“Hey. Hey, James, It’s okay. Baby it’s okay.” I flinch at Corey’s touch. The way his hands so tenderly caresses my hair, over my neck and down my back, sounds like coarse sandpaper over timber pumped through a megaphone, but fuck it, I’d die if he stopped touching me. “We’re going to figure this out. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I … I can’t lose you, Cub.”
“That’s good then, ‘cause you’re not going too. Just breathe for me baby. Just breathe.”
When I was ten,I stole a packet of Milk Duds from a concession stand at our school fair. I didn’t even like Milk Duds all that much, but for some reason that yellow box called to me.
I felt so guilty, I was sick in the stomach and couldn’t bear to eat them. On our way back to the car, Dad busted me sneaking them into my B’s backpack. Grabbing me by the scruff of my shirt, I was promptly dragged back to the stand and forced to make a confession.
It was mortifying. Would never hold up in court, due to the coercion techniques of my six-feet-four dad, and the worker seemed more pissed off that my stuttered, long-winded apology was delaying his lunch break, rather than he was at my thievery.
A similar feeling of guilt and shame washes over me when I get to the rink thirty minutes late, and Coach Harris is waiting for me in my office. ‘Cause of course he is.
“Morning, Coach.” I try with all my might to keep my voice as neutral and dull as it normally is but I can hear a tremble I hope he doesn’t. “Sorry that I’m late. Manny was, and it’s a bit of a chain reaction then. You need me for something? How’s the family?”
Super chill.
“Family is fine, thanks for asking. Don’t worry about being late, and I do, yeah.” He taps a stack of papers before him. “Take a seat, we need to have a chat.” Oh dear fucking Lord. While pondering if I could out run him, I move behind my desk, but sit on the edge rather than sliding into my chair. Faster getaway and all.
“Chat away.”
He knows something is off, he’s chewing at a reduced rate and eyeing me suspiciously. “You alright? You seem kind of … nervous.”
“I have diarrhea. Terrible, terrible diarrhea.”
Wincing, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, using his feet to wheel further away. “Should you be here? I was going to use you on the ice today. Stuck in the net fully padded up is not the place to be when you have …” He waves his hand before him.
“Diarrhea.” I offer. “I have … diarrhea.”
“Yes. So you said.” After clearing his throat, I think to hide his smile more than anything, he continues, “We’ve been impressed with you James. I wasn’t sure at first, but the superiority complex you seemed to bring with you has dissolved. The boys respect you, you have a great hockey brain, and are a natural coach. We haven’t made this public yet, but it’s likely Dale White will be moving to the AHL next season, and I’d like to offer his position.”
Holy shit. He keeps talking but I’m not listening. All I can think about is the man I left in my bed this morning, and the prospect of either hiding what we have for an entire season, breaking it off, or turning down this opportunity. Something I thought I was prepared to do when it was a hypothetical. But now. Now?
“You want me to be Assistant Coach and Trainer? Full time?”
“I do.” He nods, adding yet another piece of gum to his mouth. “As long as you survive the diarrhea.”
“Wow.”
There’s a knock on my door , and Cory’s head pops through, his smile fading when he sees my expression. “Hey coaches, sorry to interrupt, but Mom insisted—” The chance for Cory to complete his sentence is stolen by the appearance of his mother, his sister and a baby I presume is Billie.
“Mr. Plum. Cory told us about your offer.” Unlike her son, Deirdre Malkovich doesn’t knock, or even wait to barge in. Eyes, red and puffy, tears are streaming down her face, she wears a stained apron over her clothes like she’s heard the news and just dragged him out of the kitchen and into the car. “It’s so generous. So kind. But I insist we pay a fair rent.”
“Rent?” Harris rises from his seat. “What are we talking about here?”
“Mom,” Cherry says, forcing her way between her mom and the desk, she looks like she may leap to get to me. “We’re interrupting something. Why don’t we take Billie out to the rink, and let Cory speak with his coaches?” It’s a question, but she doesn’t wait for a reply, before she hooks her arm into her mom’s and yanks her out into the hall.
“Why do I think there’s something going on here I need to know about, and that will give me a headache?”
“Because there is something you need to know about, though it shouldn’t be pain-inducing. Quite the opposite actually since this something will be keeping your best player on your team.” Coach’s eyebrows rise and his chewing picks up in pace.
“My family is being evicted,” Cory blurts. “Well, technically not evicted as we aren’t renting, but we’re being foreclosed on. I was thinking of contacting Montreal and heading up north early, if they’d have me, that is. Just to earn the money to buy Mom’s house back from the bank, or find her another.”
“So I offered them my apartment,” I finish. “I’ve been trying to sell it for some time. It’s sitting empty. Has three bedrooms. Seemed like the perfect solution.”
Nodding, Coach’s eye roams between us. “It’s a very generous offer indeed. I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“We’ve become friendly.” It’s a version of the truth. The only one I’m free to give anyway. “We’re both complete dorks at heart and I guess we kind of bonded.”
