Chapter 14
Desmond
I watch, amused, as Nate skates around and gathers stray pucks. It’s technically my job, while his, right now, is to take a break and get some water. I glance over at Nico.
“Should I tell him to stop?” I ask.
“No. He probably doesn’t even need a break,” Nico says, amusement and affection in his voice. “In the past, I’ve assigned him extra skating drills just to try and burn off some of that energy.”
Snorting, I skate over to start pulling the goals. As I figured would happen, I’m joined after a few seconds by Henri Vasel.
“May I help you, Coach?” he asks politely. He’s the only one who never calls me by my name.
“Sure, big guy.” I up-nod toward the other post. “Grab that side.”
Between me and my two extra helpers, the ice is cleared in half the time it usually takes. Vas gazes around, apparently looking for something else he could assist with, as Nate skates up to us, grinning.
“Thanks for the help, guys.”
Nate waves a hand at me. “No worries. Vas’ idea.”
Eyebrows raised, I glance over at Vas and watch his cheeks pink. He sends a furtive look in Nico’s direction, and a sudden burst of fondness blooms in my chest. So, Nico was mistaken when he told me the team hadn’t seemed too concerned about his eyesight. Hadn’t cared.
“You two head off, and get changed,” I instruct. “I’ll finish up here, and meet you in the theater.”
“Are you sure I cannot—” Vas starts.
“I got it, mate. You deserve a break—go rest those legs.” Looking a little forlorn, Vas allows Nate to tug him toward the exit.
The rest of the team is already gone, everyone eager to be rid of their sweaty gear and sit down for an hour.
I too am eager to be off the ice, if only because that means it’s time for video review.
Video review is better than sex, in my opinion.
When I’m changed back into my runners, I stop by the office to grab a few things before joining the team in the theater. Nico is behind his desk, carefully opening an orange pill bottle that I know contains his migraine medication. It reminds me of the request I put in with maintenance last week.
“There’s going to be some refurbish work going on here next week,” I tell him nonchalantly. He glances up at me, squinting. “Nothing crazy, they’re just installing new light fixtures.”
“Really? I didn’t realize they needed fixing,” he looks up at the ceiling, as though performing a visual inspection. His mouth tightens in a grimace and he looks away quickly.
“Oh I don’t think it’s a fixing thing, more of a refurb. I guess they wanted to upgrade,” I say, still aiming for casualness. Everything I’m saying is a lie. I damn near had to beg for them to agree. “Sounds like we’re getting dimmers.”
Nico’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “Really?”
“Really,” I agree. “It’ll be nice. Take a break from the hospital lighting we’ve got going on.”
He smiles at me, and goes back to plucking a pill from his prescription bottle.
A dimmer might not solve the headache problem, but it’ll probably be a big help.
If anything, the office will be a small oasis away from the bright lights of the arena.
I don’t even suffer from headaches, and they bother me after a time.
I can’t imagine how it must feel for Nico.
Recently, worrying about the future has started to keep me awake at night, so I’ve spent that time researching different techniques to make his job a little more comfortable.
I’ve started using fonts that supposedly are easier for people with low visual acuity to read.
I’ve also read that changing the contrast for the colors on his computer might help, but I don’t think I could get away with doing that one on the sly.
Nico would probably notice if I switched everything on his desktop to dark mode for no apparent reason.
“I changed a few things up for video review,” I tell Nico, gathering all my notes from last night. They’re pretty much useless to anyone but me. Even though they might look like the ravings of a lunatic, there’s a method to my madness and so far it’s paid off.
“Oh?”
“You know that little forward that plays for Harvard?” Resting my hip on the edge of my desk, I stretch my legs out. Unlike Nate, skating for hours does make me tired. “Casey Larsson? He’s tried for a Michigan goal in their last four games. ”
Nico snorts. “He’s the smallest player in the league, yet he causes the most trouble. Thirty-two points already this season, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“You are,” I agree. “Anyway, I want Roman to be prepared for when that little shit tries to Michigan him this weekend.”
“Thank you for handling all of that,” he says, trying to smile but only managing a pained grimace. “You have no idea the relief it has been to not have to deal with hours of video review. And if I’m being honest, my friend Nigel was doing most of it. He was a blessing before you came along.”
I smile. Nigel St. James is a semi-regular face around here, a fact which makes Vas particularly happy. The pair of them chat in French while the rest of us moon over how romantic and lovely it sounds. They could be talking shit about everyone for all we know, but damn if it doesn’t sound pretty.
“It’s not unheard of to have two ACs,” I put in. “You won’t offend me with the nepotism hire of someone whose name is engraved on the Stanley Cup.”
Nico laughs. “What would the sports world be without nepotism?”
Straightening, I tap his desk with a knuckle. “I’d better get in there before Nate talks the others into doing something illegal. You heading home?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t, but yes.”
“No reason for you to be here. Your husband is probably already in the car park waiting for you.”
“Oh God”—Nico groans—“do not let him hear you say that. I don’t understand that man’s obsession with marriage. We can be together for the rest of our lives without a legal document.”
I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’m pro-marriage,” I admit. Nico points toward the door .
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“What’s love got to do with it, got to do with it…what’s love got?—”
“Is that the only line you know?” Parker asks crossly, arms tight around a load of clothes he just pulled from the dryer.
Our life, it seems, is nothing but an endless cycle of washing.
A sock falls onto the floor as he walks toward his bedroom, probably planning on just dumping it all on his bed to deal with later.
Or, more likely, for me to deal with later.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“You sound like a shrill bird,” he adds as a parting shot, before disappearing into his room. I snatch up the sock and follow him, tossing it his direction from the doorway. He tries to catch it, but ends up swatting it to the floor.
“Hey, I don’t sound shrill ,” I argue. “My voice doesn’t even go to those octaves.”
“The neighborhood dogs were singing along.”
Tipping my head back, I laugh. I’ve never been roasted so much in my life as I have been these past few months. Parker is definitely my sister’s kid—he’s got a very good understanding of how to deploy a zinger.
“Fine, I’ll stop.” Hands held up, I admit defeat.
“Or just learn a different song,” he suggests. I watch as he folds two socks together, expression so hang-dog one would think the task was tortuous. I turn to leave him to his washing hell when he calls me back. “Des!”
“You right?” I ask, poking my head back around the doorframe. I’ve got my own washing to handle, not to mention coming up with yet another idea for lunch, working on a few things for Nico and the team, and cleaning out the fridge. I’m pretty sure it’s not meant to smell the way it is.
“Isn’t Jack coming over?” he asks, perking up at the prospect. The reminder makes me smile, chest warm with pleasure. It’s nice to have Jack here.
“Uh yeah, I think so. I’ll have to check my phone, but yeah, he usually comes by on Saturday for washing.”
“Awesome.” Parker sighs happily. “Your boyfriend is so cool.”
“He is,” I agree, and make it all the way back to the kitchen before I hit a brick wall of realization.
“Your boyfriend is so cool” settles itself in my chest, cozy and warm. It’s nice that Parker is so accepting of a relationship between two men, and even nicer that he’s so enamored with Jack.
Of course, I don’t have a bloody boyfriend, no matter how much my brain apparently likes that idea.
I turn back around and head for Parker’s room, unable to stop picturing Jack’s deep red hair and freckled skin; his smile.
He’d have to wear long sleeves and an outback hat to protect him from the sun, if I ever got him to Australia.
Oh hell, I think, as the other half of my brain happily plans a vacation with my fake boyfriend. If only I could be so lucky.
“Hey, Parks,” I start as I step back into his room. He jumps up guiltily from where he’d been sitting at his computer desk, not putting up the washing. I let it go for now, feeling like the Jack conversation trumps all else.
“I’m doing it!” he says hastily, grabbing a T-shirt.
“It’s fine, bud. But hey, you know that Jack isn’t my boyfriend, right?” Parker stares at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking in Latin .
“Yeah, he is,” he replies, using the same tone he’d use to explain to me that two plus two equals four. Unease parks itself in my gut—God, is this where my mother got all her ideas about me bringing men over? Did Parker tell her about Jack and call him my boyfriend?
“No, he’s not. He’s just a friend,” I correct, feeling a strange sense of disappointment at the words.
“He eats with us sometimes, and you guys sit really close when you’re on the couch. Remember? When we watched Planet Earth? ”
I stare at him. “The couch isn’t very big,” I reply somewhat weakly. “And all three of us were using it.”
“You put your arm on the back,” he reminds me, almost sending me into cardiac arrest. There go all my hopes that he is still too young to notice things like this.