Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
The future that Grams swears will be more than stacking boxes at a small-town store and marrying the prom queen – who he knocked up their senior year – because he’s here.
Where there’s more structure and more guidance and more discipline.
You know.
All the things teens typically hate you for.
“Um…” Bronny guiltily grumbles at the same time he rocks on his heels, “I didn’t know you were that close.”
“Next time, let’s look before we shout. Okay?”
He nods.
“Now,” Joey’s advice on how to parent pops back into my mind prompting me to suggest, “I would like to talk about the boots sitch.” It’s hard to resist folding my arms across my chest; however, I have to refrain. I have to appear open and inviting in my body language to welcome an open and honest conversation. “Talk not argue.”
“No one ever listens to me when I talk,” he grumps.
The urge to do the very thing I just said I didn’t want to do immediately taps itself on my shoulder.
We don’t listen to him?!
That’s why we stayed up late to help him make an Ooey Gooey butter cake for his history class because just buying one would be an insult to Grams or like spitting on his Gramps grave, which he wasn’t willing to do.
That’s why Thayne had Dubs rush ship him a custom cowboy hat for their Dalvegan family photo.
That’s why I ditched my brother for a lunch date yesterday to bring him a pair of tennis shoes – he texted, begged me for – so that he could try out for the lacrosse team after school.
Because we never listen to him.
Fucking teens.
I swear.
Spears…please, make me stronger than yesterday.
“I’m listening,” I calmly reassure. “Talk to me. Tell me why don’t you wanna wear your boots.”
“’Cause it’s cringe.”
And somehow saying the word instead of making the face is cool?
Um…drips?
See.
I don’t like that.
It feels dirty and gross and like I’m describing a tooth abscess.
“Because they’re cringe – wrong type or color or style – or because wearing boots in general now is cringe?”
My seeking of clarification causes him to twitch a glare. “’Cause matchin’ with a bunch of other people is so dumb.”
Ah.
Probably should’ve suspected there’d be a bit of pushback when the Slayers insisted we all do something cutesy like this for opening night, but in my defense, I was more focused on how excited I was to be able to be included in my first official Slayer moment, even if everyone knows not to publicly label me as one.
Not yet.
Not before I’ve had a chance to tell M.
Which technically was on the agenda pre-footwear freak out.
And there wasn’t really time post.
I had patients to see and time-off requests to approve of and gear to inspect and a hot homemade meal to get to.
Gahhhh, I love that Jukes cooks.
I love even more that he insists on doing it.
Sadly, I’m already seeing many takeout meals in me and Bronny’s future when he’s unavailable.
I may attempt some of the easier meals suggested by the team chef, but we’ll see.
“Okay,” I shrug, indifference purposely kept in my tone. “Don’t wear them.”
His brow immediately crunches in confusion. “Huh?”
“You’re sixteen, Bronny. It’s not my job to police your wardrobe.”
Additional bafflement raises his voice in pitch. “It isn’t?!”
“Nope.”
Another shock filled expression is flashed.
“My job is to parent you. To provide the assist and at times play captain to guide you into being the least shitty human you can possibly be.”
He stares on in continued bewilderment.
“Wear what you wanna wear. Your body. Your choice. Your nuts to freeze off if you show up in in shorts, flip flops, and a tank.” I turn to begin my descent of the stairs, yet stop to face him again after only going down two. “Do you know why they pick one thing for us all to wear for the season opener?”
“Tradition?”
“Yes, but do you know like why it’s a tradition? Why it started? Why we keep it?”
Bronny slowly shakes his head.
“Not everyone has family that can come see them play or cheer them on or be there for them physically. Some don’t even have families that can afford to watch the game – assuming it’s being broadcast where they’re located.” My fingers lightly drum the railing. “You know some of the boys don’t actually get to see their families or their loved ones for more than like three weeks a year?”
“No-huh…”
It’s my turn to gradually nod. “Depending on how everything goes, the schedule for training through post regulation season vastly varies and if you factor in play-offs, potential injuries – some of which require surgery and rehab – charity events, social events, and trades, three weeks can easily become one.”
Empathy noticeably floods his face.
“We all wear one thing in a show of solidarity. Support.” Pride pushes my shoulders back. Tips my chin. “We wear it so each of the boys knows that while they may not have other family that can reach them, they have us. That we’re there not just for whoever we’ve slayed but for them too. That while they are the team we need on the ice, we are the one they can count on off it.”