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He holds the door for me, allowing me to step past him inside the plain locker room. I brush past him, getting a whiff of his skin in the process. He doesn’t smell bad like he should. He smells like a fresh mountain waterfall, which is really irritating. He should smell like B.O. or burning hair. Something horrible to match his grouchiness.
Taking a few steps inside the locker room I take in the large space lined with metal lockers and wooden benches in neat rows. I take a seat on the edge of one and Mitch follows suit, sitting on the bench next to mine.
“I want to explain what’s going on so you don’t yell at me in front of everyone… again.” He quirks one eyebrow, but his eyes are serious.
I cross my arms and raise my chin. “Okay.”
The grey shirt makes his hazel eyes look more brown today than when he’s in the navy blue coaching uniform. Not that I’m keeping track of which side of the hazel spectrum his eyes are on a daily basis.
He nervously runs one of those giant hands through his sweaty hair, drawing my focus to his tattoos again. There's a roaring tiger on his bicep, and I want to know the story behind it. Or maybe he’s one of those people who just gets tattoos he likes for little to no reason. Maybe he gets a tattoo every time he’s feeling grumpy… which would explain how many there are.
“Listen, you’re not completely wrong. I don’t know how to work with kids. Hell, I don’t even want to be here. But I have to be.”
“Well, at least you’re honest,” I say in a clipped tone. But his admission makes me feel a pinch of guilt. Nine months ago, I had no clue how to care for Noah, and thank goodness I didn’t have an audience watching all the mistakes I’ve made.
He clears his throat. “Anyway. The boys in our group are teasing Noah.” He pauses, looking at his sneakers. He takes a deep breath, obviously feeling uncomfortable. “They’re talking about you, mostly. Which really gets under his skin. And they know it.”
CHAPTER 8
MITCH
“What? I don’t understand why… or even why that would bother Noah.”
Noah’s mom looks genuinely surprised and confused. She obviously doesn’t realize how attractive she is, and how these pre-teen boys like to tease Noah about it. It’s the old Stacy’s mom thing. Except… Noah’s mom.
This whole conversation is really awkward. Dealing with parents is another reason not to work with kids. Thankfully, Aaron is speaking with Freckles’ mom, he said she can be a bit… challenging. Women.
I cock my head to the side to crack my neck, a bad habit I’ve had since I was a kid. When I look back at her, I notice she’s staring at my arms.
A rush of satisfaction pulses through my veins, making me feel a little hot. Thankfully, I’m already sweaty and gross, so she probably won’t notice.
I look away from her and continue explaining the situation, “That’s not what matters, really. Coach Aaron is already going to speak to the other parents. But the thing is, Noah’s temper is getting him into trouble.”
Her eyes widen. Maybe it’s a surprise to her that Noah has a temper. “Takes one to know one,” she mutters under her breath.
I glide my tongue along the front of my teeth, trying to calm myself. She’s not wrong, but she could keep her sass to herself for once. The mouth on this woman makes me want to bend her over my knee and… no, that’s not a good place for my thoughts to go.
I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “Noah has potential,” I admit reluctantly. She’s staring at me with those pursed lips and that irritated expression, and I’d like to haul the infuriating woman over my shoulder again just to wipe that look off her face. What is it about her that gets under my skin?
Closing my eyes, I get my thoughts back on track… again. “The thing is, Noah is more athletically talented than the other boys, which is probably the real reason they pick on him. But when I’m spending half of our time penalizing him for getting in fights, I can't help your son hone his skills on the ice.”
What I don’t say is that her son reminds me too much of myself. But seeing as the woman staring at me with those big brown eyes hates my guts, I’ll keep that bit to myself. But that suppressed anger that bubbles out of Noah at the worst moments? Yeah, case in point. And I’m not sure why, but I don’t want Noah to end up like me, still dealing with this pent-up anger at almost thirty years old.
“Noah is my brother, not my son,” she offers before swallowing. Her skin looks a little more pale than it did before, like she’s just realizing the extent of his powerful emotions and how they affect his everyday life and friendships. “He’s had a hard time since our parents died. I’m not trying to make excuses for him, but I’m out of ideas to help him.”
My stupid heart wars between aching for Noah that he lost his parents, and skipping a beat at the fact that she’s his sister, not his mom. That’s why she seems so young, because she is. Probably not much younger than myself. I can’t even imagine if I’d had a younger sibling to care for on top of everything else. Suddenly, her sassy quips and defiant armor make sense.
“I know I’m not your favorite person, but maybe I can help.”
Her face pinches and she scoffs. “You? What, are you going to brawl with each other and fight your anger out?”
I pin her with an annoyed expression that mirrors her own. “You talk too much.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t respond, just narrows her pretty eyes at me.
“If I worked with Noah one-on-one, we could focus on his hockey skills. And the extra ice time may even be good for his mental health.” I look down at my feet. “It helps mine.” I never usually talk this much, but sitting at home is driving me crazy. Sure, I have my practices with the team, and working out with my trainer, but without the games and the traveling, that feels like nothing. Maybe it’s selfish for me to offer this, like I’m using Noah as a distraction, an excuse for more ice time. But if it helps the kid, is that really so bad?
She just stares at me again, with that stunned expression that makes her brown eyes look like two shiny chocolates. I’m not really a sweets guy, but something about those eyes makes me think I could become one.
