7
NICK
Red, blinking lights flash in my face when I crack open my eyes.
Why is it blinking one-thirty? My alarm clock never does this, which is the first indication that shit’s not gonna go my way today.
We must’ve lost power this morning because bright morning sun blares through my curtains.
The realization that it’s Saturday hits me like a hard sack.
Crap. What time is it?
I leap out of bed, nearly killing myself on one of Hazel’s Lego sets, and scramble for my phone.
It’s ten in the morning on a game day. I’ve usually showered, dressed, and gotten down to the stadium by now. Fuck.
I race out to the living room, where I find my daughter watching TV and eating a bagel. “Hazel, why didn’t you wake me?”
Her eyes never leave the cartoon. “I twied, Daddy, but you we-a sno-ing.” She giggles.
“I don’t snore,” I grumble.
Figures. The one time my kid lets me sleep past seven in the morning is the day I could’ve used my little human alarm clock. I don’t have time to ponder how Hazel managed to make her own breakfast at the moment, but I’ll pat the kid on the back for that later.
As I haul ass into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, a million questions race through my mind, but one rises to the top with blaring intensity: Why hasn’t my nanny gotten here yet? She should’ve been my failsafe to wake up on time.
I hired two women recently: Denise, who watches Hazel in the mornings and drives her to and from preschool, and Felicia, who stays in the evenings. But since Felicia wanted to pick up a few more shifts, she said she could cover today.
I’m about to call her when I realize she’s already left me a message. Thank God. Maybe she’s just running late.
I put the message on speaker as I tug on some gray dress pants and a black Bronco polo. Fortunately, I set out my game day clothes yesterday.
“Hey, Nick…” Cough, cough. “Sorry I can’t come in today, but I’m not feeling well.” Cough. “Maybe Denise can watch your daughter?”
My eyes narrow. She seemed fine yesterday, and those coughs aren’t terribly convincing, but I’ll deal with Felicia later. I pull up Denise’s number, but it goes to voicemail.
I don’t have time for this. I need to get my ass down to the stadium before Coach has an aneurysm. He’s very strict about us getting there early on game days because traffic sucks.
I’ve never had a babysitter bail like this.
Maybe Abby can watch her. I run out to the living room and glance out the window, and that little bit of hope withers when neither Abby’s nor Paige’s car is in the driveway.
Paige can’t watch her, idiot. She has to cheer at the game.
Fuck. What am I going to do?
My phone rings in my hand, and I’m hoping it’s Denise, but it’s Jinxy.
“Where the hell are you, man?”
“My power died last night, the alarm didn’t go off, and my babysitter bailed.”
“Shit. What about your neighbor?”
“She’s not home.” I run my hands through my hair. “What do I do?” I’ve never asked any of my teammates for advice when it comes to my daughter, but I haven’t been in this position before.
“What about Miss Trunchbull?”
