“Thank you,” she whispered against my chest. I didn’t ask what for, just held her tighter, my hand stroking through her hair, my body a bulwark between her and the world for as long as she needed me to be.
47
TRISTAN
Morning practice was hell.The team was still reeling from the losses to the Hawks, and then Eva’s accident, and then Alek’s resignation, and now, Cole had quit too.
Coach Caruso skated over to me when I fumbled the puck, the silence from the team telling me I’d fucked up. Again. “You okay?”
I laughed quietly, bitterly. “Does it matter?”
“Do you still want to go to the championship this year?” he asked me, skating beside me as I lined up a row of pucks to keep practicing.
I stopped and pulled out my mouthguard. “Yes, of course I fucking do. Don’t we all?”
“And do you think we’re so weak a team that we can’t do it without Mr. Carter?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled, puffing my cheeks out as I watched the rest of the team practice.
“Coach Novikov tells me that out of every player on this team, you’ve got the most potential. Dr. Parker tells me you’re the heart of the team. The other players are flashier, but you show up every day and put in work.”
My eyes flicked to his. She’d said that? Fuck.
“Give her a call,” he murmured, “and get your head screwed on straight.”
The rest of practice was better—not great, but better. We were a mess, but Coach Caruso took the time to speak with each of us, firmly and kindly. His style was nothing like Alek’s, but maybe that was what we needed right now.
As I skated off the ice, he shouted out to me, “I’ll check to make sure you made that call at tomorrow’s workouts.” Where I would see Dr. Parker anyway.
He was right, though.
Me
Dr. Parker? You have time for dinner this week?
Dr. Parker
Are you free tonight?
That evening, I pulled in front of her apartment building and paid for parking. The receptionist smiled and waved. “It’s been a while.”
Too long. I’d let my obsession—myobsessions—this semester get in the way of a relationship that meant the world to me.
I took the elevator up to Dr. Parker’s apartment, fidgeting nervously, embarrassed I’d ignored my mentor, a woman who’d practically adopted me my freshman year, when I was the only Black player on the team.
She answered only a moment after I knocked, and her warm smile made me feel even worse. “Come in, come in,” she said.
Dr. Parker pulled me in for a hug then drew back, her arms on my biceps, and searched my face.
“Tristan, how are you?”
Instead of answering, I kicked my shoes off out of habit then followed her into the warm interior of the apartment. She’d filled it with art and soft fabrics, a dramatic contrast to her brisk, businesslike attitude when she was working.
“Tristan,” Dr. Parker said, her voice turning more firm, “how are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I said with a bright smile.
“Come help me make a salad,” she said, handing me a cucumber and a knife. “I’ve got a lasagna in the oven.”
