by Sierra Hill
It’s true, I really don’t care much about fashion. I’m a sporty, tall girl and aside from a few skirts and one pair of heels hidden in the back of my closet, there’s never been a reason for me to worry about dressing up or trying to impress anyone outside of my circle. All that’s mattered to me is achieving good grades, doing my best for my club and team, and working toward my Masters and maybe a Ph.D. in Child Psychology some day.
Yes, definitely following in my mother’s footsteps.
“So, tell me about the elusive Coach Garrett Parker. Is he as hot up-close-and-personal as he is down on the basketball court sidelines?” She sighs dreamily, a faraway look in her eyes. “He is so hot in that gray suit. And that scowl of concentration across his face? Oooh, makes me wonder if he wears the same expression when he fucks.”
She turns over onto her back and laughs huskily, toying with my shirt in her hands.
Honestly since attending the senior night basketball home game together this past March, all Peyton could talk about the entire game was how handsome the Associate Head Coach was, and how much she loved a man who hid all their assets under a well-tailored suit. While I agreed with her assessment at the time, noting that he did look very handsome, I was more into the game happening on the court to be gawking at the sidelines.
There is no doubt that Coach Parker wears that suit of his quite well. But now that I’ve seen him in person, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and track pants that showed off his toned, muscular frame, I’d say that is much more appealing to me.
And even more appealing? Those few minutes in his kitchen when he was bare-chested. Holy hell, I nearly tripped over my tongue and my own feet at the sight of his impressive torso and defined ab muscles that screamed, “Hey ladies, this ain’t your typical dad-bod.”
So yeah, I can understand Peyton’s attraction to Coach Parker, even if it’s absolutely, one-hundred percent off-limits and nothing I can do about it now that I’m his employee. I take my job seriously and am a professional. My focus needs to be on my career and fulfilling my obligations, not getting involved with a hot sexy single dad.
Plus, he most likely has a girlfriend. No man that good-looking would be without female attention.
“Listen, get that shit out of your head right now. Coach is my new boss and I can’t have you all googly-eyed over him. Otherwise, you’re never getting an invite to visit me.”
She blows a raspberry between her lips and I snatch the T-shirt out of her hands with a growl, placing it in the second open suitcase at the end of the bed.
“Come on, Brooklyn,” she hums breathlessly. “Just admit it one time. You think he’s hot, don’t you? And if you didn’t work for him, he’d be exactly your type. Tall, smart jock, even a little broody.”
She gives me a haughty wink, which I respond to with an overly-dramatized sigh.
“Sure, fine. Whatever. If things were different and I just met him like at a bar or a party somewhere, yeah. I wouldn’t hesitate. But that’s not how this is. So, you can just scrub those thoughts right out of your sex-crazed, overactive imagination and help me figure out what else I need to bring with me.”
Peyton jumps off the bed and rushes to my open chest of drawers, whipping out all my thongs and sexy, non-sports bra essentials. She dangles a lacy-white bralette in the air and whistles.
“This…you definitely need this one.”
I grunt with annoyance. “No, I definitely do not. I need to be comfortable because this job will be very physical and will require me to get down on my hands and knees a lot.”
Wrong thing to say.
Peyton tilts her head and pops her hip to the side, twirling the lacy bra in her fingers.
“Exactly my point. We’ve all heard the stories about daddies falling for their nannies. It’s so classic. Jude Law. Rob Lowe. Gavin Rossdale. Men just can’t help themselves when a hot young thing is under their roof. It’s just man vs. nature.”
“Stop with the clichés, Peyton. I mean it. You’re making my job sound sordid and sleazy. You know I’m not like that. I’m not becoming a nanny to land a rich guy. And Garrett is dealing with some pretty big life shit. I mean, his wife died and he’s raising his disabled son on his own. I can tell you one thing for certain, and that’s, that Coach Parker is not looking to hop into bed with a nanny and complicate his life any further.”
Peyton remains silent, her only non-verbal response is through the lift of her eyebrows and tightly pursed lips. A look that says, “Yeah, right.”
Sometimes Peyton’s take on life is skewed and a bit pessimistic. Most likely due to the way her mother was nearly beaten to an inch of her life less than a year ago.
I, on the other hand, had a pretty great childhood growing up, with loving parents who doted on me and my brother, Brayden. Although they divorced soon after I turned five, both my mom and my dad had an active role in raising me and Brayden, who also happens to be my older autistic sibling. My compassion toward those who are made uniquely different from others is definitely a result of my upbringing and living with a brother who faces challenges every day of his life.
Which is precisely the reason that I want to work in the field of child development.
I finish up my packing and take a look around my room one last time.
“You already heard from someone about the room and are meeting her today?” I ask, looking to change the subject from my sleeping arrangements over the summer to hers.
Peyton claps her hands excitedly and pirouettes on her tiptoes. Former dancer-style. And then she swings her arms wide in overly-dramatic style.
“Not a girl…his name is Kyler Scott. He’s one of my classmates in my art and design program. He’s going to be a famous designer someday. I can’t wait for you to meet him, he is absolutely fabulous. Maybe he can change your mind about your dismal wardrobe.”
I snort. “Highly unlikely. But we’ll see.”
5
Garrett
I’m literally dragging from exhaustion as I flop down on the couch, throwing my feet over the edge and heaving a gigantic sigh of relief.
I don’t even remember being this tired when I played back-to-back NBA games on the road. But this level of tired is from entirely different reasons. My body is drained from dealing with hormonal, angsty teen boys all day on the basketball court and then coming home to parent a hungry, grouchy kid who has trouble communicating what he wants and needs.
Even in the midst of my exhaustion, both experiences still bring me a tremendous amount of joy, especially coaching these talented kids who want nothing more than to someday play professional ball. Coaching is such a unique experience, tapping into my knowledge of the game and my expertise to share that with these kids. But damn, it’s hard some days.
I check the time on the microwave clock and feel a sense of relief. I have a twenty-minute window to take a quick nap before Brooklyn arrives. Yes, I said nap.
After calling to offer her the summer job, we agreed that it would be best for her to start tonight, while Caleb was in bed, so I could go through our routine and daily schedule without interruption. I’d show her around the house and provide her with all the emergency contacts she might need in my absence, as well as talk through Caleb’s requirements.
My former nanny, Delinda, retired in May, right after my school basketball season ended. She’d been caring for other people’s children for over thirty-five years and was in her mid-sixties. She earned her retirement and I didn’t begrudge her one bit for leaving, but it sure put me in a tough bind going into the summer. She’d given me plenty of notice, and I’d worked with an agency to find someone to replace her, but no one fit the bill for what we needed.
While I’m cautiously optimistic about Brooklyn and having her endorsed by one in my inner circle, she’s still going to have a steep learning curve. This job requires not only a plethora of physical strength and endurance but an over-abundance of patience and empathy. Even I’ve struggled with patience with Caleb on a regular basi
s. Without meaning to, and through no fault of his own, Caleb demands a lot and takes a lot out of you, mostly because of his inability to communicate.
Closing my eyes for just a moment, I allow myself to remember how easy things were six years ago.
Pre-Caleb. Pre-accident. Pre-fucking everything.
My life was fucking fantastic. I was at the top of my game as a new player in the NBA. After I finished my college career with the Indiana Hoosiers, I was drafted in the first round by the Chicago Bulls, but after the first season, I was traded to the Indiana Pacers, which was actually perfect because it brought me back home. And Becca was just finishing school.
Becca was my college sweetheart. We met halfway through my junior year through my younger brother, Thad, when they were both Freshmen. Becca was the classic girl-next-door. Sweet brown eyes, a smile that lit up the room, and curves everywhere. She was kind-hearted, loved by everyone and kept me grounded.
But we were both realistic about the facts of life related to an NBA career. Having a long-distance relationship and the infrequency of togetherness could be a hardship. Becca and I decided to wait on marriage until she was done with school and ready to make that type of commitment.
Turns out, I apparently was the one not ready.
In true form, I was the epitome of a cocky-rookie player. It’s true what they say about celebrity and fame. It warps your sense of right and wrong and makes you believe you’re untouchable.
And because of that belief, my life derailed during a period of time when Becca broke it off with me, and I made one of the worst mistakes of my life. It’s during that time when I turned into one of those cliché players who slept with a different girl in every city. It was fun for a while until I realized how shallow I’d become. How lonely and miserable I was without Becca.
“Baby, please. I need you. I miss you,” I’d begged, desperate to have her back in my life. “I can’t do this without you.”
She stood in front of me, her eyes cast downward, still redrimmed from attending my brother, Thad’s funeral. I’d taken a short leave from my basketball schedule to be by my brother’s bedside, as we knew the time was drawing near. My mother was inconsolable, as was Thad’s new wife, Addison, already in her third month of pregnancy.
We hadn’t been given much time after learning of Thad’s diagnosis. It was Stage 4 osteosarcoma, spinal cancer, and inoperable. Even going through treatments wouldn’t have guaranteed any more time for him, and would’ve reduced his quality of life. Becca and Thad had been close, she and Addie had been like sisters, and Becca was there with my family while I was off playing ball.
It was a terrible time in my life and one of the most difficult losses to experience. Thad was younger than me and we didn’t share the same dad, but we’d always been close. While he was talented in other ways outside of sports, we had a deep brotherly love and connection. Losing him was hard and made me rethink everything I knew about what I wanted out of my life.
“Garrett,” she’d replied, lifting her gaze up to mine. “Are you sure this isn’t just your grief talking? You’ve suffered a huge loss and maybe you think you need me because of the hole in your heart left from Thad’s death?”
Yes, she was right that my heart felt so empty, heartbroken and shattered, but I still knew I loved her and needed her in my life.
“Becca, I love you. I want to start a life with you. Buy a house and settle down. Start our own family.”
Her eyes glistened with misty tears, as they trailed down her cheeks. I bent down and softly kissed away one of the fallen tears.
“I want that, too, Garrett. But I don’t know if I’m made to be a WAG. I’m not like them.”
By them, she was referring to the wives and girlfriends of my teammates, many who had been cheerleaders or models, and women she shared nothing in common with. Becca was raised on a small dairy farm in southern Indiana and never planned on living a lifestyle like I was offering.
I’d held her hands, hoping she’d feel the connection we had strong enough to fight against her resistance.
“You aren’t like them and that’s what I love. You’re everything to me and I will do everything I can to make you happy. I promise.”
That promise was short-lived. We got back together, got engaged, bought a house and had just moved in together, the beginning of our future together, and then the ball dropped.
That’s when I got the call from Penelope Slattery. My one-night stand from a road game in Pittsburgh two months earlier.
Life changed in the blink of an eye.
It only felt like seconds, but I must’ve fallen asleep because a knock on the door jars me awake. I look around the room through sleepy eyes and a groggy head.
Swinging my legs over the side of the couch, I slip on my Nike slides and head toward the door.
Passing the hallway mirror, I flick a glance at my reflection and notice my hair is in complete disarray. As I open the door to reveal my new nanny standing on the front stoop, I comb my fingers through my hair, smoothing down the errant strands of my short dark hair.
“Brooklyn, hi. Come on in.” I greet her with a smile, reaching to grab one of the handles of the suitcases at her sides to help carry them in. I’m a chivalrous guy. But just as I do, her hand lands on top of mine at the same time, our fingers colliding in a battle of wills. “Here, let me help you with that.”
At the same time, she waves me away, “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
I raise my hands in surrender and allow her entry. Although I was raised to be a gentleman, I’m also a supporter of female equality and believe wholeheartedly that women can do anything a guy can do. If she wants to carry in her own bags, by all means, who am I to argue. Brooklyn has already proved to be a strong, independent woman and I admire that about her.
She steps into the foyer, clearly struggling with excursion as she carries the luggage and a large bag over her shoulder, dumping them on the floor by her feet.
“Good grief, it’s still hot as blazes outside.”
Closing the door behind us, I lock and check the latches, verifying they are locked. “Yeah, that’s definitely taken some getting used to since I’ve moved here. Where I grew up, it was hot and humid in the summers, but not this kind of heat.”
“Where are you from originally, again?” She fans herself with a hand, wiping away droplets of sweat trickling down her temple.
“I’m from Indiana. How about you? Have you lived here all your life?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m from the San Diego area. Carlsbad, actually.”
“That’s a beautiful area. The ocean is always nice.”
Turning to the security panel on the wall, I point to the electronic keycode. “While we’re here, I want to show you how to turn on the security system using the code.”
Brooklyn takes two steps toward me, inches from the wall, awaiting my instructions, and all I can do is breathe in her sexy, fresh scent and want to fall to my knees and drink her in.
Sucking in a deep, solid breath, I clear my throat. And my thoughts.
My house is a large 4-bedroom rambler in an older Scottsdale gated community subdivision. I chose the house for a variety of reasons, mainly so that my mom could visit me during the winters and have her own wing at the back of the house. It’s also in a well-renowned school district and I’m hoping that will come in handy when Caleb begins kindergarten in the fall.
If he goes to school at all.
And lastly, the neighborhood is fairly secure, with a security guard on duty at all times. This was a plus, not knowing if the troubles I’ve had in the past with Penelope are over or not. I wasn’t going to take any chances.
Brooklyn turns her full attention on me and the expression of interest on her face does something indescribable to my loins. My cock instantly responds, growing stiff behind my zipper, as I watch her full lips part and her eyes flash a curiosity that has me wondering if it’s the same look she’d have if I were on top of her, slamming home.
Fuck, get those thoughts out of your head right now.
She’s not here for me. She’s here for my son.
“I had this installed when I first moved in last year. It’s not so imperative now, but I did have some overly eager fans who didn’t understand personal property or space.”
This was part truth and part lie. It wasn’t just a fan. It was Penelope. Too much had gone down to not consider her a possible threat to my son.
“I can imagine,” Brooklyn agrees with a nod of her head. “People are just weird sometimes. I had an old boyfriend who struggled with boundaries.”
A lift of my eyebrow invites her to go on, but she dismisses me with a wave.
“Sorry, old news. Go on.”
I continue, typing in the code. “It’s a combo of my wife’s and Caleb’s birthdays. 608802.”
Brooklyn sucks in her bottom lip between her teeth, titling her head up to look at me. Her eyes are a soft silver-gray that holds a myriad of questions in them. I narrow my eyes, neglecting to discuss the fact that I just mentioned my wife when she clearly isn’t around anymore.
She takes the cue and repeats the number, committing it to memory.
“It’s also important for Caleb so he can’t just roam around outside. While his mobility is slightly hampered, he can scoot around with his walker pretty damn fast when he wants. And his chair is motorized and he’s just like any other boy his age. He gets curious and doesn’t think before he acts. Fast is the name of the game.”
This draws a laugh from Brooklyn and fills me with a remarkable and inexplicable delight. Her laugh lights up something in my chest that over the last two years has been dormant. Dim and dark.
She covers her grin with fingers to stifle the laugh.
“I have an older brother who is just the same. He got this three-wheeled tricycle when we were kids and I don’t know how many times he wiped out at the bottom of the small hill in our cul-de-sac. And honestly, he wasn’t the only one who liked to go fast. I was kind of a speed demon. My parents were scared to death I’d get in an accident once I got my driver’s license.”
