Page 66 of Puck the Coach's Son
“Sit down.”
I sit. The leather of the booth is cold through my jeans. The table is set for two already, napkins folded into stiff triangles, the heavier cutlery on the outside in the order he likes.
“You're late.”
“Two minutes.”
He turns his wrist and checks the watch even though he already knows.
“Two minutes is late.”
“Yes.”
He nods, once. It's the nod he does when he's decided to let something go but wants me to know he's letting it go. The waiter comes. Paul orders for both of us without looking at me. Salmon, no starch, water with lemon. I would have ordered the same thing anyway. He knows that.
The waiter leaves. Paul folds his hands on the table. His wedding ring is still on, seven years after my mother stopped existing to him in any sense that mattered.
“How did practice go?”
“Good.”
“Be specific.”
I take a sip of water to buy a second. The glass is cold enough that it aches in my teeth.
“Drills were sharp. Bateman was off on the wing. Phoenix had him reset the pivot three times.”
“Good. What about you?”
“Good.”
Paul's eyebrow moves about two millimeters.
“Be specific, Theo.”
I make my mouth move. I set the water glass back down and line it up with the edge of the coaster because if I don't dosomething with my hand I'm going to start picking at the cuticle on my thumb and he'll see.
“Faceoffs were clean. My left side is still slow off the wall. I'm working on it.”
“Your left side has been slow off the wall since you were thirteen.”
“Yes.”
He leans back a quarter inch, which from him is a full gesture.
“Which means you're not actually working on it.”
“I am.”
He looks at me. He waits. He has the exact same expression on his face he has when he's watching film in his office with the volume off. Assessing. Not cruel. Not warm. Just looking.
I hold it.
I'm better at holding it than I used to be. When I was small, I used to look at my shoes. Then I looked at his tie. Then I looked at the line of his jaw over his shoulder, at whatever was behind him, because that looks like eye contact from his side of the table. I've been eating lunch with him like this for twelve years, and what he doesn’t know only helps me out.
Today I look at his tie and I don't see his tie. I see the back of my neck under hot water and somebody's mouth on my ear sayingyou understand who you belong to this week.
I feel my cheeks go hot.
