Chapter 13
Thirteen
Brody
We’re already ten minutes late and he’s not answering his phone. My dad said he would do this volunteer event with me, didn’t
he? Technically, he replied to my request by saying, “We need all the good press we can get.” That better count because Olivia
is counting on us. He’s got five more minutes before I call again.
I open my text messages to make sure I’m at the right location. Olivia’s directions sent me to the St. Paul Public Library.
Parked on the curb out front, I roll my tinted window down. The old brick building is staggering and hard to miss with its
grandiose archway entrance. There must be an outdoor rink around back, and I’m guessing the follow-up fan Q he’s on the other side of the country. The disappointment
hollows me. I know better and for that reason it’s me I’m most disappointed in. It was foolish of me to have thought this
could be something I helped him with. Something positive to come from us working together. A reminder why I don’t bother.
I pop my trunk and dig around. My old gym bag from summer training is still jammed in the back corner. There’s an old pair
of skates and gloves tucked inside; they’ll do. Ever since the equipment guys messed up on my custom stick order, I’ve stuck
with the accidental lower flex. That happy accident is why I have a few of my old ones stashed in my car. I grab one. Olivia
said today would be educational, and someone is going to help teach these kids the hockey basics.
There’s no time to linger in disappointment; Olivia is going to think I’m standing her up.
I think of her face—I press my eyes closed and picture it.
As the image of her gets sharper, the one of my father disintegrates from my memory.
With distance, there is safety. With her, there’s added protection.
After a couple deep breaths, I’m ready to put on an impressive Parker legacy performance for little hockey fans all afternoon.
I spot Olivia near the front desk. She’s friendly with the guy behind it. The way she’s leaning over the desk into him jerks
my jealousy on impulse. He has soft mousy-brown curls that make me miss my old hair. He seems like the type of guy to go out
of his way to hold the door open for you. Is that the type of guy Olivia likes, the type to wear a lanyard decorated in enamel
pins around his neck? Disappointment sinks in as I realize I’m acting like my dad again. I push the impulsive bravado out
of my mind and approach.
Olivia’s face lights up when she spots me. Her smile is contagious. She jogs over to me with earnest excitement that bounces
through her body. My moment of weakness passes and I don’t feel so much like my dad anymore.
“Where’s Erik?” She searches behind me.
“About that.” I set my gear down on a table near the front entrance.
Her face falls. “Oh, no.”
Nervously, I rake my hand up the back of my head. My hair is slowly growing out, and as it does, our team continues to find
their footing. “It’s all my fault. I accidentally told him the wrong date.” Anything for the Parker legacy, even at the expense
of my dignity. I reach for her, rubbing her bare arm. “But don’t worry. I’ve got this on my own. Whatever you need, I’m here
for you today.”
The creases in her forehead deepen. Is she going to cry? Before any tears spill, she strokes her chin. “The public will know
he bailed on this event last minute,” she says, deep in thought.
“And I’ll tell everyone that it was my mistake and that my dad’s donating twenty-five thousand to whatever charity today benefits.
” I said my dad was donating, but it’s my money and time that’s being offered up today.
And it’s the only part of today that I don’t feel horrible about.
I squeeze my clammy fists, really hoping to make lemonade from these lemons my dad threw at me.
I can’t decipher the expression on Olivia’s face; I’ve never seen her make it before.
Olivia’s friend loudly clears his throat. We both turn to find him approaching eagerly.
“Oh!” Olivia composes herself. “This is my cousin Carter,” she says.
I reach out to shake his hand and he lunges to grab mine.
“Oh, my Austin,” Carter gasps. “It’s Brody Parker, in the hot flesh. His hand engulfs mine. The firm shake ascends up my arm—radiating
into my shoulder. Dare I be the first to let go or should we stay hand in hand marinating in each other’s presence a little
while longer? Would it be a crime to linger?” he continues all in one breath. One hand is palm down, pressed into his chest,
while the other is holding mine hostage.
Turning to Olivia, I ask, “Is he going to narrate this entire thing?” Overzealous fans are nothing new, but I like to be prepared.
“Carter, drop the purple prose,” Olivia says sternly, giving him the side-eye. We all laugh, and for the first time today,
I feel like I’m right where I should be.
“Sorry. We don’t get many celebrities at the library, besides Stephen Queen.” Carter leans in and whispers, “That’s my drag
name. Not my first choice but Margaret Gotwood caused too much controversy.” He rolls his eyes.
“First Friday of every month is the drag queen readings,” Olivia interrupts.
“Cool.” I look down at my hand, which is still in Carter’s grip. “We’re still holding hands,” I say.
“It’s kinda nice. Your hands are soft,” he says, looking over to Olivia, who nods in agreement.
“There’s a communal bottle of CeraVe in the locker room.” I tug my hand back and stick it in my pocket for safekeeping.
“What’s all this?” Carter points to my gear on the table. “Raffle items for the library?”
“Sure, I guess,” I say, looking back at them. No real loss to me. I get as much free hockey equipment as I need. My gaping
mouth is more a result of my confusion. Won’t I need them?
“It’s just Brody today,” Olivia says curtly. Evading my gaze, she fidgets with her necklace. If she only knew the disappointment
was mutual.
“Just Brody?” Carter snaps. “Olivia, watch your mouth. He’s the main character.”
“Then we should show him to his stage,” she says.
Stage?
Olivia tilts her head toward the small stage at the back of the library. There’s a wooden platform and podium tucked in the
corner surrounded by plastic chairs. I try to count them all, but I get to about twenty before I’m interrupted.
Carter wiggles his fingers for us to follow. “The original plan was to have your dad discuss the process of writing an autobiography
with graduate students from St. Paul University’s creative writing program,” Carter explains.
Maybe it’s a good thing my dad bailed today—he didn’t write a word of his bestselling autobiography, Parker Perfection.
“Since your dad can’t make it today, you’ll handle the event solo. You’ve read the book, right?” he asks as he leads us through
the library toward the stage.
“You want me to talk about my dad’s autobiography?” Now that’s something my dad and I actually have in common: I too never read a word of its lies. I wedged the signed copy he sent me under my wobbling patio table and tried to forget about the chapter he “wrote” on fatherhood.
“Ideally, unless there’s another book you’d prefer to discuss,” Carter says, taken aback by my resistance.
“These students, are they big hockey fans?” I ask, taking extra-long strides to keep up with his enthusiastic strut.
Carter laughs. “You’re funny.”
It was no joke. Still, I smile politely.
“They’re liberal arts majors, so unless there was a Lorde concert during an intermission, they don’t care much about men’s
hockey. They’re more interested in the craft,” Carter explains.
“Are some of the students film majors?” I ask, pointing to the extensive camera setup across the room.
“Didn’t Olivia tell you? The library is streaming this live on all social media channels. We even got the local news station
to pick it up.” Carter walks up to the podium and fastens a microphone into the stand. Three thumps echo through the library’s
PA system as he taps his pointer finger against the microphone.
“Live streamed?” I interrupt his mic check. There’s that twist in my gut again. I’m out of place. I haven’t had an assignment
since high school—back when I was handing in absence slips every other day for out-of-state hockey tournaments. “There’s no
way. I’ll get stage fright,” I panic.
Carter laughs, which only makes my eyes bulge more. “Are you messing with me right now?” Carter snaps.
We both turn to Olivia. Her breath catches as she asks, “Is that okay, Brody? I know it’s a big ask, but I believe in you.
You can pick any book—hockey players are notorious bookworms. Slap shots and reading kind of go hand in hand.
” Her words are riddled with doubt; even she doesn’t believe herself.
She runs her hand down my forearm. As her fingers tickle from my shoulder to the innards of my wrist, I get goose bumps.
I pull away. “They absolutely do not. Who told you that?”
“You can’t bail too,” Carter pleads. “We already promoted it online and the students will be here soon.”
The last thing I need is a rumor going around that I lack integrity or that I’m some himbo. My dad would kill me if I was
at the center of bad press for our family. How did Olivia know I love to read? It’s not something I advertise on my social