Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89674 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“It’s the last thing I want to do,” Carter said, lowering his hand. It was incredible to watch how humble he stayed to make this news easier on Beau. My father would have never acted that way. Finally, Beau extended his hand to shake Carter’s, who lifted his hand again.
“We waited to tell you until we knew what was happening between us,” his mom said again. “Let go of his hand, Beau.”
When Beau immediately released his grip, I realized I’d gained a secret weapon. In order to get him to comply, involve his mother. He shaped right up.
“Carter’s going to stay with us through Christmas. Then we’ll traveling for New Years. I’ll be back to help put everything away,” Linda said.
“Is it too soon to be calling you my sons?” Carter asked teasingly. Everyone but Beau thought it was funny.
“Come on, Beau,” I said to my guy. “I’ll get you a new drink to help swallow all this down.”
I ignored his bluster, drawing him to the bar with me. We still had days to go with Carter under the roof, but I called this a win for tonight.
Part 2
14: The Fit
Beau/Dash
Beau
Late Spring, 2011
Chicago, Illinois
As I navigated through the obstacle course I’d created in my living room, I meticulously assessed the angles of the various inverted pots and pans strategically placed from my sofa to the large windows overlooking Lake Michigan. Since this game was classified as an “I win” challenge, every placement was crucial. I couldn’t fail. I knelt on the floor, becoming one with an imaginary ping-pong ball as it bounced off each pan’s bottom until the path concluded in the red Solo Cup at the end. I added another magazine to the first upside-down skillet to tilt it closer to the second pot. With a breath, I crossed my fingers that I’d arranged a perfect course.
“Brooks, you ready?” Scott asked impatiently. He had arranged a similar course in his living room in Alabama. We’d positioned our laptops, webcams active, to the side of the game to give us an unobstructed view of our opponents playing field. At the end of the course, each of us had a video recorder precariously placed on a step stool. If everything went as well as I hoped, I’d toss the ball at the start and it’d bounce off each cooking device until it landed in the cup. The first one to make it to the end won the game.
Scott and I had dived headfirst into many different challenges starting a few weeks ago for a new YouTube channel he wanted to create. Turned out, Lauren, his wife, knew about editing videos. And since I was nothing if not ready to one-up Scott at any given moment, I’d happily joined in the fun.
I took my seat at the front of the course and wiggled around until I found the best launching point. The fall colors and natural sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the camera allowed just the right amount of light to make my portion of the video look normal, or so Lauren explained.
“Hang on. I need to hydrate,” I said, grabbing a Powerade set strategically to the side. I took a long swig then grabbed my bucket of ping pong balls, placing them between my crisscrossed legs. As if I were about to play the toughest of sports, I stretched my arms and back while swiveling my neck around both directions.
The first one to successfully land a ball in the red Solo Cup was the winner.
“Start on go,” Scott instructed. “No cheating.”
“Zip it and say go,” I shot back, mentally gearing up for the ultimate cup-sinking showdown.
“One, two, go!” Of course, Scott played unfairly, but this wasn’t our first contest. I was prepared and tossed the first ball, watching it ricochet from one pot or pan to the next until it fell flat three-quarters of the way down the path. I recalculated the position and strength of the throw then made a slight adjustment. With my new trajectory established, the second ball was tossed. I kept going just that way, one right after another.
“Oh man,” Scott called out.
“What?” I asked, keeping my gaze locked on the ball. My effort to engage him in conversation was primarily intended to distract him from his focus.
“I just missed the cup.”
I did not expect to hear that. My vision narrowed, my focus sharpened, and I continued sending the balls bouncing down the course. A slow trickle of sweat ran down my cheek. The world around me disappeared. The only sound that registered was the ping of the ball striking the bottom of the various pans. Less than halfway through my bucket, I could feel and hear exactly where the balls needed to land to make it to the cup. It was time to buckle down and get serious.