“Oh, Vic,” I whisper, staring at the retreating backs of our parents. “What the hell were you thinking?”
A car pulls up to the curb, and a pimply-faced man rolls down the passenger window.
“Uh, you Desmond?” he asks.
“That’s me.” I climb into the back seat and immediately rest my head back, closing my eyes. I cannot make small talk with a teenager who barely looks old enough to drive, let alone have a job.
When we get to the hotel, I ask him to wait as I sprint upstairs to my room and change into my suit. I barely remember to bite the tags off before I shrug it on, checking my appearance in the mirror. It’s ill-fitting, which comes as no surprise since I bought it yesterday off the rack. Unfortunately, there is no other option. Hopefully, Nico Mackenzie isn’t able to spot the difference between a J.Crew and an Armani.
I barely notice the scenery as we drive through South Carolina University’s campus, gazing sightlessly out the window at passing buildings. I need to be preparing for this interview, or at the very least, taking a quick nap. Tomorrow, Parker will be handed off to me, though, and it’s hard to thinkof anything beyond that. Worry chews at my insides, and my mind whirls uselessly around like an anxiety-ridden spinning top.
“Thank you,” I mutter to my driver when he pulls to a stop in front of the hockey complex. Looking up at the building, my already untrustworthy stomach sloshes dangerously. I am incredibly ill-prepared for this.
Two young men walk out of the building as I approach. One steps to the side, holding the door for me.
“Are you going in?” he asks, in a soft German accent.
“Yes.” I clear my throat and try to smile. “Thanks, bud.”
He smiles and nods at me as I pass. I glance back to watch him and his buddy go—both very obviously athletes, and likely members of the team I’m interviewing for. I should know their names and faces and positions. I should know every single stat about them, and be able to rattle them off at the drop of a hat. I am, I realize, going to completely bomb this bloody interview.
Nico Mackenzie’s office is easy enough to find. Pausing outside the door, I close my eyes and take a few measured breaths.Wish me luck, Vic, I think desperately. I’m going to need it.
“Coach Mackenzie?” I ask, knocking lightly on the doorframe and stepping into view. A man looks up, and squints at me. “I’m here for the three o’clock meeting. Desmond Gates.”
“Come in,” he replies, rising to standing and holding out his hand. I step forward to shake it, smoothing the other hand nervously down the front of my shitty suit. “Thank you for coming.”
“I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice.”
He waves this away, and gestures at the chair in front of his desk. The other desk is empty, although there is enoughdetritus littering the top that I imagine it’s usually occupied. Looking back over at Nico Mackenzie, I find his eyes already on me.
“We don’t have many people from Australia applying for jobs here,” he says, which nearly makes me laugh. Victoria would have—snorting and trotting out a ridiculously overdone accent.Not now, Vic, I urge her silently in my head. There is no way I will get this job if I start sobbing in this man’s office.
“No, sir. I…I had a family emergency, and will be relocating to the States.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you originally from South Carolina, then?”
“Indiana, if you can believe it.” I try to smile again, but my face doesn’t seem to belong to me anymore. I am nothing more than a pale copy of the person I was a week ago. “My dad was hired by a global software company based in Australia when I was a baby. I spent all of my childhood there.”
“A chameleon, then,” he says, and Victoria’s ghost laughs again.
“Yes, sir. I never lost the accent, even after we moved back to the States.”
“And you went back overseas after college?” he clarifies.
I nod. I’ll never forget the way it felt, stepping off that airplane and knowing a future I’d chosen was stretching out in front of me. Returning to Australia had felt like picking up an old, favorite pair of jeans and slipping them on to find they still fit perfectly. Australia had always been home to me.
“Yes, sir,” I agree, but don’t expand further. If I leave this interview without breaking down, it will truly be a miracle.
“I have to admit ignorance to the ice hockey leagues inAustralia. You were a part of the”—he glances at his computer, eyes narrowing further—“AJIHL?”
“The junior league,” I agree. “I’m an—was, an assistant coach.”
“You must have been hired quite young. That’s impressive.”
Internally, I flinch. By North American standards, he’s right. I’m twenty-nine years old now and was hired when I was fresh from college. Here, coaching staff often have to have years of experience to even be considered.
“To be honest, sir, ice hockey isn’t exactly a lucrative sport in Australia. It’s getting there, but tennis, footy, and rugby are where the money and popularity are at. I was hired fresh from college—an American one, at that—and it’s entirely possible that I was the only applicant.”
