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I’m less than thrilled for me.
But if Holt is anything like my last school was, there’s not much overlap between interest in mathematics and sports. I’m hoping most of my new classmates won’t care that my dad coaches the hockey team. If I get really lucky, maybe they won’t even know Holt has one.
My dad scratches his chin, his expression a mixture of sheepish and stern. “One of my centers failed Statistics last semester. He needs to pass that class to graduate. I talked the professor into a retake after the season ends, which keeps him eligible to play as long as he follows through on the prep. He’s smart, just unmotivated. And doesn’t take a damn thing seriously. I needed a tutor who won’t take any bullshit.” The brown eyes I inherited warm. “You can handle Phillips.”
“Dad, I haven’t even started myownclasses here yet. I’m not sure I can—”
He nods. “I know, I know. But it’s only for one hour a week. The university has a tutoring program you’ll get paid through. And…” He rubs his chin again. “I might be old, but I’m not senile yet. Despite my best efforts, I’m aware my boys attend—if not host—most of the parties on campus. I know you don’t study every hour of every day. It might be good for you to branch out and meet some new people. Phillips, in particular, is a real social butterfly, from what I hear behind the bench. Boys think I’m deaf.”
I snort, then sigh.
This is undeniably a low point, having my dad worried enough about my social life that he’s recruiting his players to help me make friends here.
Uncomfortable proof that he and my mom are more concerned than they’ve acted since I returned to Somerville. I was sparing in the details I shared about the break-up with Walker last year. There wasn’t much to say and even less that wasn’t shameful. Walker was simply the last strand holding me in Boston. And as soon as it was snipped, I realized it was a string I should have cut a lot sooner. At least he had the decency to cheat on mebeforethe transfer deadline.
Looking back at the first two years of college, I don’t have much to show for it. I got good grades at an excellent school. I dated a guy who turned out to be a waste of time. Convinced myself his friends were mine, until they promptly deserted me after we broke up. London wasn’t the special experience I was hoping for, either. More like moving my melancholy to a new city. The closest friend I made was another American student, Jess, and I’ve only talked to her once since leaving Colorado. She invited me to visit her family’s place after the holidays.
I left Somerville at eighteen thinking I needed to, to grow. Now I think that maybe the location doesn’t matter as much as my willingness to explore.
My dad is still waiting for an answer, and I’m not sure what to tell him. He’s trying to help me, and I want to help him. It’s theleast I can do, after how understanding he and my mom have been about me reversing my stubborn decision and transferring.
But…my plan was to steer as clear from the hockey team as possible. Avoid being labeled as the coach’s daughter and whatever stigma comes with it. Committing to tutoring a player will make that impossible.
“I can’t be the only math major at this school, Dad. There must be someone else who can help.”
His expression falls a little bit, lines of worry webbing out from the corners of his eyes. “I wouldn’t be bothering you with this if I didn’t think you were the best option, honey.”
I study my dad more closely. Most people would miss the hint of desperation threading through the words; I don’t. I can read my dad better than most. Maybe because we’re similar in so many ways.
And I realize this is about more than me making friends or earning some money.
“What year is he?” I ask.
“He’s a senior.”
“And a center?”
“Yes.”
My dad’s hockey career ended after a college injury. He took a job coaching at Holt when I was five as a way to stay close to the sport that was his first love. I saw the disappointment on his face at the end of each hockey season until I turned eighteen. He’s chased a championship for sixteen years. This season is his best chance of getting one. The team has only lost one game—a feat that’s basically unheard of in college hockey and that’s receiving a lot of attention even at the Division III level.
What my dad isn’t saying? He thinks he needs this player to win.
And he doesn’t ask for empty favors. My dad supported meleaving Washington to attend what I thought was my dream school. Whatever small part I can play in his dream of getting a trophy, it’s the least I can do.
“Statistics?” I ask. I got an A in Stats freshman year.
“Yes. And one hour a week. That’s it.”
“Okay,” I agree.
“Thank you, honey.”
My mom appears, her forehead creased with confusion as she looks at us standing in the kitchen. “What are you two doing in here?” she asks. “Isn’t there still a bunch of stuff to carry in from the car?”
“Working on it,” my dad and I say at the same time.
He glances at me. Winks.
