Yesterday was a shit show for more than just my game. Hazel got antsy hanging out in that conference room all day, didn’t nap, and got hopped up on sugar.
But the worst part was seeing her run around on the sidelines during the third quarter. I caught her out of the corner of my eye, did a double-take, and got sacked so hard, my ears rang.
Who the hell takes a small child down to the sidelines during a game?
When I limped back to the bench, I asked one of the assistant coaches to get my daughter off the field because I can’t concentrate if I’m worried she’ll be flattened by an out-of-bounds play.
Afterward, I found out Norma the volunteer had to go to the bathroom and had someone else watch Hazel, and this other person got called to the sidelines and took my kid.
By the time I got to Hazel after the game, she was having a meltdown in that conference room. I tried to calm her down for a few minutes. The look of betrayal in her eyes when I had to leave her again to talk to reporters cut deep, but I didn’t think Coach would let me skip it after my mediocre performance.
“Wanna go to the park today? I could push you on the swings.”
She shakes her head and starts sucking her thumb. Damn it. She’d stopped doing that last year, but I think the stress of having new babysitters this week and the chaos of the game has taken its toll.
I kiss the top of her head. “I’m sorry about yesterday, kiddo. Daddy screwed up the babysitting situation. Was Norma so bad? She seemed like a nice lady.”
Her shoulders shake and big fat tears well in her eyes. “She yelled at me a lot.”
Fuck. “I’m so sorry.” She turns in my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. I rub her back as she cries. It’s possible Norma just used a stern voice, and with a four-year-old, sometimes you have to, but my daughter has a hard time when that comes from strangers. “Hazel? Can you cry for my football game too?” I ask, wanting to shift her focus. “’Cause I stank.”
Red-nosed, she sniffles and looks up. “No, Daddy. You played gweat.”
My throat gets tight, and I hug her. “Thanks, gingersnap. You always know what to say to make me feel better.”
It’s times like this I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by putting Hazel through another brutal season. At least if I’m in the NFL, I can afford to hire a nanny through an agency and trust they’ll be more reliable than Felicia, who posted her impromptu trip to South Padre with her boyfriend all over her social media.
Of course, she begged me not to fire her last night when I texted her not to bother coming on Monday. I was so angry, I didn’t trust myself to talk to her when she called. She’s the one who wanted the extra hours. I could’ve found someone else if I had known she wasn’t coming.
A couple of my teammates say their girlfriends can help me out this week until I find another babysitter. I’m worried how Hazel will take that news, but I can’t exactly haul her around to all of my classes and practices.
Hazel and I putz around the house, and I watch an ungodly amount of kids’ shows with my daughter. As I’m sitting in the living room, the sun blares through that awning window, and I squint up at it.
Since the day of the fire alarm, I’ve left it unlatched just in case we have another emergency. I’d like to change the lock on the front door so it can’t be flipped on the inside and lock you out, but my landlord won’t let me.
Something about that window reminds me of when I was a little boy and my grandmother would take me to church. I remember the pastor would say that when God closes a door, he always opens a window.
I really fucking need an open window right now.
Around lunchtime, I’m done moping. “Hazel, would you like some chicken tenders and chocolate icebox pie?”
I think a visit to Moe’s Diner is in order.
And since Abby’s car isn’t in the driveway, I’m hoping she’s at work.
Because I have to ask her a huge favor.
9
NICK
As Hazel and I make our way across the street to Moe’s, I do my best not to limp. The ice and ibuprofen have helped, but it’ll probably take a few days before I can walk normally. There’s no need to tip off people that I’m not feeling my best, though.
The doorbell rings above our heads as we enter the restaurant. It’s busy, but not as bad as Friday night. I immediately spot Abby across the diner chatting with old Mr. Pearson. She laughs at whatever he says, and I smile. Most people write him off as a whack job because his best friend is a goat. I love that Abby treats him with respect.
She finally spots us, and when she does, she almost trips. Her cheeks turn that alluring rosy shade as she walks up to us. “Are you stalking me?”
I laugh. “How did you know?”
