Max

by Sawyer Bennett

  Whatever.

  The point being, this woman doesn't give me a second glance, and I find that I...

  Well, fuck...I like it a lot.

  I think I might be a bit of an oddity. While a lot of the single guys on the team revel in bachelorhood and the never-ending supply of puck bunnies who gladly give it up so they have a chance to be with a hockey star, that's not my way. Never has been. I get nothing out of a shallow woman throwing herself at me, with no real care as to who I am as a person. They see a hot goalie who makes millions, and well, that's all they see.

  But this woman...she doesn't see anything but an ordinary guy who is easily dismissed, and yeah...I totally dig that.

  I turn from the counter and walk out the door, making a mental note to myself to stop back in the near future and see if I can talk to her some more. Unpeel a few layers. Maybe ask her on a date.

  I chuckle.

  Max Fournier--professional hockey player and one of the team's most eligible bachelors--wanting to flirt with a convenience store cashier who couldn't give a rat's ass about him.

  Totally like it.

  "Levy, please just try those carrots once," I say pleadingly as I finish cutting up Annabelle's chicken. "I swear they won't kill you."

  He ignores me, his palm supporting his head, elbow on the table while he moves the carrots around on his plate. I don't bother asking again because it won't do any good.

  "Okay, there you go, Annabelle," I say as I straighten, and turn to Rocco. "Do you want any more milk?"

  He shakes his head with a smile, and to make me proud he stabs a carrot with his fork and eats it. I beam back at him for just a split second before I turn my wrist over and look at my watch.

  Crap. Tina is fifteen minutes late, and if I don't leave in the next two minutes I'm going to be late as well.

  I spin toward my purse on the counter, miscalculating how close I am, and slam my hip bone into the corner.

  "F-u-u--," I start to say but change directions mid-curse. "Fudge."

  It's been four months since the kids have come to live with me, and I've just about broken my pattern of cursing in front of them. I reach across the counter, fish inside my purse and pull out my phone. With a few taps on the screen, I'm dialing Tina.

  "Hey," she answers on the second ring. "I was just getting ready to call you; I can't make it tonight."

  I close my eyes as my free hand curls into an involuntary fist, take in a breath, and when I open my eyes the tears come. Lately I'm having a harder and harder time holding them back. I blow the air out and beg with all my might, my voice suffering a slight quaver. "Please don't do this to me, Tina. I can't miss work again."

  "I'm sorry, Jules," she says in a placating manner. "But Marshall's running a fever--a hundred and two--and I think I need to take him to the doctor."

  I nod...not with acceptance but rather defeat. I blink my eyes, force back the tears. "Okay, I understand." I'd be a shit not to, and I'd do the same in a similar situation.

  Marshall having a fever I totally understand. I didn't understand Tina flaking out on me two nights ago when she couldn't watch the kids because her boyfriend, Todd, wanted to take her to a concert at Red Hat Amphitheater after he'd scored tickets on a radio show. That left me with no other choice but to bring the kids to the convenience store, which I knew was a very bad idea. I ran a good fifty-fifty shot of getting busted by the manager, Chris, as he would sometimes come by to check on me. The seven P.M. to midnight shift tended to be busy for the first couple of hours and then petered out after about nine P.M. I was usually good if I could make it to that magic number, but two nights ago he surprised me with a visit around eleven. Of course, by then the kids were conked out on the hard tiled floor in the break room, which I know wasn't ideal, but I also couldn't afford to lose this job.

  I most definitely could not leave them at home alone.

  So I got an ass-chewing from Chris and a warning that kids were not allowed there when I was working. Something about liability issues, or that was the reason he touted, though I think it is more that he's just an asshole boss who doesn't like kids.

  "Maybe Glenda can watch them tonight," Tina suggests.

  "Not an option," I say firmly.

  Because she is totally not an option at night. During the summer, my next door neighbor, Glenda, watched the kids during the day while I worked my primary job. Once school started--Levy and Rocco were in first and second grade respectively--she only had to watch Annabelle during the day and just for a little bit after Levy and Rocco got home from school.

  It's a good deal for me. She watches the kids so I can work my seven A.M. to four P.M. shift at Sweetbrier Nursing Home, and in return I cook and clean for her and her husband, Bill. Of course, Bill has no idea about the arrangement and assumes Glenda makes his dinner each night and keeps their small apartment tidy, but Glenda hates to cook--and even worse, hates to clean. Add on the fact that I don't have money to pay her, much less afford daycare, it's a good trade until I can get things figured out.

  But while Glenda is sweet and competent and takes good care of them, her husband is a certified asshole as well as an alcoholic, and he's at home in the evenings, so I don't want the kids around that.

  "I'm really sorry," Tina says again. "But I'm loading up now to take Marshall to the ER."

  I hold back a sigh, because Tina doesn't need guilt from me and it seems I sigh a lot lately and I need to change that. "It's okay," I tell her, but it's really not.

  I'm fucked.

  At least I can still cuss in my thoughts, although that doesn't give me much solace right now.

  Annabelle lets out a cry of despair and I spin around to find Levy piling all of his carrots on her plate. She doesn't like them either so she's completely mortified to be given extra.

  "Stop, Levy," I tell him, but he ignores me. Six years old, and being the middle child, it somehow seems to give him license to disregard my directions. I haven't figured a way to work around that yet, so I let it go by saying, "It's okay, Annabelle. I don't expect you to eat all of them."

  Annabelle smiles at me then turns and sticks her tongue out at Levy.

  I take another deep breath, let it out...praying for God to give me patience and an understanding boss.

  Then I dial my manager, Chris.

  "Chris Bellis," he answers his phone haughtily, as if he's the most important man in the world. Asshole boss.

  "It's Julianne," I say hesitantly, already dreading his response. "Um...my babysitter fell through and I can't make it in tonight."

  He doesn't say anything.

  "Unless you let me bring the kids in," I add hastily. "I swear they won't cause any trouble."

  Please, God, don't let them cause trouble.

  Finally, he talks. "Unacceptable, Jules. Our policy is strict on having children here."

  "Well, then...I'm sorry, but I can't make it. You'll have to find someone to cover for me," I say with what I hope is a firm voice, but I'm terrified I just screwed the pooch.

  "Well, then I'm sorry too, Jules, but I'm going to have to let you go if you don't show tonight," he says just as firmly back to me. "That will be twice in one week you've had childcare issues and it's obviously becoming a problem."

  "No," I say quickly, and then try to add on reassurances. "It's not a problem. Just bad luck. Chris, I've worked for you more than two months now and this is the first time I've asked to take off."

  "And I sense this won't be the last," he says crisply. "I've had single mothers work for me before, and they're never reliable. I don't have time to cover someone who doesn't show enough responsibility--"

  "Please, Chris," I beg him, tears once again pricking at my eyes. "I really need this job."

  He's not moved. "If you will come by tomorrow evening, I'll have your final paycheck ready and you can turn in your store key."

  I don't even consider arguing with him any further. At this moment I am beyond exhausted. Utterly defeated. I don't have it in me t
o even care about how that extra money each week is what enabled me to feed and clothe three hungry kids that I'd never planned on having.

  --

  My head turns on the pillow and I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. Almost eleven o'clock and I can't sleep. Annabelle doesn't have that problem, and she's pressed up against me with one arm wrapped around my neck. This has been her usual sleeping position since she came to live with me in this dinky little apartment four months ago, but I'm used to it so that's not what's keeping me up.

  I can't go to sleep because I've gotten to the point where I'm used to surviving on only a few hours each night. By the time I'd get home from my shift at the gas station convenience store, I'd be lucky to get four and a half hours before I had to get up to start my workday all over again at the nursing home.

  That's the story of Julianne Bradley's life.

  Work, sleep. Work, sleep. Work, sleep.

  Actually, that's not quite right. It's more like Work. Sleep. Take care of kids. Work. Take care of kids. Cook and clean for Glenda and kids. Work. Sleep.

  Not anywhere in that daily grind is there time budgeted for me, unless you count the quick five minute shower I take each morning. It's amazing the little things that you easily cut out from your life as being unimportant when you're on a time crunch. I can be showered and dressed for work in about fifteen minutes now. That's because I quit wearing makeup and usually put my wet hair up in a ponytail or bun. That leaves me adequate time to get the kids up, dressed, and fed breakfast before Glenda arrives. She handles getting Levy and Rocco on the bus and then stays at my apartment with Annabelle. The boys come home around four, about the time I'm getting off work. I live only a few miles from Sweetbrier, so I'm usually home by 4:15 P.M. I start Levy and Rocco on their homework and help with whatever they need. I then spend about an hour in Glenda's apartment, which is right next door, and I've got a good routine going: Mondays and Thursdays, I dust, and clean the bathroom; Tuesdays and Fridays, I vacuum and mop; Wednesdays, I get to anything that can't be held off until the next scheduled day. About the only thing I don't do is their laundry, and I told Glenda no way was I washing Bill's underwear.

  She didn't care. She was just happy not to do the nasty stuff like toilets and even happier yet to have me do the cooking.

  So after cleaning Glenda's place, I'd come back home to start dinner, making enough for her family and mine, and in between help the kids out if they're still doing their homework. If I was lucky, dinner was ready before I had to leave for work at the gas station, and I'd be able to cram some food down my throat too. If not, Tina--who is also my neighbor, but one flight down--took over feeding the kids while Glenda picked up her portion home for when Bill arrived. Thinking about this just makes me all the more tired and depressed.

  There is one benefit though to not having much time to myself. That means there's precious little time for me to give in to my insecurities. All of the doubts as to whether I'm good enough to take care of Melody's children, or whether I've bitten off more than I can chew but I'm just too stubborn to admit it to anyone.

  Sighing into the darkness of my room, I try not to think about my life before Melody died. I'd often bitch to my friends or my boyfriend about how hard it was sometimes to be a grown-up and live on your own. I wanted to get my hair highlighted but I couldn't because I bought a new pair of shoes that I simply had to have. Or the tread on my tires was wearing thin but because I spent all my extra money on frivolous things, I couldn't get them replaced. Or in the few days before payday I was eating Ramen noodles, but the day after I'd get my check I'd blow it on a cute top from the Gap.

  I mentally roll my eyes at myself as I think about my life now and realize...before Melody died, I was actually living an easy and fruitful life. I had it damn good before and while I would never give these kids up, I can't help but be a little wistful over how good it felt not to have this much responsibility on my shoulders.

  I didn't ask for my older sister to get cancer at the age of twenty-eight. I didn't ask to take care of her. I didn't ask to watch her die. I didn't ask for my niece and two nephews to come live with me. And I certainly didn't ask for all of the stress and fatigue that comes with raising three kids devastated by the loss of their mother, working minimum wage jobs, and not a clue in the world on how to even interact with my niece and nephews in this new family dynamic thrust upon us.

  Still, I wouldn't change a thing about my circumstances right now.

  Well, I'd kill for another part-time job and I'll have to get cracking on that tomorrow. But there was no other option except that the kids come live with me. Melody's husband bailed on her long before she got sick, and while he floated in and out of the kids' lives periodically, he's three years behind on child support. And there truly was no other option when Melody asked me point-blank to become their mother when she passed.

  I could have never said no to her.

  So with the court's approval, guardianship was legally transferred to me before she died, because their father didn't contest it. Four months ago I became an instant mother to three kids who I didn't know all that well and had no clue as to what to do with them. I only knew that it was now my job to care for them, raise them, and love them in the best way I could.

  It's my duty now to make sure they thrive.

  With another sigh, I carefully remove Annabelle's arm from around my neck and slide from the bed. I'm feeling too guilty just lying here when there are things to be done that could give me a jump start on tomorrow.

  Hawke strides in through the lobby doors and as he approaches me I stand up from the plush couch I'd been waiting on.

  I grin at him and say, "You're late."

  He looks at his watch and then rolls his eyes at me. "By like one minute."

  I don't respond but we do our bro greeting--palm smack, back of hand smack, and then a fist bump.

  "Jim's not here anyway," I tell him as I sit back down on the couch. "Just called and said he's stuck in traffic. Be about fifteen minutes late."

  Hawke sits on a wing-backed chair adjacent to the couch and rests an ankle over his knee. He's dressed up, same as me, except his suit is black and mine's charcoal gray.

  "Did you go to the hospital this morning?" I ask him.

  "Yeah," he says. "He looks good."

  He being Dave Campbell, father of one sassy athletic trainer--that would be Vale. Dave had a seizure two days ago and is at Duke Hospital. He's suffering from a rare brain tumor and received some type of experimental treatment at Duke, and I'm guessing this seizure was a complication. The reason our leading defenseman, Hawke Therrien, is visiting our athletic trainer's father in the hospital is because they have history.

  I mean...Hawke and Vale have a very long history.

  And from what I learned yesterday afternoon when Hawke and I went out for a few beers, not a great history. I had sensed there was something going on between the two of them in the Cold Fury workout room. Vale tensed up the minute Hawke walked in, and I could feel weird vibes from him as well. I left after my workout, only to return a few minutes later to find Hawke's hands on her shoulders with a disgruntled look on his face. He dropped her like a hot potato when I walked back in but didn't try to hide anything from me.

  Hence the beers after, and he laid it all out.

  Apparently, Vale and Hawke were a hot item years back, but she broke it off with him suddenly and with no explanation. He hasn't been able to figure it out but isn't sure if he should ask either. To complicate matters, they apparently fucked the other night and now things are super awkward.

  I didn't have any good advice for him. My one stab at a relationship was a miserable failure, which was totally my fault. So the most I could do was listen to him lament about Vale and commiserate with him that it was a fucked-up situation.

  "This place is something, huh?" Hawke says conversationally as he looks at the huge lobby filled with comfortable furniture that's quite stylish and elegant. Thick, luxurious ca
rpet done in light purple, gray, and cream match the floral-print wallpaper that's posh rather than feminine. The receptionist sits at a cherry desk that looks Victorian and there's a grand piano in the corner that a man sits at playing a soft melody.

  It's definitely not what I'd envision a nursing home to look like, and the only thing that gives it away is the various residents I see milling around. Some wander about with walkers while others are in wheelchairs that they pull along the floor by shuffling their feet on the carpet rather than having their frail arms try to push the wheels to get them to their destination.

  We're at Sweetbrier Nursing Home and Rehab Facility because one of the Cold Fury assistant managers, Jim Perry, held a fundraiser for this place. His mother was a resident here and she passed away a few months ago. He was so impressed with her care, he organized a charity live auction to raise funds to help build a new wing that would house a larger therapy gym as well as increase the dining facilities. He asked a few players to participate and I readily agreed. The fundraiser was last month, long before Hawke arrived for training camp, and I handled hosting and emcee duties for the black-tie event. Hawke's here now because he made a late donation personally and volunteered to come with us to present the check for $57,000 we'd raised to the home administrator. There'd be a big write-up in the paper, of course, and management always loved when we did shit like this.

  "I hope to fuck I never have to come to a place like this, though," Hawke continues on. "When I die, I want to go fast."

  "Amen, brother," I agree.

  While the place is clean, smells decent, and is decorated very nicely, it still holds that overwhelming vibe of futility as I watch the elderly patients struggle to get around because their bodies are failing them. It's fucking depressing actually.

  The lobby area is cut through the middle by a hall that runs left and right, presumably to the two wings of the low, sprawling building done in white clapboard with green shutters. A commotion occurs at the intersection of the hallway as one elderly gentleman tries to navigate his wheelchair around the corner but runs into the wheelchair of another elderly gentleman. Seriously, it's all I can do not to laugh out loud.