the other. “… okay, you’re rude and your personality sucks. And I like a man with a good personality.”
He doubted that like hell. “Right.”
“I do,” she tried to argue.
“You’re talking like a homely girl.” And she was far from homely. “Only homely girls like guys for their personality.”
She pointed at him. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That was really rude.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s true.”
She frowned and folded her arms beneath her breasts. “What happened earlier isn’t what I needed to talk over with you. An agent from Windemere called regarding a house in Bellevue. It’s about to go on the market, and the agent wanted to show it to you first.”
“Set it up for next week.”
“She wanted to show it today.”
He shook his head and moved to the front door. The less time he spent with his assistant at the moment, the better. “I’ve got a date with the Hackster.”
“The kid is trouble.”
Derek wasn’t the only one. Mark looked over his shoulder at his cute little assistant with the sassy hair and smart mouth. The woman was nothing but trouble.
He opened the front door and closed it behind him. Derek sat on the porch fastening his skates. “That girl’s mean.”
“Chelsea?” He put the tip of his cane on the stair below and stepped down. Chelsea was many things. Annoying being the most prominent, but she wasn c, b’t mean.
“She gave me the stink eye.”
Mark laughed. “She didn’t give you the stink eye.” Although she had given Mark the stink eye on one or more occasions. The day she’d found out that sending her to buy those condoms had been a fool’s errand came to mind. “She just told you what you didn’t want to hear. You shouldn’t just show up at someone’s house. It’s rude.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. “Call your mom.”
Derek finished buckling his skates. “Oh, man.”
“Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“Yes.” The kid punched the seven numbers and waited for the axe to fall. The grim line of his mouth turned to a smile and he whispered, “It’s going to her voice mail.”
Lucky break.
“Hi Mom. I went on a bike ride and ran into Coach Mark. I’ll be home by six. Love you. Bye.”
Mark let Derek’s little lie go for now.
The kid shut the phone and handed it to Mark. “I can skate backward now. I’ve been practicing in my basement.”
Mark dumped his phone in his back pocket. “Show me.”
Derek stood, and his ankles fell inward. He held his arms out to the sides and slowly moved his skates back and forth until he rolled to the center of the drive. He used a one-foot drag to stop. Much better than the snowplow he’d been using last summer, but his balance still sucked.
“That’s pretty good.”
Derek smiled as the late afternoon sun caught fire in his hair and bounced off his white forehead.
“Watch this.” He bent his knees, hunched over, and put pressure on the insides of the skates. He rolled back a couple of inches and beamed like he’d just scored a hat trick. What Derek lacked in skill, he made up for in heart. Heart was the one indefinable element that made a good player into a great player. No amount of drills could teach heart.
“You’re getting there.” Too bad heart wasn’t enough. “But you’re bent over looking at your feet. What’s the number one rule in hockey?”
“No whining.”
“Number two.”
“Keep your head up.”
“That’s right.” He pointed his cane at the boy. “Have you been practicing your step-overs and jumps?”
Derek sighed. “No.”
He lowered his cane and looked at his watch. “Keep your head up and get going to the end of the driveway and back.”
Chelsea pushed back the heavy drapes and watched Derek lift one knee and then the other. He marched toward the end of the driveway, his arms out from his shoulders. As he attempted to turn around, he fell on his skinny behind.
“Keep your head up,” Mark yelled.
Derek dusted himself off and marched all the way back. He reminded Chelsea of Rupert Grint in the first Harry Potter movie. Only geekier.
Mark met him in the center of the drive and handed him a half-full bottle of Gatorade. Chelsea couldn’t hear what Mark said to the boy, just the deep timbre of his voice. Derek nodded and drank.
Mark took the bottle and returned it to the shade of the porch. “Two small. One big,” he called out to the kid, and Derek began jumping in place. He immediately fell.
Chelsea let go of the curtain and moved from the office. She walked outside and stood next to Mark. “I thought he was going to show you a few stops and go home. Why are you making him march and jump up and down?”
“The kid needs to learn balance.” He pointed his cane at the boy and hollered, “Now change it up. Small jump. Big jump. Small jump. Big jump. Bend your knees, Derek.”
“Who are you? Mr. Miyagi?” She held her hands up in front of her, palms out. “Wax on. Wax off. Bend your knees, Derekson.”
He chuckled. “Something like that.” He walked to the center of the driveway, a slight hitch in his otherwise fluid steps and his cane a smooth extension of his arm. Chelsea folded her arms beneath her breasts and sat on the porch. Mark pointed down the driveway, said something about pushing and gliding. Falling down and getting back up again.
“Use your hips. Head up,” Mark called after him. After about fifteen minutes of pushing and gliding, the kid was clearly winded. His cheek had turned a bright red, one of his knees was skinned, and Chelsea almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but the little liar had made her look bad.
He collapsed on the porch next to Chelsea and reached for his Gatorade. “I’m getting good,” he said before he upended the bottle and drained it. Chelsea was no expert, but even she could see the kid had a long way to go before he approached “getting good.”
The boy looked up at Mark, his eyes filled with exhaustion and hero worship. “Maybe I could come back and practice some more.”
Right, like Mark would want the kid hanging around. He didn’t like anyone hanging around.
A frown line creased Mark’s brow as if he had a sudden headache. “Check with Chelsea to see which days I’m free next week.”
Chelsea was shocked. “You’re free Wednesday and Friday.”
Derek set down the bottle and unbuckled his skates. “I have summer band practice on Wednesday.”
Of course he did. He probably played the tuba. Most of the skinny band-os she’d ever known had played the tuba. Kind of like most of the short guys she’d ever known had driven trucks.
“How about Tuesday and Thursday?” Mark countered.
“You’re house hunting those two mornings.”
“I can come in the afternoon,” Derek said as he tied his shoes. He stood and shoved his skates into a backpack he’d hidden next to the porch. He zip c poped the backpack closed and threaded his stick arms through the straps.
“Have your mom call me.” Mark placed his right hand on the kid’s sweaty head. “When you get home, drink lots of water and get lots of rest.”
“Okay, Coach.”
Chelsea bit the side of her lip. Inside his crusty, cantankerous, jerk-wad, wrapped-up-in-rhino-skin exterior, he was a softie.
