“That’s not–” I start, but he interrupts me the next moment, a grin tugging on his lips.
“But he had a hard time getting rid of his accent when we moved here,” Nate adds.
“Hey, that’s not true!” I object, knowing full well he’s right. Even though I was raised bilingual and also learned English in Dutch kindergarten, it took me years to speak accent-free. The rhythm of the Dutch language comes much easier to me.
“Oh, I remember that,” Dad adds, chuckling fondly and ruffling my hair on his way to the couch. “You struggled with your Vs and Fs.”
I raise my brows at him when the two sounds are exactly the same coming out of his mouth.
“The kids were quite mean about it.”
“They were just jealous assholes because I was a better skater than them.” I roll my eyes as I get up from my place on the floor.
“Want another?” I hold my hand out for Hart’s bowl. There’s a bit of sugar clinging to his bottom lip, and my fingers itch with the need to brush it off.
Instead of answering my question, he tilts his head at me, his unnerving eyes considering me for a moment before he nods.
I feel his gaze following me all the way to the kitchen as Nate happily recounts how he used to recite poems for me in English class.
Nicko, December 19th
“Susan just called; Greg had a hard fall while skating.”
I look up from where I’ve been scrolling through a hockey news site, messing up my own mood by searching for any mentions of myself. It’s just been announced that the speculations about the Rebels’ negotiations with Autin were nothing but hot air. I should feel relieved, but the comment section is full of unhappy fans discussing how the Rebels’ offensive line is a weak-linked chain. My name is dropped a few times, together with my injury and the slow start to my season, so I fully expect the Rebels to go looking at other trade options.
“Fuck,” I breathe as my mom’s words register with me, sitting up on the couch. “Is he okay?”
Susan and Greg are the elderly neighbors of my parents. Every winter, as soon as the pond in the nearby park freezes over, Greg is the first on the ice, claiming he needs to make sure it’s safe for the kids. Despite his age, he never passes up an opportunity to play.
“I don’t know yet, but he’ll have to get checked at the hospital,” mom sighs, and I’m already out of my seat.
“I’ll drive,” I offer, but she shakes her head.
“No, Nicko. Susan asked if you could look after Coach in the meantime, maybe take him for a walk? Nate, you’ll need to help me get Greg to the hospital.”
“Me?” my brother shrieks, and I bite back a laugh at the sight of his face, which has my mom throwing up her hands.
“Yes, you. Unless you want to walk Coach?”
“No! No, no, it’s fine. But I won’t drive that monster truck of yours!”
“Like I’d let you behind the wheel,” mom grumbles as she hurries out of the living room.
A few minutes later, the door falls closed behind them, leaving Hart and me to sit in silence.
I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, grimacing. Dad took off to the studio half an hour ago to record a Christmas special for the podcast, so I’m stuck here with Hart for the rest of the afternoon.
“Want to walk Coach with me?” I offer reluctantly, which earns me a confused look.
“Walk...Coach? What coach?”
“It’s our neighbors’ dog,” I explain with a small grin.
“Your neighbors named their dogCoach?”
“Yup. Greg still coached the defensive line in a hockey camp when they got him as a pup. Every time someone called out for him, he perked up. Eventually they just went along with it.”
“That explains Nate’s reaction,” Hart reasons with a slow nod.
