Nico snorts. “He’s the smallest player in the league, yet he causes the most trouble. Thirty-two points already this season, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“You are,” I agree. “Anyway, I want Roman to be prepared for when that little shit tries to Michigan him this weekend.”
“Thank you for handling all of that,” he says, trying to smile but only managing a pained grimace. “You have no idea the relief it has been to not have to deal with hours of video review. And if I’m being honest, my friend Nigel was doing most of it. He was a blessing before you came along.”
I smile. Nigel St. James is a semi-regular face around here, a fact which makes Vas particularly happy. The pair of them chat in French while the rest of us moon over how romantic and lovely it sounds. They could be talking shit about everyone for all we know, but damn if it doesn’t sound pretty.
“It’s not unheard of to have two ACs,” I put in. “You won’t offend me with the nepotism hire of someone whose name is engraved on the Stanley Cup.”
Nico laughs. “What would the sports world be without nepotism?”
Straightening, I tap his desk with a knuckle. “I’d better get in there before Nate talks the others into doing something illegal. You heading home?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t, but yes.”
“No reason for you to be here. Your husband is probably already in the car park waiting for you.”
“Oh God”—Nico groans—“do not let him hear you say that. I don’t understand that man’s obsession with marriage. We can be together for the rest of our liveswithouta legal document.”
I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’m pro-marriage,” I admit. Nico points toward the door.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“What’slove got to do with it, got to do with it…what’s love got?—”
“Is that the only line you know?” Parker asks crossly, arms tight around a load of clothes he just pulled from the dryer. Our life, it seems, is nothing but an endless cycle of washing. A sock falls onto the floor as he walks toward his bedroom, probably planning on just dumping it all on his bed to deal with later. Or, more likely, for me to deal with later.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“You sound like a shrill bird,” he adds as a parting shot, before disappearing into his room. I snatch up the sock and follow him, tossing it his direction from the doorway. He tries to catch it, but ends up swatting it to the floor.
“Hey, I don’t soundshrill,” I argue. “My voice doesn’t even go to those octaves.”
“The neighborhood dogs were singing along.”
Tipping my head back, I laugh. I’ve never been roasted so much in my life as I have been these past few months. Parker is definitely my sister’s kid—he’s got a very good understanding of how to deploy a zinger.
“Fine, I’ll stop.” Hands held up, I admit defeat.
“Or just learn a different song,” he suggests. I watch as he folds two socks together, expression so hang-dog one would think the task was tortuous. I turn to leave him to his washing hell when he calls me back. “Des!”
“You right?” I ask, poking my head back around the doorframe. I’ve got my own washing to handle, not to mention coming up with yet another idea for lunch, working on a fewthings for Nico and the team, and cleaning out the fridge. I’m pretty sure it’s not meant to smell the way it is.
“Isn’t Jack coming over?” he asks, perking up at the prospect. The reminder makes me smile, chest warm with pleasure. It’s nice to have Jack here.
“Uh yeah, I think so. I’ll have to check my phone, but yeah, he usually comes by on Saturday for washing.”
“Awesome.” Parker sighs happily. “Your boyfriend is so cool.”
“He is,” I agree, and make it all the way back to the kitchen before I hit a brick wall of realization.
“Your boyfriend is so cool” settles itself in my chest, cozy and warm. It’s nice that Parker is so accepting of a relationship between two men, and even nicer that he’s so enamored with Jack.
Of course, I don’thavea bloody boyfriend, no matter how much my brain apparently likes that idea. I turn back around and head for Parker’s room, unable to stop picturing Jack’s deep red hair and freckled skin; his smile. He’d have to wear long sleeves and an outback hat to protect him from the sun, if I ever got him to Australia.
Oh hell,I think, as the other half of my brain happily plans a vacation with my fake boyfriend. If only I could be so lucky.
