Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
The tiny blue light in the top left hand corner blinks.
It’s him. I just know it.
I unlock the screen and go to my messages. There are three.
Mom: Don’t forget to call grandma tomorrow. It’s her bday
Mom: Remind Veronica
Veronica: Mom wanted me to remind you to call Nana for her birthday. Plz tell her to stop texting me. It’s driving me frickin cray cray.
“Not him,” I say, setting my phone back down, deflated. My shoulders even sag a little. “My mom and my sister.”
“That sucks.”
I text my sister back: At least moms not following YOU on “The Twitter.” And please stop saying cray cray
Molly sits back in her chair and studies me. Finally, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head off - somewhere out there, my big, dumb, lummox of a brother is plotting his seduction. Or assault. Whatever you wanna call it.” She laughs, popping the last pink bubblegum Jelly Belly in her mouth, chewing slowly and grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Have no doubt about that.”
Oh, don’t I know it - he is out there plotting.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. And honestly, what I’m most looking forward to.
Matthew
Just for the record: the word is canoodle.
And I don’t know how the hell I’m going to fit it in to a sentence - especially in public. Cecelia chose it, and I know she did it on purpose knowing I was going to sound like a fucking idiot saying it out loud.
In front of actual people.
I sigh.
It seemed like such a good plan at the time.
CHAPTER 19
MATTHEW
“Sometimes you just have to knock a motherfucker’s teeth out.”
- Source unknown. Post-game, in the locker room.
I drum my large hand on the counter in the locker room as I impatiently wait for the boys to finish showering after practice. Out of boredom, with my forefinger, I poke my cell so it spins in a circle, round and round it goes, shiny and white on the smooth wooden counter top.
“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” Weston asks, coming from around the corner.
“Nope.”
“Gee, what a surprise.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Actually, I am surprised. On a Friday night you don’t have any tail lined up? Shouldn’t you be out pounding a random hoochie into some dirty mattress?”
I shoot him a grimace. “Wow Wes, when you put it that way, you really make the idea sound soooo appealing.”
Weston laughs and sets a hockey stick on the counter, examining it carefully for nicks before ripping open a new package of black grip tape.
I nod my head towards the stick. “Who’s woody?”
“Ryan’s. His mom can’t afford to buy him a new one. Or new tape.” Wes tears a piece of black hockey tape off the roll with his teeth and begins wrapping the handle of the kid’s beat-up stick.
“Why isn’t he doing this himself?”
“Don’t know. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he doesn’t know how. Anyway, who cares?”
“I do. He should learn to take care of his equipment.”
Weston stops for a brief second and glances up at me, a peeved expression across his brow. “Fine. When he comes out here you can tell him yourself, since obviously you’re going to be a dick about it. Then you can show him how to wrap the blade.”
“I’m not being a dick. All I’m saying is, Ryan should learn that depending on how you wrap it, it can feel totally different when you grip it.”
Weston stops wrapping and looks up again with both eyebrows raised, the shadow of a black eye still darkening the recesses next to his nose. “I’m not even going to comment on that.”
“Huh?”
“That sounded really lewd and perverted.”
“You think that sounded lewd? Do you even know what that word means?”
“You forgot perverted. I said you sounded lewd and perverted.”
“Jesus Christ, what does my sister even see in you?”
“No, seriously. How about when Ryan comes out here, you explain to him how to hold and wrap his own wood so it feels good when he grips it.” As he’s saying it, Weston is rocking his hips back and forth, thrusting against the counter.
“Dude, shut the fuck up.” But it’s too late: the douche bag is laughing and shaking his head, as he continues to carefully wrap Ryan’s inexpensive Wal-Mart brand hockey stick like it’s a Bauer Vapor APX, undeterred.
Whatever.
It’s annoying the shit out of me that he isn’t seeing my point, but is instead making a mockery out of it. Frustrated, I hiss out through gritted teeth, “These kids need to learn responsibility.”
In response, Weston tears another long strip off the grip tape roll and continues quickly winding it around the handle of the stick. He spits out a sliver of tape that stuck to his tongue before saying, “I’m not a fucking idiot - I know exactly what you meant, and I respect that. I do. But these kids take forever to do this shit, and I’d rather wrap this myself so I can get the hell out of here. I plan on getting laid tonight. Unlike you, I have a date waiting, so… Sorry dude.”