“It’s because of the troll.” He nods, face serious despite the pink haired troll he’s just pulled from his pocket and shoved in my face. “Princess Poppy is my good luck charm. I wouldn’t have them if it wasn’t for her. Maybe you should get one. Might help you find Mr. Right.”
My eyes immediately find Cory who’s on the opposite side of the rink, head tossed back in laughter. A bubble of something indescribable inflates in my chest. If things were different. I think before catching myself.
“I don’t think I need any help with that.”
“Not interested, or already found him?”
Giving him a nudge, I turn from Brady and head back to my office. “More … not going to happen.”
“They’re not all soeasy, you know.”
“Easy? I never said he was easy. Who said he was easy? I never said he was easy.” Yeah. Not feeling guilty at all.
“James, chill. I didn’t mean to imply you hadn’t worked hard on him. The way he relaxes for you and doesn’t fight it, is great. He’s always been so tight for me. He’s almost the perfect patient for you.”
Jesus Christ. Play dumb. Play dumb.
“Who are we talking about?”
Coach White, assistant coach, my supervisor who could finish my career before it starts, laughs and nudges me with his bony elbow. “You know, you seemed pretty uptight when you started, but you’re a funny guy. Maybe that’s why the boys respond to you.”
“No, you were right, I am uptight. Boring as fuck too, and not much of a people person to be honest.”
“What ever you say, Plummy.”
“Not you …” He’s off, chuckling to himself before I canbinthis damn Plummy thing. I should think myself lucky. For the third time today I have been caught watching Cory. I have to get my shit together.
“I see you watching me, Doc,” Cory chirps, before taking off like he’s on wheels, puck on the end of his blade and he switches between fore and backhand, wrong foots two defense men and taps the puck between Larsson’s pads.
What a freaking show off.
“Filthy shot!” Brady hollers from behind the net, before positioning himself next to his goalie. “Nice moves, Captain.”
Nice indeed.
Thoroughly annoyed with myself, and the fact that seemingly everyone in a ten mile radius is in the mood for conversation, I abandon the rink and head to the close confines of my office.
This thing with Cory is spiraling out of control as rapidly as he can pick up speed on the ice. On first meeting any feelings I had for him were neatly contained below the belt, but their gradual descent up is … not okay. I can’t shut him out and avoid him. Can’t be with him in any romantic sense and definitely can’t let things get physical again. I also can’t deny that I like him as a person and feel, I hate to say it, happy when I’m with him. I haven’t had much of that in recent years and I’m not particularly interested in letting it slip through my hands.
A further five people stop me on the way back to solitude, so once I’ve grabbed a soda from the closest vending machine, I close the door and collapse back into my chair, more than a little peopled out and ready to return to my basement and weighted blanket.
Tomorrow is day at home with Dylan, which means we have our usual routine to stick to. Park in the morning. Snack time when we get home. Maybe then some art, music ‘til lunch, another re-watch of Hairspray, before an afternoon walk and dinner prep. Once Faith gets home it will be eating, bathing, Dyl’s bed routine, then lumbering down the stairs and collapsing into my own.
Though hardly thrilling, the comfort of knowing what to expect in my day is as soothing to Dyl as it is to me. Had you told me that a day mostly alone with my brother would be a comfort, not an overwhelming burden of responsibility, I’d have never believed it. Unless we have a bad day. Though, there have been less of those since Manny was back on board, but still it’s me and I am not the … paternal not the word. Adequate? I need to find a word for not up to Dad’s standards.
The man was a saint. Something I am not, nor will ever be. Even Faith comes closer than me, and she is what many have described as colder than a polar bear’s asshole.
Feeling kind of sweaty, anxious and short of breath, I rub my hand over my chest. “Not a fish. Not a fish.”
To compliment my breathing, I open my laptop in search of distraction. Perhaps the monotony of paperwork will stave off an imminent panic attack or unexpected heart failure.
I hope.
Instead of digging into course paperwork like I need too, find myself opening a blank word document and titling it?—
Pros and Cons of life rafts.
Cons
