Prologue #2
She laughs and throws her hands up, before spinning away and pacing across the room. It’s the same way she’d react when we were kids, slightly hysterical and over-the-top. I have the sudden, insane urge to call my sister and laugh about it.
“I found an apartment in the same district Parker goes to school in,” I say quietly. I am so incredibly tired. “I also reached out to the head?—”
“When?” Mum demands. “When did you do this? You’ve been here for two days!”
I continue on as though she didn’t interrupt, “—coach of the university hockey team. They have a job posting for a supporting coaching position. I have a meeting scheduled later today.”
This time, the noise she makes could only be interpreted as a growl. She points at William Jost, who stares at her impassively.
“I will not stand for this,” she tells him. Threatens him, really, although he doesn’t look like he cares all that much.
“Mr. Gates’ fitness as a parent will be determined by a court of law,” he replies firmly. “Until then, you have no choice.”
Leaving Jost Family Law feels like I’ve just been pardoned from death row.
I’ve been here so much over the past couple of days, the hotel room I booked seems like a waste.
Behind me, Mum leaves the office and strides purposely down the footpath, heels clicking on the pavement.
She doesn’t even glance my direction. Dad trails a few paces behind her, hands in his pockets and shoulders curled inward.
He looks at me and away quickly, as though I’m a stranger.
Dad is such a limp noodle, Victoria used to say. One day we’re probably going to find out he’s a serial killer or something. He probably murders women that look like Mum when he’s away on work trips.
She could never quite figure out how to navigate a conversation without dropping something inappropriate into the mix, and I loved it. She always felt like the only real person I’d ever talked to. Or will ever talk to again, apparently.
“Oh, Vic,” I whisper, staring at the retreating backs of our parents. “What the hell were you thinking?”
A car pulls up to the curb, and a pimply-faced man rolls down the passenger window.
“Uh, you Desmond?” he asks.
“That’s me.” I climb into the back seat and immediately rest my head back, closing my eyes. I cannot make small talk with a teenager who barely looks old enough to drive, let alone have a job.
When we get to the hotel, I ask him to wait as I sprint upstairs to my room and change into my suit.
I barely remember to bite the tags off before I shrug it on, checking my appearance in the mirror.
It’s ill-fitting, which comes as no surprise since I bought it yesterday off the rack.
Unfortunately, there is no other option.
Hopefully, Nico Mackenzie isn’t able to spot the difference between a J.Crew and an Armani.
I barely notice the scenery as we drive through South Carolina University’s campus, gazing sightlessly out the window at passing buildings.
I need to be preparing for this interview, or at the very least, taking a quick nap.
Tomorrow, Parker will be handed off to me, though, and it’s hard to think of anything beyond that.
Worry chews at my insides, and my mind whirls uselessly around like an anxiety-ridden spinning top.
“Thank you,” I mutter to my driver when he pulls to a stop in front of the hockey complex. Looking up at the building, my already untrustworthy stomach sloshes dangerously. I am incredibly ill-prepared for this.
Two young men walk out of the building as I approach. One steps to the side, holding the door for me.
“Are you going in?” he asks, in a soft German accent.
“Yes.” I clear my throat and try to smile. “Thanks, bud.”
He smiles and nods at me as I pass. I glance back to watch him and his buddy go—both very obviously athletes, and likely members of the team I’m interviewing for.
I should know their names and faces and positions.
I should know every single stat about them, and be able to rattle them off at the drop of a hat.
I am, I realize, going to completely bomb this bloody interview.
Nico Mackenzie’s office is easy enough to find. Pausing outside the door, I close my eyes and take a few measured breaths. Wish me luck, Vic , I think desperately. I’m going to need it.
“Coach Mackenzie?” I ask, knocking lightly on the doorframe and stepping into view. A man looks up, and squints at me. “I’m here for the three o’clock meeting. Desmond Gates.”
“Come in,” he replies, rising to standing and holding out his hand. I step forward to shake it, smoothing the other hand nervously down the front of my shitty suit. “Thank you for coming.”
“I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice.”
He waves this away, and gestures at the chair in front of his desk. The other desk is empty, although there is enough detritus littering the top that I imagine it’s usually occupied. Looking back over at Nico Mackenzie, I find his eyes already on me.
“We don’t have many people from Australia applying for jobs here,” he says, which nearly makes me laugh.
Victoria would have—snorting and trotting out a ridiculously overdone accent.
Not now, Vic , I urge her silently in my head.
There is no way I will get this job if I start sobbing in this man’s office.
“No, sir. I…I had a family emergency, and will be relocating to the States.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you originally from South Carolina, then?”
“Indiana, if you can believe it.” I try to smile again, but my face doesn’t seem to belong to me anymore. I am nothing more than a pale copy of the person I was a week ago. “My dad was hired by a global software company based in Australia when I was a baby. I spent all of my childhood there.”
“A chameleon, then,” he says, and Victoria’s ghost laughs again.
“Yes, sir. I never lost the accent, even after we moved back to the States.”
“And you went back overseas after college?” he clarifies.
I nod. I’ll never forget the way it felt, stepping off that airplane and knowing a future I’d chosen was stretching out in front of me.
Returning to Australia had felt like picking up an old, favorite pair of jeans and slipping them on to find they still fit perfectly. Australia had always been home to me.
“Yes, sir,” I agree, but don’t expand further. If I leave this interview without breaking down, it will truly be a miracle.
“I have to admit ignorance to the ice hockey leagues in Australia. You were a part of the”—he glances at his computer, eyes narrowing further—“AJIHL?”
“The junior league,” I agree. “I’m an—was, an assistant coach.”
“You must have been hired quite young. That’s impressive.”
Internally, I flinch. By North American standards, he’s right. I’m twenty-nine years old now and was hired when I was fresh from college. Here, coaching staff often have to have years of experience to even be considered.
“To be honest, sir, ice hockey isn’t exactly a lucrative sport in Australia. It’s getting there, but tennis, footy, and rugby are where the money and popularity are at. I was hired fresh from college—an American one, at that—and it’s entirely possible that I was the only applicant.”
His lips twitch as though he wants to smile. He nods and glances back at his computer, where I assume my résumé is pulled up. My painfully bare résumé. Seven years of experience in the league, with no movement. He’s probably wondering how many times I applied for a promotion and was denied.
“I was happy where I was, sir,” I tell him, before he can ask.
His sharp hazel eyes find mine again. “I like strategy, and performance data. I like reviewing hours of video, and coming up with a game plan. I find that head coaching positions have to focus more on the big picture, where an assistant is able to specialize.”
“And where would you say your specialty lies?” he asks. I force a smile. This is very likely the moment he’s going to decide I’m not the right man for this job.
“I didn’t grow up playing hockey, sir. Not in the capacity that you did, nor most of the professional coaches in the North American leagues. I played for a club team, and it was the kind of team that rotated the players to every position, if you know what I mean.”
He chuckles a bit, nodding.
“A Stanley Cup ring isn’t a requirement of the job,” he says, kindly enough that my throat burns. Anyone being nice to me these last couple of days has run the risk of making me cry.
“I can skate around, set up drills, and blow a whistle just fine. But the grunt work off the ice is what I’m truly good for.”
“All right.” He sits forward, and spins his computer screen so I can see it. A game is pulled up, paused mid-play. He clicks the mouse. “Tell me what you see.”
I stop trying so hard, and let myself relax into the familiarity of talking hockey. For his part, Nico Mackenzie mostly sits and listens quietly, every now and then reaching a long finger out to point at the screen.
“Can I use a piece of paper?” I ask at one point, bending over the end of his desk where I’ve scooted my chair up.
I sketch out a quick drawing of a rink, adding the circles and lines that only someone in our business would understand.
“I usually prefer a two-one-two defensive system, but with what you’re working with, I feel like you could make a strong case for a one-two-two system.
Particularly if you use that kid”—I point at the screen—“as your point defender.”
I get another small smile from that, and he nods. “Goaltending is where we are lacking,” he adds.
I haven’t prepared enough for this interview to have any opinion on that. My mood plummets again. As enjoyable of a distraction as this has been, this is still an interview and I am still failing. Noting my silence, he continues.
“My first year coaching the team, my starting tender was aggressive and we fostered that style of play. He was—is—an incredible player. My current netminder prefers playing deep.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing. I know several NHL goalies prefer defending deep because they are always square. Longer reaction window, too, I suppose,” I add, mind sorting through how many active goaltenders play that style.
“I agree. Unfortunately, it’s not a style preference for Micky as much as it is timidity and lack of confidence.”
“Ah.” I grimace internally. That might be difficult to train out of someone at this age and skill level.
“But he has the talent. He only needs to trust it.” Coach Mackenzie sighs a little bit, rubbing a finger into his temple and sitting back in his seat. I glance at the watch on my wrist and am surprised to find that I’ve been here nearly two hours.
“You have a game tomorrow, sir?” I ask.
“Yes. Which brings me to my next question: if you were to come work for me, when could you start?”
I open my mouth to tell him tomorrow, as soon as possible, but swallow the words back.
I can’t start tomorrow. I need to get the apartment set up, and Parker moved in.
I need to put Victoria’s house on the market.
I need to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my things in Australia. I need to go to my sister’s funeral.
“I…I don’t know, sir,” I admit. Tell him about your dead sister, Vic whispers in my ear. Go on , pity might get you the job. I clear my throat. “There are some things I need to take care of. Moving and…and planning a funeral.”
He nods slowly, eyes on mine. “Would it be a fair assumption that you couldn’t start until the next season? End of July, beginning of August? ”
“Probably,” I agree, knowing that there is no way I could give this team the attention they deserve right now.
“Okay. Well, I have a few friends who can help out in the interim—truthfully, I haven’t been particularly proactive in looking for a new AC, so we can continue to manage as is. I think you’ll be a good fit for the team.”
“Are you—what?”
“You’ll receive a formal job offer in a few days.”
“I—well, thank you, sir. Thank you. Are you sure, though?”
He makes a soft huffing sound as he stands that I tentatively identify as a laugh. I rise as well, waiting for him to join me on this side of the desk.
“Yes, I’m sure. As I said, I think you’ll be a good fit with the team. And I think it might help to have someone a little closer in age to the boys on the payroll.”
I laugh. “You’re not that old, sir. And I’m not that young.”
“You can just call me Nico. And I am old enough to know that you are still young,” he says sternly, which somehow startles another laugh from me.
“All right. You win.” He sends me a look out of the corner of his eye as we leave the office. “I’ll apologize in advance about the Aussie slang. I’ll try to tone it down.”
“Oh, I imagine it’s going to make you quite popular with the boys,” Nico says dryly. “I hope you don’t get offended easily. All of them, with the exception of Vas, will be mimicking you, I guarantee it.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder and angles his head downward, eyes squinted shut as we walk outside. The sun, slanting over the tops of the buildings, is blinding.
“Thank you again. Really. I appreciate you taking the chance. ”
“I’ll be in touch,” he replies, squeezing my shoulder before dropping his hand.
He heads back inside, leaving me to meander down the busy footpaths.
The grass is littered with college students, some lazing about and enjoying the sun, others studying.
A handful are kicking a soccer ball back and forth like a hacky sack.
They look so happy, and content; for just a moment I forget that I’m not.