"You just did."
"Such a joker." He rolls his eyes. "But seriously, how…umm…how are your parents able to support your music?"
"Oh," not the question I was expecting. "We have our ways."
"How so?"
"My mom streams my shows when she can and I think she just loves the fact I’m on stage. My dad is a quieter, I guess more even keeled guy but he watches too."
"But like, you don’t call them on the phone do you?"
I shrug. "Facetimes every once in a while but no, usually we text."
"That makes sense."
"It works for us. But," I let out an exhale, debating if I continue admitting too much to Duncan. "Nevermind."
"No, what is it?"
"Just, sometimes, I feel like a bad son for excelling at something they can’t partake in."
Duncan keeps his focus on my hands but I look up across the room afraid to see any change in expression on his face.
"Too bad you can’t bash an opponent's face in when you’re feeling bad about yourself." Duncan says after a few beats. "That’s what I do and it works every time. Have you tried it?"
"What? Punching someone?"
"Yeah, but like in the middle of a game when your adrenaline is already running on full blast and you could be pissed about something else completely but that guy's face just looks punchable so you drop the gloves."
"No, I have not been in that situation."
"Shame. You should."
"I’ll keep that in mind." A smile lifts my lips and he flashes a quick glance up at me. "What about your parents, do they come to a lot of games?"
"A few a year. My parents are semi-retired now and spend half the winter in Arizona."
"Not exactly a hockey town."
"Not quite." He smiles. "My dad got into the sport as I got into it. He never played but he also never complained about going out to the driveway to mess around with me while mom made dinner."
I think back to his family’s boisterous interactions in Granny’s little cottage. "Did you visit Scotland a lot?"
"Once a summer. Granny came over to Boston for one Christmas and complained the entire time about it being too cold." He laughs. "Like it wasn’t any warmer in Marreldir but she was convinced."
"What about Delilah, are you close?"
"Yeah, pretty close. She likes to complain about having to follow me around as a kid even though she was older but she was in marching band and the travel schedule wasn’t as rigorous."
"What did she play?"
"Tuba."
"No way." I laugh, picturing the petite woman as a teen lugging a gigantic brass instrument around.
Duncan reaches into his pocket. "Way. It’s ridiculous."
He swipes around and produces a photo of Delilah in full marching band regalia, her plumed hat propped on her head as she hugs her tuba. I can’t help it, I chuckle.
