Chapter 7
Jack
The Incredible Power of Positive Thinking!
stares up at me from the top of the book pile in the bargain bin.
Pinching my lips together to keep from laughing, I pick it up and turn it over to read the blurb.
It’s shabby—the edges curled with age and pages stained.
Apparently, this book has provided positive thoughts to a lot of people.
I set it to the side, using it to start my pile of keep books.
If positive thinking is good enough for Desmond, it’s good enough for me.
My keep pile is dismally small when I head to the counter to check out.
I’ll probably have all of these read in the next two days.
I think about Desmond’s suggestion to go to the library instead, and consider making the trek right now.
I probably shouldn’t, though, because eight extra miles is a lot to walk.
I still need to do my meditation and muscle-relaxation practice before our game, too.
It’ll just have to be a week where I reread books, that’s all.
I text back and forth with Nate as I walk back to campus, checking behind myself every couple of minutes, hoping that Desmond will drive up again.
He doesn’t, which is a bummer, but probably for the best. Crushes on coaches is bad.
Wanting to spend more time at a coach’s apartment is bad.
Imagining scenarios where the coach is unclothed is really bad.
When I get back to my dorm, I dutifully complete the simple meditation Desmond taught me, which I don’t particularly enjoy, and also the muscle-relaxation technique which I do.
I’m not sure whether either one is helping or not, but since it’s only been a couple weeks, I probably shouldn’t give up on it just yet.
So far, I still hate playing hockey. I still suck, and I still know I suck.
I’ll keep trying, though, because I can’t get any worse and Desmond is only trying to help. Maybe a miracle will occur.
Tonight is Nate’s first game back in the lineup, and I can hear his voice in the hallway even before I open the door.
I smile, no matter that my palms are already sweaty and my stomach hurts.
Nate is back. I prefer having him on the ice with me, even if it doesn’t necessarily help me play better.
But maybe tonight is the night that meditation, relaxation, and Nate all combine to give me an epic game.
Maybe I’ll stop every single shot, and get a shutout. Maybe we’ll win.
We lose. We lose epically, in fact, because I was the starter and let in four goals before the first period was even halfway through.
I thought nothing could make me feel worse than skating toward the bench after being pulled, but then Coach Mackenzie put his hand on my shoulder and didn’t yell at me, and I realized I could feel worse.
A lot worse, in fact, because apparently the cruelest thing someone can do when you feel like shit is be nice to you.
It’s hell, sitting in the locker room with my exhausted teammates, knowing I’m the reason everyone will have an awful season; wondering if they hate me, and knowing they should.
The next morning, I get up early despite not having to go to work at the public rink until nine.
We open earlier on Sundays, and because I don’t have a game tonight, I volunteered to cover it and give our usual weekend staff a break.
After showering and shaving the three facial hairs I’m able to grow, I try to do my meditation.
I give it five solid minutes before I give up and move on to the muscle relaxation, because that’s a hell of a lot easier.
I don’t understand how meditation could possibly work for people.
If I knew how to turn my thoughts off, I’d just do it all the time.
Because Desmond has been on me all season to stretch more, I also do a half-hearted eight minutes of that before I can’t take it anymore.
Crawling back onto my bed, I bypass the positive-thinking book and grab the how-to book on building roller coasters.
Fuck positive thinking, the only thing that will help me right now is engineering information I have no use for.
When I walk into work two hours later, I’ve got the roller-coaster book tucked into my pocket for when things are quiet.
Ron, the owner, is back in his office, so I stop and make the obligatory small talk.
I blush and stammer like an idiot, because he makes me nervous for no other reason than that he’s my boss and an older man.
The rink is ridiculously slow, even for a Sunday.
I’m sent home early, which sort of sucks because I don’t have enough new books to fill an entire afternoon, and now I don’t have the money to buy more.
Leaving the rink, I’m momentarily blinded by the sun just long enough for me to run into someone .
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I apologize, grabbing them and squinting my eyes.
Desmond smiles at me, literally glowing in the sunlight with his tan skin and brown curls and freckly nose.
Okay, so maybe positive thinking does work a little bit, because nothing else could explain how I’ve spent all morning thinking about him and here he is.
I blush, because I’m still me even though I’m happy to see him.
“Hey, Jacko,” he greets me. Realizing I’m still holding his shoulders, I drop my hands, even though what I want to do is pull him into a hug; bury my nose in his curls; maybe see if I can figure out what kind of shampoo he uses.
“G’day, mate!” Parker chimes in from Desmond’s side, in the most ridiculous affectation of an Australian accent I’ve ever heard. “Just another day on the Outback. Glad I got me thongs and sunnies.”
Desmond snorts and shakes his head, holding up six fingers.
“Not bad, but I’m taking off points for the thongs and sunnies. Should have stopped while you were ahead.”
“Whatever, I said it exactly the way you do. It was good, right, Jack?” Parker asks me.
“It was good,” I confirm. “But Desmond is the one who lived there, so he might know better than me.”
“Ha!” Desmond exclaims, winking at me when Parker groans dramatically.
“Whatever,” he repeats. “Do you work here? Are you leaving? What are you going to do now?”
“Give the man a second,” Desmond mutters gesturing us off to the side so we’re no longer standing in front of the door. Parker peers up at me, waiting.
“Uhm, yeah, I work here. And I’m done for the day. ”
His face brightens visibly. “Do you want to come to lunch with us? We were going to get Subway and eat it in the park and maybe throw the frisbee, because Desmond thinks I don’t go outside or run around enough.”
“Neither of us go outside or exercise enough is what I actually said,” Desmond corrects, before looking at me and raising his eyebrows. “Well? Sound like your type of fun for a Sunday afternoon? Open invitation.”
I look between them, and run a hand nervously down the front of my work shirt.
They look so much alike, it’s a little unnerving.
The same pretty eyes and curly brown hair.
This close, I can see the similarities even in the shapes of their faces.
The only difference between them is the lack of freckles or a tan on Parker, although I wonder if more time outside would produce both.
Desmond’s sister must have been a spitting image of him.
“Uhm,” I start, forgetting for a second what the question was. “Sure?”
“Are you asking or telling?” Desmond clarifies, one corner of his mouth lifted in a playful smirk.
“I’ll come. If you’re sure? I don’t want to intrude on?—”
“Please come,” Parker interrupts, widening his eyes at me. “Please save me from an afternoon alone with Desmond playing frisbee .”
“Awesome,” Desmond deadpans, which makes me laugh.
Suddenly, my ordinary, and somewhat lonely, afternoon is looking up.
I probably shouldn’t be spending money on Subway when I don’t get paid for another three days and my workday was just cut short, but I can get the cheapest thing on the menu and that will be okay.
It’s all right to treat myself every now and then, I decide, while looking at Desmond who is more of a treat than Subway will ever be .
“I’ll come,” I tell them decisively and Parker smiles wide enough that I can see several crooked teeth crowded into his small mouth.
“Sweet,” he says, and we set off walking down the sidewalk.
Desmond is near the street, walking with his hands in the front pockets of his shorts.
Every now and then he tips his head back, as though trying to get more of the sun on his face.
Parker is between us, messing with the frisbee, and I have a momentary feeling of unreality as I realize how much like a family we probably look.
There’s a line at Subway, everyone apparently deciding they want a sandwich more than they wanted to ice-skate today.
Desmond waves Parker forward to order first, and smiles down at his feet when the kid asks for a foot-long sandwich.
I step behind him so that him and Parker can order together, but he shakes his head and nudges me forward with a hand on my shoulder.
My face burns when I realize he’s trying to pay for mine without saying the words out loud.
“I can get my own,” I tell him weakly.
“Don’t worry about it, Bluey. What’ll it be? Same thing as Parker? We can see who’s able to pack away more food—the hockey player or the kid.”
“My money would be on the kid,” I admit, making him laugh. He turns to the guy waiting to take our order.
“Foot-long for him, too,” he tells him, before nudging me toward the counter to finish.
When I join Parker at the condiments section, he’s carefully instructing the woman prepping his sandwich on the amount of pickles he wants. Which, if the empty container behind the glass is anything to go by, it’s all of the pickles.