“I might,” I admit, finally meeting his eyes once more.
“What’s the alternative?” he challenges. “Being miserable every game? Making yourself sick? I’m not trying to push you into doing something you don’t want to do, but if playing hockey ishurtingyou, then something might need to change. At the end of the day, college hockey doesn’t matter—you do.”
The washing machine buzzes, giving me an excellent excuse for getting up and not responding. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, with my chest tight and a golf-ball-sized lump lodged in my throat. Slowly, I transfer my clothes from the washer to the dryer, glancing over my shoulder when I hear anoise. Desmond has his back to me, standing at the kitchen sink and apparently filling a glass. I hope he gets one for me too, suddenly noticing how dry my throat is and the minor headache throbbing in my forehead.
I don’t usually talk about myself so much, and I definitely never bring up my parents if I can avoid it. Nate doesn’t ask for specifics even though I know he wants to; can see the curiosity in his eyes each time the conversation nears the topic of family. He’s too tactful to ask outright, and I’m too cowardly to offer the information myself.
Except, apparently, with Desmond.
Finishing moving my load into the dryer, I brush my palms down my thighs and reclaim my seat. There’s a water glass sitting there, which I gulp gratefully. I wish Desmond was a little more like Nate in this moment, knowing exactly how my friend would react after participating in this conversation. He’d hug me—plaster himself to my side and make a joke. Hold me up the way he always does when I struggle to stand on my own.
“I think about quitting hockey a lot,” I admit to Desmond, staring at the freckles splashed across his cheeks and the single curl falling down his forehead. “But I’m scared that Nate won’t want to make an effort to hang out with me anymore if I do. If we no longer have hockey in common.”
I breathe out hard. There, I’ve said it. The ridiculous, yet painfully honest reason I haven’t pulled myself from the team. It’s a ludicrous thing to be worried about and isn’t particularly flattering in regard to Nate, but it’s not as though I can control my own brain. My brain, which constantly tells me I’m not good enough and everyone would be happier without me around. My brain, which notices and appreciatesall the ways Nate and I are different, and catalogues him as “right” and me as “wrong.”
“Why would you think that?” Desmond asks, surprised.
“Because…because he’s got so many friends, I guess. Everyone knows Nate; everyone likes him. Of all the people he could choose to hang out with, why the hell would it be me?”
Desmond laughs, the sound shocking enough that I can’t help but chuckle too. He’s shaking his head, once more rubbing his hand down his face.
“Jack, mate, I think you’re looking at this the wrong way. You’re right—every single person on our team likes Nate, and wants his attention. But you know who he seeks out every single practice? Who he sits next to on the bus, and when we get team dinner? Who he asked to be paired with when you room for overnight games?”
“Me,” I guess.
“You,” he confirms. “I can understand worrying about losing a friendship you value by cutting ties with something you have in common, but I think you might be doing Nate a bit of a disservice on this one.”
“He’s my only friend,” I admit.
“What am I, a duck?” Desmond asks, making me laugh again.
He grins at me, cheeks pushing the line of freckles up under his eyes. The dryer whirs steadily behind me, and the sun coming through the kitchen window brightens the threads of auburn in his curls. He’s probably right in that I wouldn’t lose Nate’s friendship if I quit hockey, but there is someone I most definitelywouldlose, and he’s sitting in front of me.
“Hey, little man,” he says, smiling toward the hallwayleading to the bedrooms. I glance over and watch as a slightly abashed-looking Parker shuffles into view, hands twisted in the hem of his over-large shirt and wary eyes on his uncle. I wonder if I’m not the only one who expected him to get angry.
“Hey,” he mumbles back, twisting the shirt so forcefully I worry he might rip the seams. Desmond just regards him calmly, reclined back in his chair and a small smile on his face. Parker glances over at me. “You’re still here.”
“I am,” I agree. “Looking forward to some Minecraft.”
He perks up at that, fingers unclenching and shoulders falling back from where they’d been curled forward. Walking over to Desmond’s side of the table, he pulls a chair close enough to his uncle that they brush arms whenever one of them moves. Desmond smiles, eyes meeting mine.See?the look seems to say.He doesn’t hate me after all.
10
Desmond
The brisk knockhas both me and Parker looking at the door in surprise. Elbow deep in soapy water as I try to scrub a pan clean, I’m all set to ignore it until it comes again.
“Parks, you mind grabbing that?” I ask him over the sound of the bristle pad I’m using to attack the pieces of burned chicken that have somehow adhered themselves to the pan. Probably eager to be free of cleanup duty, Parker doesn’t argue and heads over to get the door. A minute later he’s back.
“It’s a lady for you,” he says. I sigh. Even without answering the door, I would have had a pretty good shot of guessing that much.
“A lady?” Deciding that maybe what the pan needs is a good long soak, I drop it in the sink and grab a tea towel to dry my hands.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll be in my room.”
Bailing after one last furtive look at the disaster that wasmeant to be dinner, he hustles down the hallway to his room. Peeking around the corner, I do, in fact, find a woman waiting in the open doorway. She’s dressed in slacks and a shimmery blouse with puffy sleeves that immediately makes me think of a pirate. The expression on her face—stern and somewhat mean—wouldn’t be out of place on a pirate ship, either.
“Hello,” I greet her, running the tea towel over my soapy forearms. When I smile, she doesn’t smile back.
