Page 16 of Yard Sale

“Genetics,” I told him flatly. “Also, a contractual obligation to finish this article.”

He scrubbed at his eyes for a long time, then dropped his hands to his sides, almost like he was forcing himself to do it. “My status is currently undetermined. Other than that, no fucking comment.”

I pulled out my phone, stood up, then leaned on his bed railing. When Tiago’s face turned toward me, I laid my hand on his arm, and his eyes fixed on it, and then they traced their way up to my shoulder, then to my chin.

Then he met my eyes.

I think.

“There you are,” he murmured before his cheeks went pink. “Do you always go to hospitals in a full face of makeup?”

My throat got a little tight and hot. “I never go to hospitals. Ever.”

“Scared of the big, bad doctor?”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that the last time I was in front of the big, bad doctor, he was breaking his promise he’d made to save my mom. My fear was both rational and irrational. And it was surrounded by a grief I was still trying to cope with.

“I never go anywhere without my face on,” I eventually told him.

Tiago lifted his hand almost like he wanted to touch, and then he dropped it back down. “Does your dad hate it? I know Asian parents can be…complicated.”

“You know a lot of Asian parents?” I asked with a small laugh. Points to him that he called me Asian. Most white boys went with Indian—which wasn’t inaccurate. Some of them were racist and did the whole “dot not feather” shit. But people like him tended to other me from my birth continent.

He shrugged. “I’ve met Ferris’s mom. I’m kind of obsessed with her.”

Ferris. The Boston rookie—one of maybe four South Asians in the NHL. I hadn’t looked up the PPHL, but I had a feeling those stats were even worse. I didn’t know his mom, and as much as it sounded amazing to meet her, I didn’t think I was ready to get close to another mom figure. Not yet. Having my aunties was enough.

“My father stopped having big feelings about the stuff I did and what I wore,” I told him, thumbing the edge of my phone case. “He figured there were more important things to worry about.”

Tiago’s face fell into a small smile. “I really love your dad.”

Most people did. He deserved it, even when it was annoying. “Anyway, for that official statement, do you want me to add in the word ‘fucking’ to your⁠—”

“Tiago, you have guest! Oh! Is little coach junior.”

I immediately recognized Vanya’s booming voice, and a second later, he shoved his way into the room. He was wearing a Vegas sweatshirt and tight jogging pants that showed off, well, a lot.

Micah must have been a very happy guy.

“Hello, Ivanov,” I said quietly.

He huffed and rolled his eyes, walking over to yank me into a hug. “How many times I’m telling you my name, little coach?”

“As many times as I’ve told you I’m not a coach and never will be,” I reminded him. I didn’t wriggle out of the hug though. It felt too good, and this didn’t happen often. I sank into his embrace, and he sighed, giving the back of my bun a tiny tug.

“If you want to be coach, you just call me, okay? I get you work on best team.”

“Mm.” It was easier to nod and smile than argue with Vanya.

“So. What you doing here? Keep Tiago company after his surgery?”

I turned back to Tiago, who had the pillow half over his face. “How did the surgery go?”

“On the record?” he asked.

“I’m not trying to be a dick. My boss won’t let me submit the article until I get some kind of update, and when I tried to sneak out of the office, I ran into him and my ex, who decided to play a fun game of who can humiliate Aravind more, and⁠—”

“Wait.” Vanya folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed. “Your boss trying to humiliate you? And why he’s with your ex?”