“You’ve got an awesome kid,” Anthony says, bringing my eyes back to his. I nod.
“He is. Even when he’s having a hard day or being a shithead, he’s still not as bad as some stories I’ve heard. I read parenting blogs and the comments sections are a horror show.”
He laughs. “I can only imagine what my own parents’ contributions might have been to a blog like that.”
“Drou! Come on, Drou!” Parker yells from inside the house, apparently of the impression that the dog is partially deaf. A minute later boy and puppy come running out the door, bellies full and on their way for another romp in the grass.
Fuck me, I’m going to have to get this kid a dog.
“Hey, is he named after?—”
“—the NHL player?” Anthony fills in, grinning. “Somewhat. We had the bright idea of letting Nico’s hockey kids name him, so his official name is: Drou Sidney Liam Scott Lehki Makar Morgan the Third. We just call him Drou.”
Laughing, I look out over the open expanse of green yard, listening to the faint sounds of Parker explaining fetch to Drou, accompanied by the chirp of crickets. As Nico returns to the patio, he turns on lights that are strung along the pergola. Maybe Parker is onto something, and we do need to come back here for dinner every week.
7
Jack
The Incredible Powerof Positive Thinking!stares up at me from the top of the book pile in the bargain bin. Pinching my lips together to keep from laughing, I pick it up and turn it over to read the blurb. It’s shabby—the edges curled with age and pages stained. Apparently, this book has provided positive thoughts to a lot of people. I set it to the side, using it to start my pile ofkeepbooks. If positive thinking is good enough for Desmond, it’s good enough for me.
My keep pile is dismally small when I head to the counter to check out. I’ll probably have all of these read in the next two days. I think about Desmond’s suggestion to go to the library instead, and consider making the trek right now. I probably shouldn’t, though, because eight extra miles is a lot to walk. I still need to do my meditation and muscle-relaxation practice beforeour game, too. It’ll just have to be a week where I reread books, that’s all.
I text back and forth with Nate as I walk back to campus,checking behind myself every couple of minutes, hoping that Desmond will drive up again. He doesn’t, which is a bummer, but probably for the best. Crushes on coaches is bad. Wanting to spend more time at a coach’s apartment is bad. Imagining scenarios where the coach is unclothed isreallybad.
When I get back to my dorm, I dutifully complete the simple meditation Desmond taught me, which I don’t particularly enjoy, and also the muscle-relaxation technique which I do. I’m not sure whether either one is helping or not, but since it’s only been a couple weeks, I probably shouldn’t give up on it just yet. So far, I still hate playing hockey. I still suck, and I still know I suck. I’ll keep trying, though, because I can’t get any worse and Desmond is only trying to help. Maybe a miracle will occur.
Tonight is Nate’s first game back in the lineup, and I can hear his voice in the hallway even before I open the door. I smile, no matter that my palms are already sweaty and my stomach hurts. Nate is back. I prefer having him on the ice with me, even if it doesn’t necessarily help me play better. But maybe tonight is the night that meditation, relaxation, and Nate all combine to give me an epic game. Maybe I’ll stop every single shot, and get a shutout. Maybe we’ll win.
We lose. We lose epically, in fact, because I was the starter and let in four goals before the first period was even halfway through. I thought nothing could make me feel worse than skating toward the bench after being pulled, but then Coach Mackenzie put his hand on my shoulder and didn’t yell at me, and I realized Icouldfeel worse. A lot worse, in fact, because apparently the cruelest thing someone can do when you feel like shit is be nice to you. It’s hell, sitting in the locker room with my exhaustedteammates, knowing I’m the reason everyone will have an awful season; wondering if they hate me, and knowing they should.
The next morning, I get up early despite not having to go to work at the public rink until nine. We open earlier on Sundays, and because I don’t have a game tonight, I volunteered to cover it and give our usual weekend staff a break. After showering and shaving the three facial hairs I’m able to grow, I try to do my meditation. I give it five solid minutes before I give up and move on to the muscle relaxation, because that’s a hell of a lot easier. I don’t understand how meditation could possibly work for people. If I knew how to turn my thoughts off, I’d just do it all the time.
Because Desmond has been on me all season to stretch more, I also do a half-hearted eight minutes of that before I can’t take it anymore. Crawling back onto my bed, I bypass the positive-thinking book and grab the how-to book on building roller coasters. Fuck positive thinking, the only thing that will help me right now is engineering information I have no use for.
When I walk into work two hours later, I’ve got the roller-coaster book tucked into my pocket for when things are quiet. Ron, the owner, is back in his office, so I stop and make the obligatory small talk. I blush and stammer like an idiot, because he makes me nervous for no other reason than that he’s my boss and an older man.
The rink is ridiculously slow, even for a Sunday. I’m sent home early, which sort of sucks because I don’t have enough new books to fill an entire afternoon, and now I don’t have the money to buy more. Leaving the rink, I’m momentarily blinded by the sun just long enough for me to run into someone.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I apologize, grabbing them and squinting my eyes.
Desmond smiles at me, literally glowing in the sunlight with his tan skin and brown curls and freckly nose. Okay, so maybe positive thinking does work a little bit, because nothing else could explain how I’ve spent all morning thinking about him and here he is. I blush, because I’m still me even though I’m happy to see him.
“Hey, Jacko,” he greets me. Realizing I’m still holding his shoulders, I drop my hands, even though what I want to do is pull him into a hug; bury my nose in his curls; maybe see if I can figure out what kind of shampoo he uses.
“G’day, mate!” Parker chimes in from Desmond’s side, in the most ridiculous affectation of an Australian accent I’ve ever heard. “Just another day on the Outback. Glad I got me thongs and sunnies.”
Desmond snorts and shakes his head, holding up six fingers.
“Not bad, but I’m taking off points for the thongs and sunnies. Should have stopped while you were ahead.”
“Whatever, I said it exactly the way you do. It was good, right, Jack?” Parker asks me.
“It was good,” I confirm. “But Desmond is the one who lived there, so he might know better than me.”
“Ha!” Desmond exclaims, winking at me when Parker groans dramatically.
“Whatever,” he repeats. “Do you work here? Are you leaving? What are you going to do now?”
