Page 34 of The Roommate Remodel

“Guys got a little rough on the ice today during practice. Took a hard slam to the wall. It doesn’t help that he’s nervous about this,” Vale admits.

“Are you?”

Vale shrugs. “I may not know what to do with kids. But I don’t let it bother me.”

Unlike Vale, Brax likes to be in control. And this is something he can’t control.

“But kindergarteners are the least scary people in the world.”

“You put him with five-year-olds?” Vale laughs. “No wonder he’s scared. He has zero experience dealing with little people.”

I glance back at Brax, and this time, he’s holding his stomach.

“Does he always sit in the back?”

“He usually sits in the front because of motion sickness.”

No wonder he looks a little green.

By the time we arrive at the school, Brax doesn’t look well at all. As soon as we’re off the bus, he hurries to the restroom. When he comes out, I’ve already paired up the guys and sent them off to their classrooms.

Brax still looks pale, but slightly better.

“Are you okay? You look?—”

“I’m fine,” he cuts me off. “I should know better than to sit in the back. Who’s left to pair up with?” He glances over my shoulder at the list.

“No one except me,” I comment. I point at an open door, where squeals of laughter spill into the hall. “Ready for this?”

Brax rubs the back of his neck. “I haven’t read a children’s book since I was a kid.”

“Anyone can read Doctor Seuss, right?”

“Who?” he asks. “Is that an actual doctor?”

“Remember the Grinch?”

Brax squints. “I thought that was Jim Carrey?”

“Forget it. These kids will love you, no matter what. And you’re going to be really awesome,” I gush.

“Or really awkward.” Brax shifts. “What if they don’t like me? Or worse, what if they ask questions I can’t answer?”

“Brax, when have you ever cared about being liked? As for questions, just be honest. Kids respect that.”

“Respect from a five-year-old isn’t high on my list, Jaz.” He taps his thumb on his leg, a nervous habit of his I’ve noticed.

“Come on, think of it as a new play. You’re good at adapting on the ice. Do it off the ice too.” I touch his arm and try to ignore how strong it feels. Maybe it’s a stupid move, given our past, but he needs a vote of confidence.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Trust me, you might even enjoy it.”

“Enjoying a firing squad of five-year-olds? Not possible. If I end up covered in glitter, you’re on cleanup duty.” A corner of his mouth twitches upward.

As Brax moves to the door of chaos incarnate, the scent of crayons, glue, and disinfectant fills the air. Tiny bodies dart around like pinballs, their shrill screams making it nearly impossible for us to catch the teacher’s attention.

One kid stops in front of us with ketchup smeared across his shirt. “Who are you?” he asks Brax.

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