He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. “You used to be friends with them, once.”
“Not really,” I say bitterly.
“You always hung around with them behind my back.”
“If you knew about it, it wasn’t behind your back.”
“Only because you can’t lie, and because I have eyes in the back of my head.”
Okay, Dad. I’ll let you believe that.
“Well, I’ve accepted it now, so you need to keep out of this. Okay?”
Dad lifts his hands in defence.
“And don’t do anything. No jokes, no following me. No intimidating or threatening anyone.”
“Me?” he asks, falsely innocent. “When have I ever done anything like that?” He says goodbye and heads back downstairs. He slams the door behind him, and I let myself crumble onto the sofa.
Okay, so I live with my father. Well, actually, I live upstairs: a few years ago, Dad split the two floors apart; to give me some privacy, he said, but I know that he really did it in the hope that I’d stay. I have an outside entrance that leads straight up to my apartment; a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom and a bedroom. There’s nothing missing, really – apart from my independence, which it’ll take a few years to gain. Especially if they keep reducing my hours at the hospital.
My parents split up when I was four; I don’t have any memories of the three of us living together. For me, it’s always just been the two of us. Dad’s never really got over the divorce – he threw himself into his work and dedicated himself to me instead, giving up on the idea of ever finding someone. And we were happy like that, despite his overbearing, controlling parenting style. We were a team, united and unbreakable: we helped each other out, gave each other strength, and overcame some difficult moments together, thanks to our closeness. Up until a few months ago, I never would’ve thought of leaving, but I get the impression that neither of us will be off anytime soon. I’ll never grow out of this lifestyle, and he’ll keep using my living here as an excuse not to get on with his own life.
He worked hard, and he’s been alone for so long. But now it’s time for him to live again, to start putting himself first, just like he should. Just as I should concentrate on my own life, and my future.
11
Nick
Islump down onto the bottom step of the bleachers miserably, watching my uncoordinated students attempt to play rugby. How can they still not know how to catch a ball at their age?
“Oh, come on!” I jump to my feet as Corey trips over for the thousandth time. He’s top of the class for science and maths, but right at the bottom of the league for any outdoor activity that requires even a little physical effort.
I sit back down, exhausted, with a banging headache, when I hear a few laughs behind me. Maybe it’s just my imagination: if I ignore them, they might go away. I shout at the kids, growing redder by the second, jumping up and sitting down over and over. I mutter a series of swear words through my teeth – it doesn’t seem right to shout them at the kids – when I hear the laughter again. I know that I’m not imagining things, just like I know that, unfortunately, they’re really there. But I keep trying to ignore them as long as possible – I’ll even play dead if I have to, before I kill them instead.
“Nick, Nick, Nick.”
I scoff as they come and sit either side of me. I feel like the loser stuck in the middle.
“We didn’t think you’d be so crap at this, too.”
I feel like I’ve lived through this conversation, this whole scene, before. Only this time, I’m on the other side of the fence – and it’s much less fun over here.
“Have they given you all the geeks because they have no hope?” Ryan asks.
“Maybe because they think I’ll be able to train them up.”
They both burst into such loud laughter that my lovely little geeks turn to watch us.
“Wait, wait… What’s that written on your hoodie?” Ian asks, pointing to the writing. “Coach?”
Another laugh, this time louder. The kids start to come over to us.
“Hey, kids,” Ryan says, getting to his feet. “What are you doing over here? Aren’t you supposed to be training?”
Some of them shrug, others ignore him. Well, at least they’ve worked out who to listen to around here.
“Can we take a break, coach?” one of them asks me.
