Chapter 9 #2
“Actually, Parks, I do. So if you want to go to your grandparents’ that weekend, we can talk about it, but?—”
“Grandma said you wouldn’t let me,” he grumbles, face scrunched up in anger. “She said you’re selfish and you only care about yourself. She said you don’t want me to go there or have any fun.”
I suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting between them. Desmond’s cheeks color slightly. He looks like the words were a punch to the nose.
“That’s not true,” he says, voice soft and a little pained. I press back against the nearest wall, wishing I could fold myself into it and hide. “I do let you go over there, Parks. But I thought for your birthday?—"
“I hate you,” Parker says roughly, brushing past Desmond and striding out of the kitchen. “I hate you so much.”
A door slams a minute later, making me jump.
Heart thrumming, I push myself back hard against the wall and watch Desmond’s face.
He doesn’t look mad—more hurt than anything—but I know all too well how fast people’s emotions can change.
I know precisely what happens when you tell your dad you hate him.
Desmond stares in the direction Parker stormed off in, mouth turned down in a frown and expression sad.
It takes him a second to remember my presence, but unfortunately, I am far too big and brightly colored to remain invisible for long.
His eyes meet mine. My head feels foggy with lightheadedness.
I’ve never seen Desmond get mad at hockey practice before, and I’m cursing the fact that I’m about to see it in the privacy of his home, with no Nate beside me for safety.
“Sorry, Jack,” he says, abandoning the nickname he gave me, which makes me even more frightened. “I’ll talk to him later, once he cools down. You seem to have a knack of getting us on our worst days,” he jokes, but it’s weak and his smile doesn’t come close to meeting his eyes. He still looks sad.
“You’re not…” I pause, still keeping a close eye on his expression. Did he not hear what Parker said? “You’re not angry? You’re not going to yell at him for saying…”
Desmond’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at me, confusion replacing the sadness.
“Of course not,” he replies, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “What will yelling fix?”
I stare at him. The answer is nothing. Yelling fixes nothing. In fact, yelling only makes things worse, because yelling leads to hitting and an empty stomach and nights spent hiding behind the couch.
“You’re not mad?” I ask again, having a hard time thinking around the way my nervous system is alarming.
“No, I’m not mad,” Desmond says, confirming that he’s apparently some sort of super-parent who can remain calm when their kid tells them he hates him. “He’s nine, mate, and his life is in upheaval. He doesn’t actually hate me, he hates…well, the situation he’s in.”
“Oh.” Taking a careful step away from the wall, I reach for the chair I’d sat in last time. My hand is shaking. Desmond pulls out the one next to it, sitting down and scrubbing a hand over his still-sad face. I lower myself down more slowly, heart still beating too fast and legs shaky.
“He’s a good kid. He’s just going through a hard time,” he tells me, voice low and somewhat pleading, like he’s trying to convince me. “This isn’t the way things are all the time. This is a bad day.”
“I know, I just… Sorry.” My face heats and I look away from Desmond’s kind, steady brown eyes. Jesus Christ, what did I think was going to happen? That he was going to beat the shit out of Parker right in front of me? Ashamed of myself, I mumble another apology. “Sorry.”
“My mum would have yelled,” he says. “My mum loved to yell. My parents did a shit-poor job of raising me and Vic, but all those bad years are coming in handy now. I just do the opposite with Parks.”
I smile, and he returns it. I admit, “I told my dad I hated him and it was…bad. It was really bad.”
Desmond doesn’t reply right away, just regards me calmly. My heart rate slows from about-to-run-for-my-life back to the steady rhythm more appropriate for doing laundry. Tucking my hands beneath the table, I surreptitiously rub my sweaty palms on my thighs.
“Had a hard time growing up, huh?” he asks eventually, voice casual in a way that gives me the courage to answer with more than a nod.
“Yeah. Both of my parents had…uhm, trouble with su bstance abuse. They…they actually overdosed when I was nine.”
This isn’t why I’m here and I hate talking about it, so I bite off any further words.
Desmond doesn’t need to know about the way my mom would vacillate between manic highs and depressive lows.
The way she would pet me, and coo like I was a dog; then fifteen minutes later throw a glass at the wall, screaming like she was in horrific pain.
Eventually, she’d set off my dad, who was only ever looking for a reason to be mad.
That was when I knew it was time to hide.
“Uhm, but anyway…you wanted to talk to me?” I remind him, not entirely comfortable with the route this conversation has taken and wanting to bring it back to the present.
People are always inclined to help—to offer advice—but I don’t need empty platitudes or suggestions on how to get over the past. I’m not interested in fixing; what I need is forgetting.
“Yeah, Jacko. I wanted to talk to you,” he confirms quietly. “We’re worried about you.”
My heart thumps painfully against my rib cage, knowing who the other half of that “we” is. It was foolish of me to hope that Desmond wouldn’t tell Coach Mackenzie about me getting sick before the game, but I’d been hoping nonetheless.
“It’s just nerves,” I tell him. He nods.
“Right. And while I’m glad you’re not throwing up on purpose, the fact that you’re stressed enough to make yourself sick isn’t a great consolation.
Even before a game you don’t have the start in,” he adds, running a hand through his curls.
“I know how hard it is to keep yourself from doing it—believe me, I know—but we can’t have you puking before you play sixty minutes of hockey. ”
“I’ll try to stop,” I say immediately. “I’m sorry. I just get really fucking nervous.”
“Do you see anybody for that? For the anxiety?”
Holding my palm flat, I teeter my hand side to side. “Uhm, sort of? Private therapy sessions are available to students at the health center as part of our tuition. I go to those, sometimes. It’s hard, though, because the lady doctors are usually busier. It’s difficult to get an appointment.”
I want to die immediately after the words leave my mouth. Jesus, could I have made that sound any creepier?
“Uhm, I just mean…I prefer the women because older men sort of bother me, so…” Stumbling to a stop, I close my eyes. Apparently, there was still a way for me to make it creepier.
“I get it,” Desmond says softly, waiting for me to meet his gaze before continuing. “That’s good you go.”
“I hate it,” I admit. “I hate talking, and I hate feeling sorry for myself. They always try to refer me to a specialist doctor, and want me to take medicine, which I can’t do because it costs a lot of money.”
“Those deep-breathing exercises I gave you? That might help you. Same with the muscle relaxation. Both are things I do myself and they work, but, Jack… Do you even like playing?”
“I love hockey,” I reply, surprised by the random question. Desmond tilts his head.
“No. Do you like playing ?” he repeats, slower as though to make his point clear. No! my brain screams.
“I wouldn’t have met Nate if I didn’t play for the team,” I tell him, desperately trying to avoid answering the question. Desmond raises his eyebrows as if to say is that what I asked? I add, “I don’t mind playing. ”
“Jack.”
“No,” I admit quietly. “No, I don’t like it. I used to, when I was younger. But not now. Not in college.”
He makes a soft, aggrieved sort of noise in the back of his throat. “Then why are you doing it?”
Uncomfortable, I break eye contact with him and instead look at the cupboards visible behind him.
I don’t have a good reason for why I’m still playing.
I have a reason for why I started, but at this point I’m merely continuing because it feels like a massive failure on my part to give up now.
I know the team would be better off without me, but can’t bring myself to sever that connection myself.
There is also the fear that if I get rid of the one thing I have in common with Nate, will he even want to be friends with me any longer?
We spend so much time together because of hockey—take that away and why would he even bother?
Without hockey, I wouldn’t be his friend. I’d be a burden and an annoyance.
“Listen, Jacko, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. If you want to play, play. If you want to stop playing, that’s fine too. Nobody will think less of you; certainly not me.”
“I might,” I admit, finally meeting his eyes once more.
“What’s the alternative?” he challenges. “Being miserable every game? Making yourself sick? I’m not trying to push you into doing something you don’t want to do, but if playing hockey is hurting you, then something might need to change. At the end of the day, college hockey doesn’t matter—you do.”
The washing machine buzzes, giving me an excellent excuse for getting up and not responding.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to, with my chest tight and a golf-ball-sized lump lodged in my throat.
Slowly, I transfer my clothes from the washer to the dryer, glancing over my shoulder when I hear a noise.
Desmond has his back to me, standing at the kitchen sink and apparently filling a glass.
I hope he gets one for me too, suddenly noticing how dry my throat is and the minor headache throbbing in my forehead.
I don’t usually talk about myself so much, and I definitely never bring up my parents if I can avoid it.
Nate doesn’t ask for specifics even though I know he wants to; can see the curiosity in his eyes each time the conversation nears the topic of family.
He’s too tactful to ask outright, and I’m too cowardly to offer the information myself.
Except, apparently, with Desmond.
Finishing moving my load into the dryer, I brush my palms down my thighs and reclaim my seat.
There’s a water glass sitting there, which I gulp gratefully.
I wish Desmond was a little more like Nate in this moment, knowing exactly how my friend would react after participating in this conversation.
He’d hug me—plaster himself to my side and make a joke.
Hold me up the way he always does when I struggle to stand on my own.
“I think about quitting hockey a lot,” I admit to Desmond, staring at the freckles splashed across his cheeks and the single curl falling down his forehead. “But I’m scared that Nate won’t want to make an effort to hang out with me anymore if I do. If we no longer have hockey in common.”
I breathe out hard. There, I’ve said it.
The ridiculous, yet painfully honest reason I haven’t pulled myself from the team.
It’s a ludicrous thing to be worried about and isn’t particularly flattering in regard to Nate, but it’s not as though I can control my own brain.
My brain, which constantly tells me I’m not good enough and everyone would be happier without me around.
My brain, which notices and appreciates all the ways Nate and I are different, and catalogues him as “right” and me as “wrong.”
“Why would you think that?” Desmond asks, surprised.
“Because…because he’s got so many friends, I guess. Everyone knows Nate; everyone likes him. Of all the people he could choose to hang out with, why the hell would it be me?”
Desmond laughs, the sound shocking enough that I can’t help but chuckle too. He’s shaking his head, once more rubbing his hand down his face.
“Jack, mate, I think you’re looking at this the wrong way.
You’re right—every single person on our team likes Nate, and wants his attention.
But you know who he seeks out every single practice?
Who he sits next to on the bus, and when we get team dinner?
Who he asked to be paired with when you room for overnight games? ”
“Me,” I guess.
“You,” he confirms. “I can understand worrying about losing a friendship you value by cutting ties with something you have in common, but I think you might be doing Nate a bit of a disservice on this one.”
“He’s my only friend,” I admit.
“What am I, a duck?” Desmond asks, making me laugh again.
He grins at me, cheeks pushing the line of freckles up under his eyes.
The dryer whirs steadily behind me, and the sun coming through the kitchen window brightens the threads of auburn in his curls.
He’s probably right in that I wouldn’t lose Nate’s friendship if I quit hockey, but there is someone I most definitely would lose, and he’s sitting in front of me.
“Hey, little man,” he says, smiling toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I glance over and watch as a slightly abashed-looking Parker shuffles into view, hands twisted in the hem of his over-large shirt and wary eyes on his uncle.
I wonder if I’m not the only one who expected him to get angry.
“Hey,” he mumbles back, twisting the shirt so forcefully I worry he might rip the seams. Desmond just regards him calmly, reclined back in his chair and a small smile on his face. Parker glances over at me. “You’re still here.”
“I am,” I agree. “Looking forward to some Minecraft.”
He perks up at that, fingers unclenching and shoulders falling back from where they’d been curled forward.
Walking over to Desmond’s side of the table, he pulls a chair close enough to his uncle that they brush arms whenever one of them moves.
Desmond smiles, eyes meeting mine. See? the look seems to say. He doesn’t hate me after all.