“We’ll make an Aussie out of you yet.” Reaching back with one hand, I hold my palm out for a low five. He obliges, barely making contact with my hand before pulling his own away. Another win—eye contact and touching are two things I rarely get from him. “What do you want fordinna?”
I make sure to really lay the accent on thick for his benefit, wanting to keep the good mood going for as long as I can. The last six months have been miserable, with the pair of us trying to navigate our new life together. Parker, it has to be said, has thus far done a better job managing than me.
“Grilled cheese?” he asks, as I finally pull out of this damned car park. When the lease is up on our apartment, I’m looking for a place closer to Parker’s school. We can walk, and save ourselves from this nightmare.
“Sure,” I agree, because I can definitely handle a grilled cheese. I’m glad he didn’t ask for steak. “And maybe some spag bol?”
“Yeah. Okay,” he says, tone tinged with just a hint of excitement. The kid would live off spaghetti Bolognese if he could. “Can I play Minecraft while you work?”
“Of course, little man. Whatever you want.”
He nods happily, turning his head to stare out the window as I drive. Victoria never explained the ins and outs of her parenting techniques, so I have nothing to base Parker’s screen time off of. I remember my mum being a stickler for TV time when I was growing up, but I’ve always assumed that was because she wanted us out of the house and out of sight, rather than any concern for our brains. Minecraft seems pretty safe, so I haven’t put up too much of a fight when Parker spends hours staring at the screen. It’ll be a problem for next year, when we’ve got our feet under us.
I glance up at him, taking in his narrow profile and the skinny arms sticking out from his T-shirt. His face is pale, and I feel that ever-present self-doubt that consumes me whenever I think about him too hard. Is he getting enough sun? How many hours do kids need to spend outdoors in a day? In a week?
“Do you get to go outside at school?” I ask him, waiting as he aims that thousand-yard stare in my direction. “Like…for recess?”
“I’m not a baby,” he replies, face scrunched up in distaste. I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. No recess, then, apparently. Recess is for babies—noted.
“Want to take a walk when we get home?” I offer, thinking of the footpaths around the apartment complex. He could probably use some fitness along with the vitamin D.
“I want to play Minecraft,” he reminds me, scowling and kicking lightly against the back of the passenger seat. Sighing, I let it go. I already told him he could play the game, after all. We’ll go for a walk this weekend.
We drive the rest of the way in silence, Parker descending back into moodiness. I don’t try to tug him back just yet, knowing by now how his temperament ebbs and flows. I didn’t even need the child psychologist to tell me that I’d need to give him room to feel and express himself. Nine-year-olds aren’t equipped with the ability to regulate or understand their emotions, and certainly not a nine-year-old whose parents just died. Hell, sometimes I can barely manage it and I’m supposed to be the adult here.
Parker kicks off his shoes the moment we get inside, and I wince as one hits the wall with a heavy thud. His backpack is tossed onto the dining room table with an equal amount of care, as he passes by on his way to stick his nose into the pantry in search of a snack.
“How about an apple?” I offer, waiting until he’s looking at me before tossing him one from the bowl on the counter. He catches it, rolling his eyes again. It takes me a few seconds to remember it’s my job to tell him to knock that off.
“There’s a form for you to sign in my backpack,” he mumbles, barely finishing chewing his current bite before chomping down on another one.
Pulling his bag over, I sigh at the mess of paper inside. Straightening each thing I remove, I do a quick check of everything, using the opportunity to do a little snooping. Victoria had once complained to me that being a parent turned her paranoid, and I’ve already noticed it nipping at my heels.
I finally manage to find the form, at the bottom of thebag, naturally. Smoothing it on the edge of the table, I read it over before glancing up at Parker.
“The planetarium. Should be fun, yeah?” He shrugs and takes another bite of apple, trying to mumblewhatever, but his mouth is too full to get his tongue around the word. I’m just about to tell him he doesn’t have to go if he doesn’t want to, when Vic whispers in my ear.Make him go. Kids love space, even moody ones,she says. I clear my throat, borrow a pen from the pile I pulled from the bottom of his backpack, and sign the form. “There you go, Parks. I’ll give you some cash too, yeah? So you can get a souvenir if you want.”
“Whatever,” he manages to say this time, tossing his apple core into the rubbish bin below the sink. “Thanks.”
He skirts around me, heading toward his room, which means this will likely be the last I see of him until dinner. Tipping my head back and rolling it from side to side, I try to relieve some of the tension that seems to live at the base of my skull these days.
I’m tired enough that sitting on the couch to review video isn’t going to help me stay awake, so I slide onto one of the hard dining room chairs instead. We’ve had only a few days of practice, and with quite a few new faces to the team, it’s mainly been days of getting a feel for where everyone is at. It’s been nice to ease into things, particularly since I spent the whole summer nervous about starting this job and so desperate to do good that I nearly made myself sick with it. Every time I thought about coaching the team, the urge to puke would tag right along with it and I’d have to spend several minutes slowly breathing the desire away, bent over the toilet in case I wasn’t successful.
When Nico had mentioned to me that he compiles video of their practices, I’d had to hold myself back from an overtdisplay of excitement. I fucking love sitting down and analyzing video; being able to watch practice and possibly catch things I missed in person this week is an incredible relief. Particularly since there’s been something tickling at the back of my mind since yesterday, and it’s still just barely out of reach. Hoping that watching practice back will knock it loose, I put on my reading glasses and queue it up, making sure I’ve got a fresh legal pad next to me.
It’s not until thirty-seven minutes in that I catch it. Pausing the video, I drop it back thirty seconds and bring my face closer to the laptop screen, squinting behind my glasses. Nate Basset is dead center in view of the camera, doing nothing more strenuous than receiving a pass from a teammate who’s out of the shot. I rewind again, watching carefully.
“Why the hell is he holding his arm like that, Vic?” I mutter, falling into my new habit of talking to my dead sister. I rewind again. And again.
Frowning, I let the video play forward and watch for Nate specifically, jotting down exact times when he doesn’t seem to be moving quite right. I’d almost wonder if maybe this was just the way he played if I hadn’t spent all summer watching video of this kid tearing his way around the ice last season.
Two hours later, my eyes are burning and not even the reading glasses are helping. Closing the laptop, I drop them on top and pinch the bridge of my nose, rubbing my eyes. Parker has yet to make another appearance from his room, although I can hear enough soft noises that I know he’s in there and playing his game. Walking over to his door, I knock.
“Yeah?” he yells as though I’m not right on the other side of the wall. I push open the door.
He’s sitting at the desk we set up in the corner of the roomof the master bedroom. I’d felt bad for having to move him from the home he’d grown up in, but the five-bedroom house Victoria and Paul had bought was way too big for us; the mortgage too expensive. Parker, thankfully, had seemed unconcerned about having to move, only requesting that all his things come with him. I’d given him the main bedroom in the apartment and taken the smaller one—he has alotof things.
“Hey, Parks. Ready to eat?”
