Hate Is A Strong Word

38.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes." He repeats the same word for about the eighth time in the last two minutes. I'll give him, he's not gonna argue with me. I turn my back on him, reach into my drawer and pull out a tape measure, don't ask why I have it in my drawer. I once measured the size of my room, and I haven't given it back to my dad since.

"No, hun."

"Tiny."

"Stand up straight." We're past the better part of March, but we're getting closer to the end of this month. He's been with his mom in Vienna for five days, so he's missed about two games, one with the juniors and one in the Extraleague, but whatever.

I've also been home because we're on spring break, but that changes with Monday. As soon as he got back, he was back to his old self, and it's all about hockey again. He's practicing, playing, learning as much as he can, but he doesn't have the time and I think he'll be out of it in no time.

His teammates, opposing players, coaches, fans, hockey experts or even scouts from other leagues are all out of their minds. They are blown away by his performance, talent and passion for the sport. It's about two weeks after the playoffs started, he's become a star and managed to make it to the quarterfinals, winning all three games. Now they have two quarterfinals under their belt, one loss, one win, so good. He's off from hockey today and tomorrow, he's playing juniors on Sunday afternoon, so I've got a rink coming up.

He doesn't talk to his dad much, only when he has to, which is usually at practices or games. At home, they practically don't even talk to each other, and Sebastian has to tell Elisa that nothing is wrong. He's told me all this, not that it's eating him up inside, but it's probably bothering him a little. His father isn't, god knows, what an amazing dad, but he's still his dad, but what parent would do that to their child.

"Tina."

"I'm telling you, you're not two hundred and three centimeters." I hook a meter under his foot, then grab a chair, not a swivel chair, I'd kill myself on that one because despite my high IQ and unprecedented intelligence, I didn't realize that if I tried to put your leg in the air on a chair with wheels, I'd one hundred percent fall to the floor. I haven't stepped on a swivel chair since.

"I hope I know how tall I am." He looks at me.

"But when you stood next to your teammate two days ago, you were shorter than him."

"And you saw that how?"

"Too well." I poke him in the back to make him straighten up and he flinches, straightens up, and then just rolls his eyes. We've been arguing like this for the last twenty minutes or so. After a quarter of an hour, he tells me to get a tape measure and see which one of us is right. I thought he was two meters and a little over, it was written everywhere and everything, but after seeing him standing with his teammate, I don't know. I told you, I'm not a big friend of geometry.

I stand on the chair, pull out the tape measure and look at the number that's next to his head. Two meters and three centimeters. There's no way. His hair doesn't add to his height because I braided it into two French braids. I jump off the chair, the tape measure rolls back into its wrapper, and Sebastian looks at me triumphantly.

I stand on the chair again, the tape measure is back by his body and I wonder again at the number on a piece of some kind of plate or whatever it's made of. Maybe I'm completely stupid sometimes, but I have a lot of tall people around me. I also like to be right and have the last word. It stands perfectly, straight, no hair or anything. He looks at me and smiles. Am I angry? A little bit.