Scratching at a non-existent itch at the back of my neck, my gaze flits to the side, searching for something, I don’t even know what.
“Um, I was just wondering, if um—” I glance sideways to where Logan is looking at me from the corner of his eye as he pretends to search through the fridge. “What… ummm…”
“I don’t got all fuckin’ day, son,” Coach presses, chomping his gum like a horse.
“We were just wondering what hotel we’re staying at up in Halifax?” Logan asks, turning to Coach.
I release the breath I’ve been holding, and I swear I could kiss my best friend right now.
“Eh?” Coach frowns, clearly confused.
“Round one,” Logan clarifies. “What hotel are we staying at?”
“What do I look like?” Coach barks. “The fucking travel manager?”
Logan throws his hands in the air. “I mean, I just… I thought you’d know, is all.”
Coach Draper shakes his head, looking Logan up and down with serious derision, and I have to bite back a laugh, but then he turns to me and I can’t help but cower.
“Slater, you should know better than anyone to be thinking about anything other than your next game because the way you were skating out there this morning, you’ll be lucky if your ass isn’t benched by the time we even make it to Halifax.” Coach shakes his head again, turning and walking for the door, but not before shouting to everyone in the room, “Team meeting in five minutes, knuckleheads!”
“Yeah, man,” Robbie laughs, slapping my shoulder. “You’re totally his favorite.”
I roll my eyes, shoving him off me as I go back to getting myself something to eat before I’m late for the team meeting and Coach really does bench my ass.
By the time I make it home from the practice facility, I’m met with my dad and Lucky having some sort of impromptu dance-off in the living room. My dad is twerking like his rent is due, and Lucky is doing some sort of breakdance move that is really just her on her butt, one leg and one arm in the air while she tries and fails to spin.
I stand back, watching on with a smile because I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s hilarious to watch my dad’s lanky-ass body trying to keep up with a five-year-old with stores of endless energy.
When the Taylor Swift song finishes and changes to a Rouse song, my dad busts out the air guitar and starts giving us a live performance of one of his band’s biggest early-nineties hits. Lucky runs to me and I crouch down, lifting her into the air as she cheers her grandfather on when he drops to his knees,belting out the bridge.
“What’s going on?” I ask, sufficiently confused.
“It’s a talent show,” Lucky says as if that much is obvious. “Only, we’re both the winners.”
I nod slowly. “Who was the judge?”
She points to the couch where a line-up of plushies sits facing the makeshift dance floor.
“Ah.” I nod again.
“How was practice, dude?” Dad asks, hopping up from the floor and ditching his performance half-way through when the attention is no longer on him.
“It was good.” I place Lucky on the island counter and move around to the fridge, retrieving a Gatorade and opening it, chugging almost half in one go.
“Plans tonight?”
“We were all supposed to have dinner at Logan’s, but he just called me because he got home to find a pipe had burst and his apartment was apparently flooded.”
“I’m thinking of cooking up a feast,” Dad says. “You can invite ’em around here.”
I look at Lucky, who is too busy pressing buttons on her iPad to know what we’re talking about, my brows knitting together when I turn back to my dad with a questioning glance.
He shrugs, folds his arms across his chest, and offers me a knowing smile. “You could…”
I consider what he’s saying. And, yes, I could. And I probably should. But can I? My heart hammers against my sternum at the thought. That’s a lot on Lucky. She’s not great with new people one-on-one, but six-on-one?
“Hey, Lucky Duck?”
