“It’s granola,” Nate said.
“It’s gravel with branding.”
I leaned back in my chair and pinched the bridge of my nose. “What do you want?”
“Wow,” Owen said. “A man becomes an NHL head coach and forgets the little people.”
“You’re six-two.”
“Emotionally little.”
Nate snorted. “We watched your press conference.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“We’ve been busy preparing feedback,” Owen said. “First, you looked terrifying. Second, you blinked four times in nine minutes. Third, Mom says you need better lighting because you look like you sleep in a bunker.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t,” Nate said. “Dad wants to know if you’re eating enough.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“He said that’s not an answer.”
I looked at the sad chicken. “I’m eating.”
Owen made a noise. “That means protein out of a plastic coffin.”
“It had broccoli.”
“Jesus,” Nate said. “He’s feral.”
Tiny nosed my knee, then shoved his face toward the phone when Owen started making kissing sounds.
“There he is,” Owen crooned. “Tiny, buddy, blink twice if Declan is emotionally neglecting you.”
Tiny sneezed.
“Evidence,” Nate said.
Despite myself, I smiled. “You two done?”
“No,” Owen said. “How’s Denver? How’s the team? Any divas yet?”
“All NHL teams have divas. Some are just better at hiding it.”
“That’s coach talk for yes.”
I thought of Holloway arriving late, shoe untied, mouth running ahead of his judgment. Thought of him spotting the seam on the entry before half the room had processed the clip. Thought of the sharpness in his face when I asked if I could count on him.
“One or two,” I said.
“Don’t sound so excited,” Nate said.
“I’m not excited.”
Owen laughed. “That means he is. He gets that dead voice when he has a project.”
