I’m so glad my cat and pig get along.
It makes my life so much easier. I mean, my black cat, Puck, is a superior being and rarely lowers himself to be around me unless he wants to, or rather needs to, so I shouldn’t be surprised that Puck ignores Bacon, too.
Though, I expect to come home one day and find Bacon slices all over my living room. If Puck was an outdoor cat, I’d bet he’d be a murderer. One of those cats who leaves birds and mice in various states of aliveness for his human. So, bringing another live being into the apartment possibly wasn’t the smartest move, but it seems to be working out okay.
I mean, Bacon isn’t giving Puck pony rides around the room or anything, but Puck is tolerating the new addition to the fam.
Also, who knew potbellied pigs gave such good snuggles? Bacon is always down for cuddle time, and I am totally here for it.
I give him one last scratch behind his ears, shoot a warning look at Puck, who gives me that lazy “are you still here?” look in return, and leave the apartment. When I hit the ground floor, an aging doorman tips his hat to me. I swear to God the man is called Alfred, which both makes me laugh and feel like I’m secretly a superhero.
I guess I have the potential to be a real-life superhero, right? Daddy’s money, troubled past, devilish looks… All I’d need is a hot spandex costume to parade around in when I’m out fighting crime and kicking bad guys in the nuts by night. Not to mention, Ares is a far cooler name than Bruce.
“Early start today, Mr. de la Peña.” As though sensing I’m in trouble, Alfred raises his eyebrows, and his thick and bushy mustache lifts as well. No amount of me telling him to call me Ares makes him actually call me Ares. It’s a respect thing, but Señor de la Peña is my father, not me. And every time someone calls me “mister,” it’s another papercut, another reminder that I’m a disgrace to the de la Peña name.
Why can’t you be more like your siblings?
Why, indeed? And do my siblings include Thiago? The temptation to hire someone to dig into my father’s affairs is strong. But I’m not sure I’m prepared for what skeletons we’ll discover once the closet is cracked open.
“Yes, sir. Coach wants to talk to me.” I offer him what I hope is a cool smile, but my insides are anything but cool.
“This early in the season?”
He’s echoing my thoughts. The season has barely started, and I’m already being called into the coach’s office. The look on Alfred’s face confirms what I already suspect: it can’t be for any good reason.
Alfred’s mouth falls into a thin line before he wishes me luck and holds the door open for me. I’ve lived here for months now, owned the place since my eighteenth birthday when Papá turned over the keys.
My siblings got theirs when they turned seventeen. I guess Papá dearest didn’t trust me not to sell it to feed my habit. In truth, that’s probably a fair assessment. There was a time I would have done—and often did—anything for a hit. And some days I think about selling it to stick it to him, to cut the de la Peña umbilical cord and figure shit out all by my big-boy self. Without the family bank roll.
And then I remember that I’m a bougie fucker and like having money.
I grab two coffees at Bitches Brew—not that I’ll be able to butter Coach Bales up with coffee, but it can’t hurt my case, right?
By the time I get to the rink, I’m already done with my drink. So now it looks like I’ve brought an apple to the teacher’s desk, rather than bringing a coffee so he wasn’t left out.Perfecto.
He’s sitting at his desk, brows pulled together, forehead furrowed as he stares at his computer screen. He doesn’t bat an eyelid as I slide his coffee toward him. I dunno what he’s staring at so hard, a vein’s pulsing in his temple. Hopefully it’s not the roster, or my grade sheet, or my high school report cards, or—Jesus fucking Christ it’s Solitaire. He’s concentrating so hard he might pop a vein on Solitaire.
I can’t even.
“Are you going to stand watching me, or are you going to take a goddamn seat?”
I guess we’re done with pleasantries. I drop onto the chair in front of him and shelve every ounce of bravado within me.
I know the drill. Be polite, head down, don’t make too much eye contact, don’t avoid eye contact, be respectful, firm, but not too firm. I’ve been told how to address people in power since I was knee high to a grasshopper.
Most of all, don’t fidget.
Papá hates when I fidget. I don’t think he gets how hard it is not to. I’m tempted to sit on my hands so I don’t spin the ring on my thumb. My leg twitches, aching to bounce and jitter while I wait.
After what feels like an artificially long pause, Coach Bales clicks something on his screen, and I’m convinced I might be seeing his version of a smile. It’s scary. I guess he outsmarted the Solitaire computer and won his game. Good man, Bales. Gold star for you.
A picture hangs on the wall over his shoulder of this year’s coaching staff: Bales, head coach; McCarthy, assistant coach; Chabot, goaltending coach. Their faces look serious, lips flat, devoid of joy. No twinkles in the eyes, no roguish charm or grins. They’re the guys who are going to get the job done. No fucking around.
When I glance back at Coach, his eyes are trained on me. “Are we going to have trouble this year with you, kid?”
Probably.
I’m so tempted to blurt it out. Not because I’m being a smartass, but because it’s the truth. My name and trouble are often synonymous. And it’s not always my fault either.
