Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I am not going to think about the intended use of their gift. Not. At. All.
The moment practice is over, I’m the first one off the ice. Back in the locker room, I shower and change at lightning speed, avoiding my friends as best as I can when I grab my bag and go.
I don’t need their comments in my head. Because those assholes are annoyingly right. But the thing is—Maeve is awesome. That’s a fact. She’s funny, bold, and wild, and she’s faced pain no one should ever have to face. But she’s on the other side, strong and gutsy, and she’d fight off a nest of vipers for anyone she loves.
I’m one of those anyones. And I’m not stupid enough to risk losing that.
Doesn’t matter that I liked kissing her.
Doesn’t matter that I have dirty dreams about her.
Doesn’t even matter that I loved the way she looked in my clothes.
Nothing can ever come of this friendly affection I feel for her, and it’s not simply because of my friendship with her brother. I’m damaged goods when it comes to romance. I’m radioactive, and I guess I’ve accepted it as part of who I am.
Nora died when I was twenty-two, and since then, I’ve had nothing but a series of short-term relationships that never make it past the six-month mark. They’re broken-down cars sputtering, running out of gas at the end of a deserted highway with nowhere to go.
Somewhere inside my heart, there’s an expiration date for some damn reason. Even if I tried with Maeve, we’d inevitably end. And no fucking way am I risking losing her. She means too much to me and so does her brother.
In the back of the Lyft headed to the airport, I power through some emails from Soraya, the executive Beckett and I hired to run day-to-day operations for Total Teamwork. She’s an Iranian-born former competitive ice skater who grew up in Portland, and she’s experienced firsthand the benefits of what we’re trying to build.
Total Teamwork focuses on underprivileged kids. It’s about sports and support. The clinics and camps we’re launching will have counselors available and offer peer support through group sessions. Our goal? To teach kids that problems are best solved together.
We have a ton of events planned for the project’s kickoff, so Soraya is checking with me on details. Am I ready for the board meeting next week? Then, we’ll focus on the launch picnic after that and then the glow-in-the-dark fun run.
I fire off responses to her emails, but then, when the car nears the exit for San Bruno Avenue, a message pops up from one of my dads and then the other.
Carlos: Is Vegas tonight? Beware the blackjack tables. You know your track record.
John: And the house always wins. So try not to lose your shirt.
My jaw drops at the suggestion I’m bad at gambling.
Asher: I believe you sent your message to the wrong person.
John: Nope. I meant it for you.
Asher: Mean!
Carlos: Mean and honest. A winning combo.
Asher: And you’re giving me a hard time, too? Great. Just great.
John: Someone has to keep you humble. It’s a parent’s job.
Asher: And you two excel at that. I’ll have you know I am as awesome at blackjack as I am at managing a baseball team.
Carlos: You don’t manage a baseball team.
Asher: Yet. I don’t yet.
John: Right. And someday, I’ll be good at pickleball.
I grin at their banter, but seeing Carlos’s name reminds me of something I wanted to tell him. It’s too much for a text, so I hit dial.
He answers quickly with a curious, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Good news. Just wanted to let you know I looked into that elbow pain J-Dad was having,” I say, turning toward the window.
There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh, you did?”
“Yeah. Remember after my game last week, his arm was kind of sore?”
“Sure,” he says, sounding tentative.
“I checked online, and I don’t think it’s radiculopathy, where one of the nerve roots is irritated. There would be tingling and numbness in the arm if it was. More likely, it’s just regular muscle pain.” Passing that on rekindles the relief I felt that weekend after looking up arm pain symptoms and their probable causes.
Carlos answers, “I wasn’t really worried.” His tone is just shy of paternalistic, but he is a dad.
“Oh good.”
“We’ve been playing pickleball. So it was probably that,” he adds.
“Good, good. Just wanted to be sure.” The car is nearing the terminal. “Carry on with the pickleball.”
He laughs lightly, pauses, then says, “We will. And…thanks, kid.”
“Anytime.”
When I hang up, I switch over to my camera app and hit record, still in the Lyft’s back seat.
“If you don’t hear from me, assume I won big at the tables and bought a baseball team, proving you both wrong. But I’m not as mean as you two, so I’ll get you good seats to all the games.” I pause and lower my voice in case the driver’s listening in. “Love you two.”