“Really, Nico. It’s fine. I get it, and I would have done the same thing.”
He breathes out audibly through his nose, staring down at his coffee and tapping his fingers against the top of the desk.
“Any particular plan for today?” I ask nonchalantly, trying to move the conversation away from personal relationships and on to the altogether safer ground of work talk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his shoulders relax.
“Actually, yes. Nigel is coming to help out.”
“Yeah?” I perk up at that. Not having a background in physically playing the game, my coaching style lacks that aspect. Nico, with his endless supply of NHL players, easily fills that gap.
“Vas is going to be happy as a clam.”
Indeed, Vas’ face lights up so dramatically when he sees Nigel walk in, one would think it was his best friend in the whole world. He skates over to us, smiling widely. He nods politely to me, acknowledging my presence next to the man he’s really come to see.
“Bonjour, entraîneur Nigel. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?”
Looking up from where he’d been adjusting the laces on his skates, Nigel St. James smiles at Vas.
“Bonjour, Henri. J'ai hâte de jouer au hockey, ça fait trop longtemps.”
Resting a hip against the boards and crossing my arms around my clipboard, I settle in to listen. I know Vas has animpressive array of languages in his arsenal, but he doesn’t often have the opportunity to use them. At least, not where I can hear. Nigel coming to practice is a treat, not just for Vas—who very obviously enjoys the opportunity to speak French—but for the rest of us, because we get to listen.
After a few minutes of chatting, Vas skates back over to his teammates, cheeks pink with a pleased flush. I smirk at Nigel as he steps onto the ice.
“That boy is something special,” he comments.
“He is,” I agree. “I’m impressed you were able to convince him to use your first name.”
“Can’t seem to lose the ‘coach,’ though. Every time I’ve come to practice, he thanks me for talking to him,” Nigel says fondly. I nod, because that sounds like exactly the sort of thing Vas might thank somebody for. “Nico tells me he’s not very confident in his English.”
“He’s not, even though his English is perfect.” Thinking of Jack, I add, “I think sometimes there’s no good reason for what makes us self-conscious. Confidence isn’t guaranteed, no matter how much it might be warranted.”
Nate laughs suddenly, the sound echoing and drawing our attention. Ascertaining that he’s not engaged in anything dangerous, I turn back to Nigel.
“Anything specific in mind for today? How long do we have you? We’ve got them scheduled for a little conditioning, but I can bump that if you want more ice time.”
“I can work with whatever you have in mind. I miss playing, and it turns out the semi-permanent basis I was hired on isn’t permanent enough for my liking. My presence here is mainly selfishness.”
“Feel free to grace us with your selfish presence any time,” I comment mildly, skating backward so I’m not right next tohim and blowing the whistle hanging around my neck, calling the team over.
“Can Jack come over tonight?”Parker asks, moodily pushing his dinner around his plate.
He’s been acting strange all week, following me around the apartment with a suspicious look on his face, as though expecting me to disappear if I’m out of his sight. When I asked him if something was wrong with his computer, thinking that maybe the clinginess was a product of the video games not functioning, he’d tartly responded with, “Why, are you trying to get rid of me?”
Yesterday, he’d tried to fake being sick in order to get out of school, and then made a comment about how living with me was a prison when I didn’t fall for it. Now, he’s barely taken two bites of dinner, even though I didn’t see him eat a snack after school either. I know he’s hungry. He’salwayshungry. My food tastes fine, which means something else is going on, but damned if I can figure out what it is.
“It’s Wednesday, bud,” I remind him gently, popping a bite of parmesan chicken into my mouth. Parker’s lips pinch together into a flat line, and he glares down at his plate.
“So? Why does that matter?” he pushes.
“Because it’s a school night. For both of you, in fact.” I grimace at that, feeling like I just made Jack sound like a school-age child.
“Just for a little bit,” he begs. I put my fork down, looking hard at him. He’s never pushed this much for Jack to come over outside of the usual Saturday visits. Even last week,when Jack did spend a weekday evening here, Parker hadn’t brought it up again.
“Parks, what’s going on? Did something happen at school?”
“No,geez,” he says vehemently. “I just want Jack to come over, okay? Does everything have to be a big deal to you?”
“Hey,” I warn, “tone it down a little bit. You need to give me a better reason than ‘I just want it.’ I want Jack to come over all the time, but he’s busy and we’ve got stuff we need to get done tonight, too.”
