Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Miller strides in next, clunking around triumphantly in his leg pads. “Dude, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” His eyes are bright, his smile is wide.
Lake follows, giving him a side-eye and scoffing, “Unless you’re thinking about the badass owl that landed in my bird sanctuary last week and is making a nest, then no, you and I are not the same.”
Miller ruffles Lake’s messy hair. “Your brain is a funny place.”
“Yours is,” Lake says to him with a grunt.
But Miller is undeterred. “I’m thinking, we had kind of an uneven November there. Then we won four in a fucking row in December. And what changed this month, boys? What fucking changed?”
He mimes a drumroll. Riggs grins slyly. Lake does too. Ivan laughs knowingly.
“We ate at Knighty Night’s bakery,” Riggs puts in.
Miller mimes slamming a buzzer. “Riggs is always right.”
“Say that again. I need to record it for posterity,” Riggs says as he unlaces his skates.
Miller clears his throat. “I vote that Knighty Night needs to bring us monkey chow or cowboy cookies before every game. That’s what worked.”
The names are so ridiculous, they’re funny. “Monkey chow for you. Done,” I say.
Ivan taps his stick on the floor over and over, chanting, “Streak, streak, streak.”
We all get in on it, and when the repetition ends, Lake says, “But the logic adds up.”
“You are such a superstitious motherfucker,” I say. Even now, the winger is taking off his gear in the same order he does after every game. “Seriously, is there anything you guys won’t do for a free meal?”
Lake seems to consider this, staring at the ceiling, then shaking his head. “Nope.”
I’m feeling generous. Call it the code-switching effect. “Fine. Tomorrow night you can all come over for sandwiches and cornhole.”
Miller pumps a fist. “Dude. Your sandwiches are legend.”
I toss my shoulder pads into the stall. “I know.”
“Cosign,” Riggs says from his stall.
I point at him like a cocky fighter pilot in a slick film. “Thanks, Fanboy.”
He flips me the bird, but I’m pretty sure he digs the new name. So do my other teammates since the new chant becomes, “Fanboy, Fanboy, Fanboy.”
That amuses me, and I’m pretty sure it delights Riggs too.
When it ends, Miller calls out from the other side of the locker room. “Wait. Is Lake coming too? To the—”
“The single dad club,” Lake says. “And yes, you assholes, this cat dad’ll be there. Since…well, food.”
I shower and get dressed, the good mood following me. Tomorrow night, I can set up the garage for Charlotte and some friends to watch a movie while the guys hang out in the yard with the cornhole board and some grub. The first week at the bakery went well. We hired a part-time employee to help us out—Zakiya’s little sister, Aisha, was looking for a job, and we needed the help. And…Mabel and I stuck to our no-touching plan. Fine, it was easy to do since I wasn’t there. But I won’t let details get me down.
We head to the team jet and make the quick trip back to San Francisco, where the bus takes us to the arena. After I grab a hoodie I left in my locker, I head toward my car, phone in hand, ready to go home and crash. Mabel just sent me a text—a pic of a cupcake with a candle on top. Ode to the firehouse—our special for tomorrow, the caption says, and I smile. She’s good.
But as I’m walking down the corridor toward the players’ lot, Theo swings around the corner, dark eyes lasered in on me. That’s odd. But maybe he’s stressed from all the late nights he’s putting in. He didn’t travel with us on this trip, though that’s not unusual—he doesn’t go to all the away games.
“You’re working late,” I say by way of greeting.
He doesn’t offer a fist bump, a clap on the back, or a “good game.” Instead, he points to the doors leading up to the second floor. “You. Me. Now.”
“Your office?” I ask.
A crisp nod is his answer.
That’s not good. I gulp but try not to show a shred of emotion. I follow my best friend up the stairs, and the click of his wingtips on the floor is ominous.
When we reach his office, he shuts the door with a decisive snap, and my gut twists. I tell myself to stay stoic. He has to have found out I’ve been messing around with his sister. Not once, not twice, not even three times.
My head swims with the realization that it’s been four times. For fuck’s sake, I’m addicted.
But more so, I’m a liar. I’ve been lying to my best friend about all these goddamn feelings for his sister. These emotions that claw at me. I haven’t been forthright with him. But how can I be forthright when Mabel and I aren’t a thing? Not really. What’s done is done, and the guilt over the lies of omission is mine to live with, and mine alone.