The corner of Coach Mackenzie’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “He had to leave early—his nephew’s school called and needed him to be picked up.”
“Parker?” I sit up straighter. “Is he okay?”
This time, Coach actually does smile. “He’s fine, just has a slight fever and a sore throat. Can’t remain at school, though, so he and Desmond are likely convalescing on the couch at home.”
I wish I was convalescing on the couch with them. Immediately, my face burns. It’s a good thing Coach Mackenzie can’t read minds, or he’d have kicked me off the team for every perverted thought I’ve ever had about his assistant coach.
“Do you know the fine print of your scholarship?” Coach asks suddenly, as though the thought just occurred to him.
“No. Well, yes. Sort of.” Coach raises one eyebrow—the one with the scar through it—giving me the sort of look that makes me sweat. Not that I need any help with that right now. I clear my throat, and wipe my palms on mythighs. “Uhm, it doesn’t cover athletics, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“So, you won’t be losing anything by not playing for the team?” he clarifies, hazel eyes on mine. I have to physically restrain myself from looking down and away. From hiding.
“No. It’s a special grant for”—I pause, hating having to say the words out loud because it always feels like I’m asking for sympathy—“foster kids.”
“Okay,” he says brusquely, nodding. “I meant what I said, Micky, you are welcome anytime at practice. In fact, I think you’ll be very sorely missed if youdon’tcome by on occasion.”
“Yeah, okay. I will. Thank you.”
He nods again, but it’s a small movement and I catch him wincing. He reaches a hand up to his face, circling a finger against his temple. Peering closer, I can see signs of strain around his eyes and mouth, and he’s looking nearly as pale as I am.
“You okay, Coach?” I ask carefully. He drops his hand back to the desk immediately, as though he hadn’t even meant to do it in the first place.
“Oh, just a headache.” He sighs. “I’m supposed to try Botox, so don’t be surprised if the next time you see me, I look ten years younger.”
I laugh, and Coach smiles at me—a real smile, not the pinched one he usually gives out. This one has teeth, and makes him look half as scary as he usually does.
“I’m sorry for making your job harder,” I apologize quietly.
“No need for that,” Coach replies, tipping his head to the side to indicate Desmond’s empty desk. “The best thing about being the boss is I get to designate. Desmond gets to handle the line shuffle.”
I almost laugh again. Is Coach Mackenzie always this funny, or am I just at the point in my anxiety attack that I’m low on oxygen?
“Was there anything else that you wanted to talk about?” he asks.
“No. I thought this would be harder. I was pretty nervous.” If Nate were here, he would correct that to: you were shitting yourself. I clear my throat before I laugh out loud at my friend’s imaginary voice. Coach doesn’t need to think I’m crazier than he likely already does.
“I’m sure,” he agrees softly, looking at me somewhat sadly. “Keep my number—and Anthony’s—and if you ever need anything,call. That doesn’t change just because I’m no longer your coach. Please, reach out if you need something. Or Desmond, as I know the pair of you have struck up a friendship.”
“I will,” I promise, and it’s one I intend to keep.
In fact, Desmond is probably going to be getting a call from me the moment I leave this office.
12
Desmond
“Are you poor?”Parker asks, voice close enough that I can hear him from where my head is currently stuck in the oven. Dropping the bristle pad and flexing my aching fingers, I sit back on my heels. He’s standing next to me, frowning, and is wearing a pair of sweatpants that are too short for him. I stare at his ankles for a second, addingclothes shoppingto the already insurmountable to-do list in my head.
“What’s that?”
“Are you poor?” he repeats testily. “Is that why we couldn’t live in my house?”
I stare at him, desperately trying to remember a time I’ve ever complained about finances where he could have overheard me. I draw a blank.
“What are you on about?” I ask, standing. My knees are begging for a break, anyway, and trying to clean the oven is probably a losing battle. “Your house was just too big for us, Parks. Too far away from your school and my work, that’s all.”
“But we live in anapartment.Adults are supposed to live in houses, and have real jobs,” he says, and waves a hand around. I frown. That sounds like something my mum would say.
