Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Bennett picks up the OJ and leaves again with the whole carton. I swear that kid is half orange juice. And thank fuck nine-year-olds can’t pick up on tension in a room. Or, maybe they can and he’s smart enough to get out of here as fast as possible.
“Why are you the way that you are?” West starts.
That’s a good question. I go to answer that maybe it’s because I’ve already lost too much in my twenty-one years and that everyone and everything else can go fuck itself, but he holds up his hand.
“Never mind. I know why you do the shit you do.” His whole body slumps in defeat.
“It didn’t mean anything.” Like that makes it any better. Teammate code. Don’t date siblings. Not that Ezra and I have ever or will ever date in the conventional meaning of the word. Like he said, it was only sex.
“There you go missing the bigger picture again.” West plants his hands on the countertop of the kitchen island. “What’s it going to take for you to put your head down this summer, study your ass off, and help me around here without all your attention-seeking behavior?”
“Fuck you.” Even if he has a point. Just … fuck him.
“You almost flunked out freshman year. Get your shit together and stop testing me. Your life for the next eight weeks is kids, study, and more studying. Got it?”
“Yay. How fun for me.” Though it’s not like I have anything better to do. The only friend I made this last year is moving to Montreal.
Without Cohen, my social life is pretty much nonexistent.
“I need to go,” West says. “Finish packing these, and then get on the road. They can’t be late for morning warm-up.”
I know that, I want to bite at him but don’t have the energy.
West pushes past me, and it takes all my strength not to throw the kids’ lunches at the wall.
Even though our mom died when I was too young to remember, I do remember being told my whole life I need to find healthier coping mechanisms than my “outbursts.” It used to be hockey. Now it’s sex. And adrenaline. That feeling of pissing someone off so much to the point where I don’t know if they’re going to hit me or not. I long for that.
“Are you and West fighting again?” The small voice of my eleven-year-old sister, Hazel, makes me flinch.
“Not at all,” I lie. I turn to her.
Where West and I look like brothers, dark hair, green eyes, Hazel and our other half siblings take after our stepmom. Lighter hair, blue eyes.
I soften my gaze. Of everyone in this world, my younger siblings are the only people I can honestly say I love. “I slept in, and West is pissed you’re going to be late for practice.”
“Is that all?” She doesn’t believe me, but I’m not dragging her or any of the others into our shit.
“Promise.”
“Are we ready to go?” she asks.
“Yep. Just need to finish these lunches.”
“I’ll help.”
We get on the road five minutes later, and as soon as I drop them off, I resist the urge to ditch school. It’s hard, but I do manage to drag my ass to campus. If I want to keep playing for Colchester, I need to take these classes.
I regret it as soon as my first class starts because all the information goes over my head.
It’s definitely going to be a long summer.
2
Kole
Summer went way too quickly.
I spent most of it interning for the Stem Cell Foundation in New York, and then like every year, I flew to Miami for the last two weeks with Mom and Dad. It’s the only two weeks of the year we get away from Dad talking nonstop about the love of his life. No, not my mom. Hockey. As head coach of the Colchester University hockey team, it takes up most of his time. Dad and I never get along better than when we’re in Miami.
It sucks because we used to be great, right up until I turned fourteen and realized that playing a sport I hated wasn’t enough to gain Dad’s approval. When I told my parents I was gay, they hugged me and said they love and support me. When I told them I was quitting hockey? Dad barely spoke to me for a month.
So heading for the hockey arena instead of study group right now feels like a giant waste of time.
“I still can’t believe you made that dumb bet,” Katey says. Her hair is bubble-gum pink this year, and she’s recently had her nose pierced, but her face is delicate and doe-eyed, so she pulls the look off like some kind of cartoon, jerk-off fantasy. If you’re into that sort of thing. I’m not, which is why we’re best friends.
“In my defense, without Foster Grant, I really didn’t think Dad’s team would make it to regionals last year.”