“Oh.” Taking a careful step away from the wall, I reach for the chair I’d sat in last time. My hand is shaking. Desmond pulls out the one next to it, sitting down and scrubbing a hand over his still-sad face. I lower myself down more slowly, heart still beating too fast and legs shaky.
“He’s a good kid. He’s just going through a hard time,” he tells me, voice low and somewhat pleading, like he’s trying to convince me. “This isn’t the way things are all the time. This is a bad day.”
“I know, I just… Sorry.” My face heats and I look away from Desmond’s kind, steady brown eyes. Jesus Christ, what did I think was going to happen? That he was going to beat the shit out of Parker right in front of me? Ashamed of myself, I mumble another apology. “Sorry.”
“My mum would have yelled,” he says. “My mum loved to yell. My parents did a shit-poor job of raising me and Vic, but all those bad years are coming in handy now. I just do the opposite with Parks.”
I smile, and he returns it. I admit, “I told my dad I hated him and it was…bad. It was really bad.”
Desmond doesn’t reply right away, just regards me calmly. My heart rate slows from about-to-run-for-my-life back to the steady rhythm more appropriate for doing laundry. Tucking my hands beneath the table, I surreptitiously rub my sweaty palms on my thighs.
“Had a hard time growing up, huh?” he asks eventually, voice casual in a way that gives me the courage to answer with more than a nod.
“Yeah. Both of my parents had…uhm, trouble with substance abuse. They…they actually overdosed when I was nine.”
This isn’t why I’m here and I hate talking about it, so I bite off any further words. Desmond doesn’t need to know about the way my mom would vacillate between manic highs and depressive lows. The way she would pet me, and coo like I was a dog; then fifteen minutes later throw a glass at the wall, screaming like she was in horrific pain. Eventually, she’d set off my dad, who was only ever looking for a reason to be mad. That was when I knew it was time to hide.
“Uhm, but anyway…you wanted to talk to me?” I remind him, not entirely comfortable with the route this conversation has taken and wanting to bring it back to the present. People are always inclined to help—to offer advice—but I don’t need empty platitudes or suggestions on how to get over the past. I’m not interested in fixing; what I need is forgetting.
“Yeah, Jacko. I wanted to talk to you,” he confirms quietly. “We’re worried about you.”
My heart thumps painfully against my rib cage, knowing who the other half of that “we” is. It was foolish of me to hope that Desmond wouldn’t tell Coach Mackenzie about me getting sick before the game, but I’d been hoping nonetheless.
“It’s just nerves,” I tell him. He nods.
“Right. And while I’m glad you’re not throwing up on purpose, the fact that you’re stressed enough to make yourself sick isn’t a great consolation. Even before a game you don’t have the start in,” he adds, running a hand through his curls. “I know how hard it is to keep yourself from doing it—believe me, I know—but we can’t have you puking before you play sixty minutes of hockey.”
“I’ll try to stop,” I say immediately. “I’m sorry. I just get really fucking nervous.”
“Do you see anybody for that? For the anxiety?”
Holding my palm flat, I teeter my hand side to side. “Uhm, sort of? Private therapy sessions are available to students at the health center as part of our tuition. I go to those, sometimes. It’s hard, though, because the lady doctors are usually busier. It’s difficult to get an appointment.”
I want to die immediately after the words leave my mouth. Jesus, could I have made that soundanycreepier?
“Uhm, I just mean…I prefer the women because older men sort of bother me, so…” Stumbling to a stop, I close my eyes. Apparently, there was still a way for me to make it creepier.
“I get it,” Desmond says softly, waiting for me to meet his gaze before continuing. “That’s good you go.”
“I hate it,” I admit. “I hate talking, and I hate feeling sorry for myself. They always try to refer me to a specialist doctor, and want me to take medicine, which I can’t do because it costs a lot of money.”
“Those deep-breathing exercises I gave you? That might help you. Same with the muscle relaxation. Both are things I do myself and they work, but, Jack… Do you even like playing?”
“I love hockey,” I reply, surprised by the random question. Desmond tilts his head.
“No. Do you likeplaying?” he repeats, slower as though to make his point clear.No!my brain screams.
“I wouldn’t have met Nate if I didn’t play for the team,” I tell him, desperately trying to avoid answering the question. Desmond raises his eyebrows as if to sayis that what I asked?I add, “I don’t mind playing.”
“Jack.”
“No,” I admit quietly. “No, I don’t like it. I used to, when I was younger. But not now. Not in college.”
He makes a soft, aggrieved sort of noise in the back of his throat. “Then why are you doing it?”
Uncomfortable, I break eye contact with him and instead look at the cupboards visible behind him. I don’t have a good reason for why I’m still playing. I have a reason for why I started, but at this point I’m merely continuing because it feels like a massive failure on my part to give up now. I know the team would be better off without me, but can’t bring myself to sever that connection myself. There is also the fear that if I get rid of the one thing I have in common with Nate, will he even want to be friends with me any longer? We spend so much time together because of hockey—take that away and why would he even bother? Without hockey, I wouldn’t be his friend. I’d be a burden and an annoyance.
“Listen, Jacko, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. If you want to play, play. If you want to stop playing, that’s fine too. Nobody will think less of you; certainly not me.”
