Halftime Husband

by McCarthy, Erin

  Matt choked on his drink. “What? Which one?”

  “The new one. I had sex with her first, then hired her to be my nanny. She’s a team cheerleader.”

  Matt ran a hand over his mostly bald head and gave me an incredulous look. “Are you fucking insane?”

  “It seems that way. To be fair, Poppy offered her the nanny position. I just didn’t object.”

  “Is she hot? Wait. Stupid question. She’s a cheerleader, of course she’s hot.”

  “She’s got legs for miles, man. Fucking miles.” I took one first sip of bourbon, needing to feel the burn.

  “Can I see a picture?”

  “That feels very high school.”

  Matt hit my arm. “Just show me a fucking picture.”

  “I feel like an idiot doing this, but fine.” I swiped through my phone and found her social media account. I handed Matt the phone. One of the first pictures in her feed was her posing on the Brooklyn bridge in shorts and a bikini top.

  He whistled. “Damn.” He kept scrolling. And scrolling. He enlarged a photo or maybe two. Or three.

  “Give me that,” I said, grabbing the phone back. “Stop creeping on my nanny.”

  “You’re a lucky bastard.”

  “Shelly is your rock, remember?”

  “She is.” Matt glanced around like Shelly, who was at home in New Jersey, might pop up behind us. “But a hot cheerleader? Come on. That’s a fantasy come to life. It’s usually the players getting to have all the fun. Coaches are supposed to be family men.”

  That gave me mixed emotions. I had wanted that. The simple, comfortable family life. Now it felt way out of reach. And I wanted to have sex with Dakota. Every single time the opportunity came my way. “This is probably going to blow up in my face.”

  “Duh, you fucking moron. She’s going to think she can be the next Mrs. M. She’s going to try to sink her claws into you and she’s going to use your daughters to do it.”

  The whole idea offended the hell out of me. “No way,” I scoffed. “Dakota isn’t like that. I don’t think she even wants to get married.” She’d left Marksman at the altar.

  “Like she would tell you her master plan? Chicks know not to bring up marriage too soon.”

  I refused to believe any of that was true. Dakota hadn’t been the impetus behind any of this. I had called her into my office. I had kissed her. Poppy had offered her a job. Dakota wasn’t trying to manipulate me. “It’s not that. I’m serious. She’s not the clinger type. Or a social climber. She doesn’t care what other people think and she’s independent.”

  Matt stared at me. “You actually like her. Oh, shit, man, retreat. Retreat.”

  “Of course I like her. She’s a good person, she’s funny, compassionate.”

  “Then why don’t you just date her?”

  He wasn’t getting it. “Because we’re just having fun. We’re not a good fit long term. She’s too… something, and I’m too cynical. She’s ten years younger than me and it’s just complicated. It wouldn’t work,” I repeated. “She probably wants to have kids, you know, and I don’t think I want any more.”

  Then I wondered who I was trying to convince. Matt or myself.

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Willow. A picture. I opened it.

  It was her, Poppy, and Dakota, posing for a selfie. They all had waves in their hair and makeup on. Poppy’s was subtle. Willow’s was substantial enough it hurt my heart to see how much she was growing up and changing. Dakota looked insanely gorgeous. She was mugging for the camera.

  Willow had written “Girls’ night” on the picture.

  I showed it to Matt.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Yep.” I texted Willow back. “Oh, and Dakota will be in my box at the game next week with the girls. Maybe Shelly and your kids would want to join them.” I said it, realizing having Dakota hanging out in my box with another coach’s wife and all our kids was not exactly maintaining boundaries. But she was the nanny. That I was having sex with.

  Matt laughed. “A hundred bucks says you’re married and divorced by Christmas.”

  “Shut up.” I thought about last Christmas, when I had met Dakota on the elevator.

  The kiss we’d shared under the mistletoe.

  I shoved my drink across the bartop and threw down a twenty. “I’m going to bed.”

  Matt had brought up points I didn’t want to think about. Ever.

  “Hey.” He turned to me. “In all seriousness, Macnamara. Don’t you deserve to be happy?”

  I paused. “I don’t even know what that means. I’m happy. I have great kids and a killer career. I’m a lucky man.”

  “You know what I mean. You deserve to have someone care about you for a change.”

  His words eerily echoed Dakota’s when she had asked about my ex. It had made me uncomfortable then and it made me uncomfortable now.

  If Matt was suggesting again I start an actual relationship with Dakota, he was off base. I shook my head. “My responsibilities come first.”

  With that, I left the bar.

  “This apartment is so big I’m kind of afraid of the dark,” I told Felicia as we chatted on the phone. I was lounging on the couch with seven lights on, trying to disperse corner shadows. “How do you live in that huge apartment with all those levels? Someone could be on every floor and you’d never know.”

  “Well, that never occurred to me until just now, so thank you for that. I’m going to have to get a security system installed.”

  “You should have that already,” I said. “This isn’t the English countryside.”

  Willow and Poppy were both in their rooms. It sounded like Willow as watching YouTube videos. Poppy had been reading when I had looked in on her. It was almost eleven and I was wide awake and avoiding the disaster of my room. The bed was put together and that was about it.

  “You have a doorman,” Felicia said. “And a front door on the apartment. I think you’re safe from intruders.”

  “True. And unless you’re Spiderman you’re not getting in here by climbing onto the terrace. We’re on the fortieth floor.” I picked up the remote and stared at it. I didn’t even know what I was looking at, it was so complicated. I had already wasted ten minutes trying to figure out how to turn all the lights on. It turned out you just touched the panel. There was no switch.

  “The view must be amazing.”

  “It is. And there’s a smart toilet. It has a warm water feature. I feel bougie as hell.”

  Felicia laughed. “You’ll never be bougie, I hate to break it to you.”

  “That’s just rude. Hey, let me let you go. I need the kids to show me how to use the TV. I think this means I’m officially old. I’m going to need dentures and bladder control protection next.”

  “Wait until you have a baby. Your bladder will never be the same.”

  “That’s information you can keep to yourself, thanks.”

  We said our goodbyes, then I went to get Willow. I knocked on her door. “Hey, sorry to interrupt but can you show me how this TV works?”

  A few seconds later she cracked her door open very slightly. “You just tell it what you want. It’s voice command.”

  I forgot all about the TV. Wow. Someone was experimenting with makeup and not particularly well. Willow’s natural skin had been hidden under seven layers of contouring. She looked comical. Terrifying. “You should have told me it’s makeup night. I would have joined you. Anything to avoid that mess in my room.”

  She hesitated. “I’m following a video and I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

  “Want to do it together? I can’t be alone in this apartment anymore anyway. It’s too big. I feel like I’m on a set for a TV show, not in real life.”

  Willow giggled. “I don’t like to be alone either. Not when Dad is gone. I kind of hate it when he’s gone.”

  Me too. “Let’s put some music on, then, and do this in the bathroom where the lighting is better.”

  “Cool.”
She opened the door further and brought her tablet and her brushes and makeup across the hall.

  I dug through my boxes and found my goodies. I brought my curling iron too. Might as well do some sexy beach waves to stay in on a Saturday night with two girls.

  “We should start with a clean face,” I said, trying to gently steer her in the direction of getting that mess removed.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” She started playing music.

  I sang along to the lyrics as we both washed our faces. There were two acrylic stools in front of the mirrors, so we looked like we were in a Broadway dressing room with the amount of product we had splayed out.

  “You know this song?”

  I nodded as I dried my face with a washcloth. I turned to her. The washcloth she’d used was now covered in contouring. I wasn’t sure all the bleach in the world would get that out. “I was in one of Lil’ Sneak’s videos.”

  “What?” Willow gasped. “Which one?”

  “That Thing.” I swiped through my phone and pulled it up. “That’s me in the background, wearing that mesh bodysuit. That thing was so uncomfortable. It was like being caught in a fishing net.”

  “Whoa. That is so cool, Dakota.”

  “It was fun.” My throat tightened a little, but I ignored it. No point in crying over a fading career. Or faded.

  Willow put on the tutorial and we followed the instructions, me giving her subtle encouragement and suggestions. This version was significantly better.

  “We look fine,” I told her.

  She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled slightly, clearly pleased.

  “Want me to curl your hair?” I asked.

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” I touched the curling iron to see if it was hot enough.

  “None of our other nannies did stuff like this,” she said, then looked away, like she’d said too much. Then she gave me a sneer in the mirror. “They were bitches.”

  She was obviously testing me.

  “I’m not a bitch,” I said. “I promise. Unless you’re a bitch to me, then I can be a biotch, trust me. But if you’re cool with me, I’ll be cool with you.” I figured we needed to establish that. And I wanted her to understand while I could discipline her, I didn’t want it to be necessary.

  She nodded. “Cool.”

  Then I threw deuces at her. “Respect.”

  Willow laughed. “We should get Poppy. She might want her hair curled too.”

  “Great idea.”

  By the time we finally went to bed it was after midnight. I wasn’t sure when eight-year-olds were supposed to go to bed, but it was Saturday. I fell onto my bed, exhausted, but in a better place emotionally than I had been earlier. Hanging out with the girls had been entertaining and I thought I had built some trust with them.

  I had gotten a “how are things going” text from Brandon earlier. It felt like a concerned father, nothing more.

  “Duh, Dakota,” I murmured out loud.

  Of course it did. That’s what he was.

  I had assured him everything was fine and that was that. We were just a boss and a nanny.

  But then the next morning I got a text from the front desk downstairs at nine. The buzzing from the notification woke me up.

  Mr. Macnamara has a delivery. It’s being brought to your door now.

  “Oh, great,” I groaned, throwing back the covers. I was disheveled, wearing a tank top with no bra and pj shorts. Running my hand through my hair, I got to the living room right as the doorbell rang.

  I yanked it open because I didn’t want the continued ringing to wake up the girls.

  The doorman’s eyes widened. He looked at my chest and then quickly looked away. He was around my age. “Oh, hi, sorry to disturb you, Miss Tanner. Mr. Macnamara wanted these delivered to you this morning.”

  “Thank you.” I reached out and took the pink box, curious. I instantly knew what it was. Donuts. I could smell them and the label was a well-known donut shop. I bit my lip so I didn’t grin too broadly in front of the doorman.

  “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too.” After I closed the door it occurred to me maybe I was supposed to tip the doorman. I wasn’t familiar with buildings like this and what was considered appropriate. I would have to ask Brandon.

  There was an envelope attached to the top.

  I opened it.

  Since you hate mornings, maybe this will help.

  -B

  That would be my heart squeezing in my chest. Why did he have to be sweet? He was that guy. The one who claimed not to enjoy things, was a workaholic, rolled his eyes constantly, yet at the end of the day was considerate, kind, and generous. The jerk. If I fell head over ass in love with him, it was completely his fault. I refused to accept any responsibility.

  Ditto for if I suddenly went up two clothing sizes. That was on him.

  I opened the box and debated which donut I wanted. They were elaborate creations, some with cereal on top, another with what looked like a s’more stacked on it. I was reaching for a simpler starter donut with pink icing when I heard a voice.

  “Can I have one?”

  For whatever reason, I jumped. It was just Poppy, but I wasn’t used to having a child sneak up on me before I’d had coffee. “Oh, hi. Good morning. Yes, of course you can have one. Your dad sent these for us to share.” Presumably.

  Poppy looked like I felt. Strung out. Her hair was a snarled mess going in six different directions and she still had a pillow crease on her cheek. She was bleary-eyed and scowling. I had a mild panic attack at the thought of trying to herd her out on the door on weekdays for school.

  She picked the gooiest donut out of the box and bit it aggressively. “What time is it?” she asked around a mouthful of fried dough.

  “Nine something.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” she said.

  I tried not to laugh. She was the oddest mix of youthful exuberance and grumpy middle-aged man. Hmm. Wonder where she got that from.

  “I need to make some coffee. Sit down and eat that monster at the breakfast bar.” I headed toward the kitchen. “Though it will be a miracle if I can figure out how the coffee machine works. I don’t think I’m smart enough to live in a smart home.” Everything required an intuitiveness I didn’t have. Or maybe I was just used to dumpy apartments.

  “I think it actually tells you what to do,” Poppy said, pulling out a chair with a scraping noise that grated on my nerves.

  “So a voice is like ‘hey, dummy, here’s how you make coffee’?”

  “No. I think all the buttons light up and there are words on them.”

  “Oh, okay.” I approached the machine with caution. It looked like it belonged in an indie coffee shop. One with a name like The Wet Bean or something. It was huge, with steamers and cranks and buttons galore. I did figure out the power button. I hit it and Poppy proved correct. You just read the button to indicate latte, espresso, etc.

  At least something was easy.

  “Do you have homework due tomorrow?” I asked, because that seemed like a nanny question.

  “No. I did mine already. But Willow probably didn’t. She does her homework on the way to school.”

  I could relate. That had been my standard procedure too. Though I had grown up in a walkable community with no busing and parents who thought driving us to school was bullshit since God gave us two legs, so usually I had rushed through my homework in the morning while I crammed a bagel in my mouth.

  “How do you get to school?” I asked, fishing around in the cabinet for a coffee mug.

  “It depends on who is our nanny. Mary took us on the subway. Lena used her own money to get us an Uber, then dad found out and was mad because she sent us alone so she could sleep in, so he fired her. Sadie made us walk with her because she said walking was good for our hearts and our chakras.”

  “I see.” I didn’t see a damn thing. Other than apparently Lena was lazy as shit. “And where is the school?”

&nb
sp; “West eighty-third Street.”

  “Do you have a bike?” I wasn’t sure I could stomach the train at seven in the morning, nor did a brisk walk in the September heat wave appeal to me.

  “No. I don’t know how to ride a bike.”

  “Then it’s either walking or the train. We can vote.” Then maybe Brandon could invest in some bikes. We’d be there in less than ten minutes if we had them. I hadn’t ridden a bike in recent years because I had nowhere to store it at my current—well, former—apartment, but for the first few years I had been in New York I went everywhere on my bike.

  “Do you want to learn how to ride a bike?” I put my mug under the spigot and pushed a button at random.

  “I don’t know.” Poppy finished her donut and went to the refrigerator. She pulled out a jug of milk.

  I thought about my very standard and traditional suburban childhood. I grew up in a 1920s white Dutch colonial with black shutters and my parents still lived in that same house. The neighborhood kids all played in the street and at the parks, and we walked or biked everywhere. At Poppy’s age I was allowed to bike to the playground as long as we were in a group of at least four kids, and at least one being over the age of ten. I wasn’t sure why ten was better than nine, but we were all really damn excited to reach double digits. We would stop at the ice cream shop, the comic book store, and run in to pet the black cat who hung out at the wiccan store and sniff the scented candles there.

  We had controlled independence and a sense of community. Poppy and Willow were living a much different childhood. Sheltered by their father, yet oddly left to their own devices by a rotating door of nannies. “How many cities have you lived in?” I asked.

  Poppy was pouring herself milk but she stopped and moved her lips as if she were counting. “Four.”

  Not as many as I had thought but still a lot considering she was eight. “What was your favorite?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was either still half-asleep or she genuinely didn’t have a preference. Or she didn’t want to talk about it. I dropped the subject and sipped my coffee.

  I don’t know what I thought it would be like, being a nanny. But I was already starting to care for Poppy and Willow and it was day two. It was a complication I had never considered. It also meant that Brandon was right. We couldn’t date. We couldn’t disrupt these kids’ lives any more than they already had been.