His mother’s at work when he gets in; she doesn’t exactly have the sort of job where she can take an afternoon off just to pick him up even if she was inclined to. He takes a cab in, wonders if it would be worth it to finally try for his licence, get a car for the summers, or just brave OC Transpo and the risk of being recognised. He will be, he knows he will, but it’s typically only kids who approach him in public, and he doesn’t mind that as much.

His bedroom is immaculately clean, like it’s never been touched. He does his best not to change its appearance, other than putting away the clothing he needs to in his drawers, Islanders gear mixing in with the Remparts shirts already there, worn and soft from washing. He calls his agent once he’s settled, asks him to look around for some decent training facilities in Ottawa, see if there’s someone good locally, and if not, if someone could be called in.

“Sure, kid,” Dave says. “There’s a training camp in Toronto if you’re willing to pay for it, good trainers, always attracts some big names. Starts in July, I think.”

“Sure,” David says. “Sign me up. And Dave—”

“I know,” Dave interrupts. “The sooner the better. I got you.”

“Thanks,” David says.

*

David’s at the stove half-heartedly poking at some chicken breasts that aren’t cooking evenly when his mother comes in a little past seven. He can hear her drop her keys in the bowl by the door, the click of her heels before she kicks them off in the hallway, and it’s so familiar that for a moment he feels like a kid, a little excited that his mother finally came home, but mostly sad that it meant his nanny Mary Anne would be going home to her own family, the real one.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, standing in the doorway. “We could just get delivery. You know where the menus are.”

“That’s fine,” David says. “None of those places are particularly healthy.”

“Suit yourself,” she says. “I hope you made enough for two.”

She retreats, and David’s done by the time she comes back down, out of the sensible pantsuit and in jeans and an Islanders shirt she must have bought since he last saw her. He’s a little surprised to see it, surprised she bothered to buy one at all, since she didn’t bother to come to the game when the Islanders played the Senators, apparently had an important dinner meeting.

“Are you staying for the summer?” she asks when David sits beside her on the kitchen island.

“I don’t know,” David says. “If I can find a good trainer.”

“Well, this is your home,” she says, patting him on the hand once before taking hers away, and David keeps his head down, focusing on his food. There’s nothing really to talk about. Half of her work is confidential and the other half is boring, and he’s pretty sure she considers everything to do with his job boring, though she asks him where he’s going to train, mentioning that there’s a Goodlife Fitness nearby, like he just needs to find a Pilates class or something.