Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 81248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“You’d think you’d reconsider, given the circumstances,” Paul says.
“I’m completely unconcerned about whether your players keep their spots or not.”
“I’m not talking about him keeping his spot on the team.”
I frown. What other circumstance could he mean? It hits me, and I almost laugh. “Because he’s ‘NHL bound’?” I’ve heard that thrown around about Asher more times than I can count. “Again, I’m unconcerned. One student isn’t more important than any other.” His lack of argument back is setting me on edge. “I swear this school acts as though the Daltons are God’s gift to hockey. Just because his brother played professionally doesn’t mean he will.”
“He will, because he was already offered a contract with Buffalo, and that kid’s talent isn’t going anywhere. Know why he turned it down?”
“College hockey was his dream?” I throw out glibly. None of this has to do with my class.
“Because their parents died. Asher came home to help West raise their five siblings.”
Oh.
Shit.
“So yeah,” he continues, “maybe playing Dad is affecting his classes, but he’s going to give zero fucks about failing a math class when he’s skating in the NHL.”
My moral high ground has disappeared from under my feet, and I’m scrambling to keep my point. “He’s not going to get to the NHL if he’s off your team for not keeping up his grades.”
Paul chuckles. “Is math that big a deal? What does a professional hockey player need to know numbers for?”
“Well, how else will they count all that money?” My tone is dry, and I don’t know what I’m more annoyed about. The fact I didn’t know. The fact I feel sorry for him. Or that now I do know I can already tell I’m going to have to relax my rule. This is why I don’t get involved in my students’ lives.
I slump back in my seat as Paul links his fingers on his desk.
“So. About that extra credit …”
I huff and shove away from the desk, leaving before I answer him. My annoyance doesn’t even last until the end of the corridor, where I almost run headfirst into Westly Dalton.
His eyes immediately narrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Leaving.” I step around him but can’t help glancing back as I walk away. He’s … what? Late twenties? And already he’s had to go through giving up his dream job and losing his parents.
No, no, no … I’m not going down that path.
Yes, I can feel bad for their situation, because no one deserves that. But I won’t feel bad for them specifically. Because if there’s one thing I know, people like Westly and Asher will always bounce back, while the rest of us are left behind.
My mood is heavy when I finally climb into my car and notice a stream of notifications on my screen. I swipe them away without bothering to check and go to remove myself from the group yet again. But like the last times I’ve tried, I can’t do it.
I’m not sure who added me, but I doubt anyone would notice if I left.
There are a few hundred people in the group for our twenty-year high school reunion, and only a few of those names stand out. Not for a good reason.
Thomas Harvey … Clayton Reez …
I imagine for the billionth time showing up and proving to those losers that I’ve made it. I have a great job and a nice house. I’ve fixed my teeth and my eyesight, and I’m no longer scrawny and weak. I can’t fix being gay and wouldn’t want to anyway. In my dreams I take a date so smoking hot and charming that those assholes question their sexuality a little too.
It doesn’t matter though.
Because while I’m quick-witted and above it all in my head, seeing their names makes my chest tight and my blood pressure start to rise.
I lock my phone without leaving the group—again—and try not to sigh as I turn on my car. It’s not like I don’t have more pressing headaches to deal with.
Like Asher Dalton.
And how the hell I’m going to put extra credit on the table.
3
Westly
“West, Rhys broke my laptop!” Hazel yells from the dining table, where she usually sits her ass from the moment she gets home from school until I tell her to go to bed. If she’s not doing homework, she’s online with her friends.
“I didn’t break it. I unplugged it,” Rhys says with all the energy of an emo thirteen-year-old. “I needed to charge my tablet.”
“The battery on my laptop is all messed up, and if you let it run flat, it’s dead, dead. Like super dead,” Hazel says.
“Rhys, fix it,” I say, turning back to the stove.
I’m trying to cook dinner after having to make the embarrassing call to tell my boss I couldn’t come in for practice because our babysitter is sick. Skipping work only adds to my ever-present guilt. I feel guilty for not being at work, but when I’m with the team, I feel guilty for not being at home with the kids.