex. We admire each other. Trust each other.

Emmaline is the opposite of Jolie’s piece-of-shit mother.

“Oh sorry.” She uses her pointer finger and makes a circle in front of my chest. “This is very distracting. You’re still wet and…”

“Rusti.” I shift my weight and move closer to her. “Are you thinking of how sweaty we were that night and how I made you feel?”