“All right, Micky Mouse, what the hell was that about?” Nate asks the moment we leave and walk outside.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” he repeats. “You were so red you were sending out heat waves. Do you know that guy or something?”
“No, I don’t know him.”But I’d like to, I add silently. “He’s just…didn’t you notice how…nice looking he is?”
“Nice looking.” Nate laughs, shaking his head and sending a fond look my direction. “So, you’ve got the hots for Desmond Gates, huh?”
“Say it louder, Nate, God.” I glance around at the completely empty section of campus we’re on. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Okay, yes, I have the hots for him. Happy?”
“He’s not bad looking, I guess. Nice accent, too. I love a good accent.”
I nod in agreement. I do too, particularly when that accent is paired with a long, lean body; curly hair, and big, chocolate-brown eyes.
“—not allowed, though,” Nate says, and I realize I missed everything he was saying, too busy thinking about the hot hockey coach.
“What?”
“I said he’s pretty young, too. He didn’t look that much older than us. Dating a coach isn’t allowed, though.”
“Well, I don’t want todatehim. I just—I just want to look at him.”
Nate tips his head back and laughs as if this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
“Okay, fair. Can you imagine, though, what would happenif you did try and date him? Coach Mackenzie would kill him, I swear he would. He’s got that mama bear energy.”
“He would be pissed,” I agree, queasy even at the thought of it. “I just think he’s handsome, that’s all. It’s not like I was going to ask him out. I don’t do that.”
“That accent, though.” Nate sighs. “Marcos has an accent.”
I laugh, unsurprised the conversation has circled back around to the notorious Marcos. I wonder if he knows exactly what kind of hold he has over my friend.
2
Desmond
PickingParker up from school numbers very high on my list of things I hate doing. I cannot imagine that this is the most efficient way for parents to get their children. Indeed, a quick glance in my rearview shows a woman, elbow resting against the inside of her car door and head propped in her hand, looking just as exhausted with this as I feel.
I drive slowly, letting up on the brake as the line of cars inches forward. I catch sight of Parker, sitting on the low brick wall that borders the front footpath area. His head is hanging down, hair obscuring his face, as he kicks his heels against the brick. I roll down the passenger window.
“Parks,” I call, waiting for him to look up before smiling and waving. He doesn’t smile back, but shrugs his backpack on and walks over. When he reaches for the handle of the front passenger door, I shake my head. “In the back, little buddy.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, sliding into the backseat and slamming the door a little harder than was probably necessary. I keep my focus on the car in front of me, but glance up to make sure he’s got his seat belt in place.
“How was your day?” I ask him.
“Fine.”
“Get a lot of homework?”
“A bit.”
I nod, unphased and well used to the short, sullen answers. School has been in session for a week, and every day has been the same.
“Full practice doesn’t start until next week for me,” I say, smiling at him through the rearview. “Just got video work that I can do from home tonight. Thought we could do something fun for dinner.”
“Aye, mate, something fun for dinna,” Parker mimics, because his favorite pastime is making fun of the way I talk. He grins at me after he does it, so I don’t let it hurt my feelings.
