Chapter 4 Breakfast Emergency Matt

Chapter 4

Breakfast Emergency

Matt

Hottie is single.

I’m still chuckling to myself the morning after the game. The sign was funny, but the bright red cheeks of the woman sitting next to the sign holder? Priceless.

And even while tomato-faced, Hottie looked gorgeous, even prettier in the flesh than on that security footage. Her eyes are dark blue, the color of the ocean after a storm. They were really nice to look at—well, for the three or so seconds I looked into them. I still can’t believe she even showed up to the game, but with seats like those, she’d have been a fool not to.

Maybe I should ask her to dinner.

I ponder this new idea as I brush my teeth in the master bath. I rinse, spit, and then study my reflection in the mirror. I haven’t shaved in a few days, so I’m rocking dirty-blond scruff. My eyes look a bit bloodshot. And my hair, which I usually keep buzzed, has grown out and is now sticking up in all directions. Everything about my appearance tells me I’m not ready to ask Hottie, let alone any woman, on a damn date.

Divorce fucking blows.

I’ve spent the past eighteen months feeling angry at Kara for leaving me. Even though we hit a rough patch, I would have never done that to her. But there are times when I…fuck, I might be…relieved.

Shame has me turning away from the mirror. I hate it when thoughts like that creep into my head. I’m not relieved that my marriage blew up in smoke. I’m saddened.

And relieved.

No, I’m devastated.

But also relieved.

A silent groan lodges in my throat. I march into the bedroom and grab some clean clothes from the dresser. Fine. I have to concede to my traitorous subconscious—that last year with Kara was pretty fucking awful.

Just the last year? my asshole brain mocks.

All right, maybe it was more than a year. Maybe I felt us growing apart long before that. Truthfully, the strain started after the twins were born. Other than some possessiveness and unwarranted jealousy on Kara’s part and lots of traveling and some laziness on mine, our first two years of marriage were a blast. It wasn’t until the girls came along that Kara decided every single thing I did was absolutely wrong and that shit needed to be done her way—no highway option.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming my kids for the tension in the marriage. I love my girls. I wouldn’t give ’em up for the world.

Buzzzzz .

I brighten as the landline on my nightstand gives a loud buzz. Speaking of my girls…

I grab the phone and press the button to talk to the doorman. “Tommy, my man,” I say cheerfully. “Please tell me there are two lovely ladies on their way up.”

“Three,” he corrects, and I hear the smile in his voice. “They just got on the elevator.”

“Thanks.” I hang up and tug my sweatpants into place, then throw a Toronto hoodie over my head and hurry toward the front door. The floor-to-ceiling windows that span the massive main room sparkle in the early morning sunshine. It’s a gorgeous day, blue skies and yellow sunshine on my rug. In the warmth of my apartment, I can pretend that it’s a summer day and not freeze-your-balls-off cold out there.

I’m wired with anticipation as I wait for the knock. I have the girls until tomorrow morning, at which point their mom will pick them up so they can spend the day with their grandparents in Markham, a nice suburb northeast of here.

I was brutally disappointed when I found out I wouldn’t have them for the whole day tomorrow. I wanted to point out that they see Kara’s parents every Friday for lunch, a tradition that started when they were still in diapers, but arguing with my ex is about as effective as conversing with a wall. She always wins arguments. Always.

“Daddy!!” two voices shriek the second I open the door.

In a nanosecond, I’m bending down to scoop both girls into my arms. Two pairs of little hands wrap around my neck. Two sets of beautiful heart-shaped faces peer up at me in delight. And two mouths release squeals of laughter when I smack kisses all over their chubby cheeks.

“Oh, I missed you guys!” Emotion is thick in my throat as I hug my four-year-old daughters tight to my chest.

“Missed you too, Daddy!” June yells.

“Me too!” Libby pipes up.

“Yeah? How’s my Junebug doing?” I ruffle June’s dark hair before doing the same to her twin. “And my Libby-Lu?”

“Mommy got us new hats!”

“With pom-poms!”

I gasp. “No way! Why aren’t you wearing them?”

“Mommy says it’s not cold ’nuff yet,” June informs me.

I stifle an irritated curse. Of course. Kara is an expert in all things. I guess that includes determining the precise point of Toronto’s seasonal change in which our children are allowed to wear their hats. To distract myself from my annoyance, I swing the girls in my arms again, eliciting more happy squeals.

“Would you put them down, please?” a sharp voice asks from the door. “They haven’t had their breakfast yet, and all that spinning around will make them nauseous.”

The curse that’s jammed in my throat is now a string of expletives that are dying to fly out. Instead, I take a breath and then gently set my daughters on their feet.

“Rufus!” June shouts when she catches sight of the dog, who’s just rounded the corner to see what all the commotion in the front hall is about. His delayed entrance only highlights what a shit guard dog he’d make. Lazy bastard.

As the twins scamper off to pet their dog, I turn to my ex-wife and force myself to make eye contact. And there she stands, her glossy brown hair streaming down her shoulders in bouncy waves, her lithe body decked out in jeans and a leather jacket, a bright wool scarf setting off the color in her cheeks. Divorce obviously agrees with her. Or maybe it’s her new boyfriend, the dentist. Good old Dentist Dan, the man who gets to spend more time with my kids than I do.

But who’s bitter?

This is the woman who decided I wasn’t good enough to remain a full-fledged member of the family. That my children would be better off seeing Daddy once every couple of weeks. She cast me aside like she does with her designer clothes when she determines that they’re out of style.

Anger curls in my gut. But that’s not how I want this day to go, and it’s not the tone I want to strike with Her Highness. So I force myself to say something nice.

“How’s it going, Kara? You look good.” I’m not lying either. My ex is still as beautiful as the day I married her.

“I’d say the same for you, but…” Her nose turns up slightly. “Did your razor break?”

I manage a wry grin. “Nah. I’m trying out the rugged look.” I gesture to my beard growth. “What? I’m not pulling it off?”

A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Sorry, Matty, but no, you’re not.”

Her use of my nickname causes me to soften a bit. I never know which Kara I’m going to encounter when she shows up—the laughing, easygoing girl I met at twenty-two or the sharp-tongued, rigid woman who divorced me at twenty-nine.

It still confuses me sometimes, how much she changed. I mean, certain aspects of her personality, which I didn’t always like, were constant throughout our marriage—her pessimism, her candidness, her impatience. But in those early days, she was fun. She took risks; she laughed; she knew how to relax. Somehow those moments of relaxation became less and less frequent, and she became more and more unyielding.

She blames it on me, of course. Says the hockey lifestyle broke us, that I broke us. “I’m tired of being disappointed,” she whispered after one of our fights only months before the divorce. I’d missed her parents’ anniversary dinner the night before because the team’s flight was delayed in Michigan thanks to a snowstorm. It wasn’t like I’d set out to miss an important event, but for Kara, it was just another neon sign that screamed, My husband neglects me!

Matthew Eriksson, folks. Chronic disappointer of wives.

“Anyway,” my ex is saying, “I’m sure you already took care of it, but I wanted to remind you that the girls are off gluten, so no waffles for breakfast this morning.”

“Wait, what?” I blink in bewilderment. I always make waffles for the girls. That’s our thing.

Kara huffs impatiently. “No gluten, Matt. Scramble some eggs instead. I also sent you options for lunch and dinner.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask aloud. Then I cringe and glance toward the living room, but the girls are too busy fawning over Rufus to notice that Daddy said a bad word.

“You didn’t check your email,” Kara says flatly.

“I had a game last night,” I answer through clenched teeth. I’m already heading for the kitchen counter, where I left my cell phone. I hurriedly open my email and click on Kara’s name.

“And you didn’t check it this morning?” Kara’s tone is laden with disapproval.

I ignore her and scan the message. For fuck’s sake. It’s essay-length. And yup, she did include potential meal plans for me to implement during this way-too-short visit with my kids. She refers to them as “suggestions,” but we both know better.

“What do we have against gluten?” I ask tightly.

Her lips pinch together in a frown. “I told you last week—Elizabeth has been having some stomach sensitivity lately. I’ve monitored her food intake, and I believe the gluten is wreaking havoc on her system.”

Or she just had one fucking stomachache—probably because she snuck in some cookies when Dictator Mommy wasn’t looking—and it has nothing to do with fucking gluten.

“We spoke about this,” Kara says irritably. “And you agreed that we needed to change the girls’ diet.”

I don’t remember agreeing to that at all, but truth is, I probably did. Our weekly phone calls consist of Kara droning on for about an hour, while I say things like “uh-huh” and “sure” and “sounds good.”

“Fine,” I mutter. “Libby can’t handle gluten. Gluten is evil. Gluten will be banished from this household.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all.”

Kara’s dour expression tells me she knows I’m lying. Then she pastes a smile on her face and calls out to the twins. “C’mere, angels! Say goodbye to Mommy!”

June and Libby rush over to hug and kiss their mom.

Kara squeezes both of them tight before saying, “Be good for Daddy, okay? Call me if you have any questions. I’ve got dinner plans tonight, but I’ll have my phone on.”

“Big date with Dentist Dan, huh? Don’t forget to floss beforehand.”

She gives me a dirty look over our daughters’ heads. “I am having dinner with Daniel, yes. But I repeat, my phone will be on.”

My daughters are four years old and great at telling me exactly what they need. But Kara doesn’t think I can make it twenty-four hours without consulting her on their care? Anger rushes through me once again, and it takes a superhuman effort not to say something snarky.

Honestly, I’ve had divorced teammates before, and I never understood how they could still carry a grudge against their exes. But now the joke’s on me. Right now, I’m more ready to throw off the gloves with Kara than our team enforcer is when someone fouls our goalie.

Fortunately, a moment later, she’s gone, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Kara is a difficult woman. She loves our children dearly, I know that, but she acts like she’s their only parent. I have no say in anything when it comes to the girls. None.

Elizabeth has been having some stomach sensitivity lately.

Elizabeth. Libby’s full name brings on one last ripple of anger. I didn’t even have a say in naming my kids, for fuck’s sake. Kara informed me after the delivery that the girls would be named after her great-grandmothers—June and Elizabeth. I didn’t get a veto.

And Christ. What am I going to do about breakfast? I promised the twins waffles when we spoke on the phone. Waffles are our ritual, damn it. They already don’t get to see me as often as any of us would like.

Drawing a deep breath, I grab my phone again and pull up the Fetch app. In the subject line, I type, SOS! brEAKFAST EMERGENCY! MAYDAY!

Hopefully that sounds dire enough to trigger an instant response. The message itself is less crazy.

Sniper87: Hey HTE! I’ve got my kids this morning, and I’ve just been informed that gluten is the devil. I require gluten-free waffle mix—ASAP. Please help.

I don’t expect her to answer the SOS herself. I mean, I’m sure she’s got better things to do than field the pettiest client emergencies. But surprisingly, it’s Hottie’s name that shows up in the response box.

HTE: Oh boy! Does someone have celiac disease?

Sniper87: I doubt it. But my ex-wife lives to make things complicated.

HTE: Gotcha. Will send someone with gluten-free waffle mix ASAP.

Sniper87: For reals? You can keep me out of the penalty box?

HTE: Get out that waffle iron, Sniper.

“Daddy!” June appears at my side, tugging on my pant leg. “I’m hungry!”

“Me too!” Libby chimes in, and suddenly I’ve got two pairs of gray eyes peering up at me in accusation.

“Working on it,” I assure them. “How about some OJ for now?”

“Fruit punch,” June orders.

“And ice cream!” Libby shoots me an angelic smile and adds, “I missed you, Daddy.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Stop trying to manipulate your old man, Elizabeth. You’re not having ice cream for breakfast.”

“What’s manipoolate ?” June asks.

“It means your sister is trying to trick me into giving her a tummy ache.” I head for the fridge and peek inside. “You’re in luck. We’ve got fruit punch.” I always put this stuff on my grocery order because it’s June’s favorite juice.

Also? It’s organic. Take that, Kara! I give her the mental finger as I pull out the carton and then grab two small plastic cups from the cupboard. Rufus, my jerk of a dog, decides to pick that moment to dart into the kitchen and run between my legs, causing me to lose my balance. I end up spilling fruit punch all over my light-gray hoodie. Awesome.

“BWAHAHAHAHA!!” The twins break out in laughter, pointing their chubby fingers at me. “Daddy! You’re all purple!” June exclaims in delight.

“Don’t laugh at your father, you little monsters.” Groaning, I strip off the soaking wet purple-stained hoodie and toss it on the back of one of the counter stools. I’m pretty sure some of the juice seeped through the fabric, because my chest feels wet. I glance down. Yup, there are purple splotches on my left pec. Double awesome.

I grab a dishrag and quickly wipe up the liquid that spilled on the floor and counter. Then I pour two glasses, plant the girls’ butts on two stools, and watch as they happily sip their juice.

Man, it’s easy to please my children. Give them some fruit punch and they’re smiling like it’s Christmas morning. Though once their little tummies start growling and they realize their waffles still aren’t ready, I doubt they’ll be smiling anymore.

I get out the waffle iron and a skillet to fry up some breakfast sausage. Hopefully Hottie comes through for me on short notice. I swear, the woman is a saint for all the miracles she busts out.

And she doesn’t disappoint. Less than fifteen minutes after I sent my SOS, the lobby buzzes to inform me I have a delivery from Fetch.

“Hey, Tommy?” I ask my doorman. “Is there any chance that the delivery was brought by the same woman who walked my dog?”

“Yeah, it’s her.”

“Do me a favor? Ask her name for me.”

I wait while Tommy confers with her, and I feel goose bumps rise up on my neck.

“Her name is Hailey Taylor Emery,” Tommy says a moment later.

Hailey Taylor Emery? As in HTE? Hottie is downstairs in my lobby?

“Send her up,” I blurt into the receiver.

“Actually, she’s requested that the desk clerk take it up to—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Tell her I won’t accept the package unless she delivers it herself.”

Jesus, what is wrong with me? Why am I badgering this poor woman to come upstairs to see me?

There’s a short delay before Tommy speaks again.

“She’ll be right up.”