Page 6 of Tusk & Puck

I shrug and notice the look on his face. It’s a familiar one. He normally rocks it when he’s already got a response set up.

“You’ve been back for two days,” he says.

“Lying low,” I scoff. “Sorry, babe,” I add in hopes he’ll laugh or smirk or something. Nothing. He’s giving me nothing.

“You’re coaching hockey, and I know hockey,” I say.

“I know you know hockey,” he tells me halfway through my sentence.

“So you know you can solve my problem.”

“That’s the exact reason why I don’t want to. It’s not my responsibility to pick up your mess. Especially with kids involved. So—”

The bell rings, and I take the opportunity to break his concentration.

“Okay, so we’ll talk about this more at dinner tonight.” I point at him while I round the corner.

“You’re buying!” he yells.

I decide to shoot him a text rather than yell back. There are a few kids clutching their backpacks and coming my way. I’ve been told I have a beautifully deep and unforgettable voice. It’s always been from women but still. Better safe than sorry.

We’re going somewhere outta town,I text.And don’t be surprised by my wig.

I watch the text bubbles in our chat bob up and down as I plop into my car.

Dieter’s Diner. Same as always. Bring a wig and I’m leaving. I mean it. Last time was terrible and you looked like trash.

“Rude,” I say aloud, though I respond with a thumbs up and send it.

I consider this turn of events a win and drive off hopeful. Things could have been worse. I know he’s only serious when he scratches his neck. And until Coach Hill does that, I’m sticking to the plan.

The easy plan. Coach kids. Avoid cleaning up messes. Look good while doing it. Convalesce. Rinse and repeat. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

4

MELODY

“Tough luck, kid. You don’t have a fever,” I say as I show Brayden the digital thermometer reading. It’s a healthy 98.5 degrees. The nine-year-old’s mouth falls open, and I already know what his rebuttal will be before he says it.

“But I usually run really cold. So normal is a fever for me!” he retorts.

I shake my head and place the thermometer in the ‘dirty’ pile. “Not how fevers work.”

“But!”

“Listen,” I say calmly. Maybe I can turn this into an educational moment. “Your body heats itself up and creates a fever in order to kill off any viruses or bacteria. It gets to one hundred because that’s when the pathogens start to die off. Understand? This is just a normal temperature fluctuation. You’re not sick.”

Brayden balls his fists up and looks around the room desperately before pointing at a poster on the wall. “That! I have that!”

I turn and look at the infographic behind me. “You have dyslexia?” Brayden nods his head rapidly. “Uh-huh. Brayden, do you have a test today?” The boy doesn’t answer. “That you didn’t study for?”

He looks down, fidgeting with his hands. “I’m sorry, but actions have consequences. And dyslexia doesn’t cause fevers. Back to class.” I lead the pouting boy out of the room with a gentle hand on his back.

It’s tough having to be the bad guy. For every one student who comes in genuinely sick, I have two to three fakers or hypochondriacs trying to get out of facing a math quiz or unfinished science project.

It’s not that I think they’re bad kids. On the contrary, sometimes I think they’re just too overloaded and need someone to give them a break!

Unfortunately, that’s not my job. My job is diagnosing and tracking illnesses in school. I open the door to let Brayden out, only to find two boys in the hallway looking ready to pounce on each other.

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