“No,” Nate agrees, “he didn’t.”
After tapping his helmet against mine once more, he skates off to finish warming up and I drop down to the ice to get started. When I glance at our bench, Coach Mackenzie is talking to Desmond, foot propped up on the bench with a whiteboard balanced on his knee. I assume any discussion about how psychotic I am doesn’t require the use of a whiteboard, so they’re probably not talking about me. Thank God. The last thing I need is any sort of meeting with Coach Mackenzie.
Desmond’s carpulls up to the curb, and Parker waves at me from the back seat. Lifting my laundry bag under one arm, blushing slightly knowing both of them are watching me, I reach for the passenger door.
“Hey, Jack!” Parker greets me, sitting forward and grinning at me.
“Hi, Parker. How are you?” Settling my laundry at my feet, I clip my seat belt and peek up at Desmond. He smiles at me, so I blush again.
“You right, Jacko?” he asks, glancing back at Parker before putting the car back in drive and pulling away from the curb. Parker interrupts before I can answer, excited voice traveling up from the back seat.
“Did you bring another book to read? Or maybe we could play Minecraft again, if you wanted. I got a new mod that lets you?—”
“Actually, bud, Jack and I have to do a little hockey talk first,” Desmond cuts in smoothly, shooting me a look. I sigh, disappointed that he hasn’t magically forgotten. Parker groans.
“Fine,” he mutters. When I glance back at him, he’s slumped in his seat, gaze on the window.
“Probably have some time afterward, though,” I tell him, which earns me another smile from Desmond.
Parker leads the way inside when we get to their apartment, standing to the side and watching me start a load of laundry. Unlike when his uncle looks at me, the scrutiny doesn’t make me blush. Desmond told me that Parker thinks I’m “cool,” which makes him the only person other than Nate who thinks so.
“My birthday is in two weeks,” he tells me over the sound of the washer filling. “I’m going to stay at mygrandparents’ for the weekend and we’re going to do a ton of fun stuff.”
“What?” Desmond says, drawing both Parker’s and my eyes. “You’re not going to?—”
“Grandma said,” Parker cuts in, an edge to his voice. “She said we could do a big party and I could invite all my friends and we could go play laser tag and do the go-carts.”
“You and I were going to do something,” Desmond reminds him, voice gentle. “We could do go-carts if you wanted, but you’re not going to my mum’s house that weekend. She never even brought it up to me?—”
“I don’twantto go with you,” Parker hisses, voice rising. I take a step back, nervous, and bump into the doorframe. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”
“Actually, Parks, I do. So if you want to go to your grandparents’ that weekend, we can talk about it, but?—”
“Grandma said you wouldn’t let me,” he grumbles, face scrunched up in anger. “She said you’re selfish and you only care about yourself. She said you don’t want me to go there or have any fun.”
I suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting between them. Desmond’s cheeks color slightly. He looks like the words were a punch to the nose.
“That’s not true,” he says, voice soft and a little pained. I press back against the nearest wall, wishing I could fold myself into it and hide. “I do let you go over there, Parks. But I thought for your birthday?—"
“I hate you,” Parker says roughly, brushing past Desmond and striding out of the kitchen. “I hate you so much.”
A door slams a minute later, making me jump. Heart thrumming, I push myself back hard against the wall and watch Desmond’s face. He doesn’t look mad—more hurt thananything—but I know all too well how fast people’s emotions can change. I know precisely what happens when you tell your dad you hate him.
Desmond stares in the direction Parker stormed off in, mouth turned down in a frown and expression sad. It takes him a second to remember my presence, but unfortunately, I am far too big and brightly colored to remain invisible for long. His eyes meet mine. My head feels foggy with lightheadedness. I’ve never seen Desmond get mad at hockey practice before, and I’m cursing the fact that I’m about to see it in the privacy of his home, with no Nate beside me for safety.
“Sorry, Jack,” he says, abandoning the nickname he gave me, which makes me even more frightened. “I’ll talk to him later, once he cools down. You seem to have a knack of getting us on our worst days,” he jokes, but it’s weak and his smile doesn’t come close to meeting his eyes. He still looks sad.
“You’re not…” I pause, still keeping a close eye on his expression. Did he not hear what Parker said? “You’re not angry? You’re not going to yell at him for saying…”
Desmond’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at me, confusion replacing the sadness.
“Of course not,” he replies, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “What will yelling fix?”
I stare at him. The answer is nothing. Yelling fixes nothing. In fact, yelling only makes things worse, because yelling leads to hitting and an empty stomach and nights spent hiding behind the couch.
“You’re not mad?” I ask again, having a hard time thinking around the way my nervous system is alarming.
“No, I’m not mad,” Desmond says, confirming that he’s apparently some sort of super-parent who can remain calmwhen their kid tells them he hates him. “He’s nine, mate, and his life is in upheaval. He doesn’t actually hate me, he hates…well, the situation he’s in.”
