“That’s right, son. Be the bigger man.”
“But, Coop—”
“I’m the star of this shit show, so we’re going to sit down and enjoy every moment of it. Megan and Duncan are unimportant. They don’t matter.”
Coop’s mother chimes in, “I think you should let Ursula do her job and fix this. Serves them right to get their seats moved. Shame on Megan. Good thing you never brought her to my house for dinner.”
“Ursula did her job, Mom.”Wait, did he just defend me? “It’s just the network fucking with us for ratings. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”
Coop and his father exchange a knowing look then Mr. Barnes sits down next to his wife. “Come on, Ann. This is Coop’s decision, and frankly I’m in total agreement. Fuck ’em.”
Coop’s mom finally acquiesces. “Okay, then. Fuck ’em.”
Sheesh, the whole family has potty mouths.
While they sabotaged our seating, the network made up for it during the actual ceremony. It was truly a testimony to how respected Coop is, that so many athletes and other celebrities were either live on stage or pre-recorded a video saying nice things about Coop.
He makes me a better player, because he is the best.
If I want to see an example of excellence I watch him play.
Mr. Friday Night Lights!
His commitment to educating our children is unprecedented.
The funniest man I’ve ever met.
Cockiest player on the playing field.
Kindest man on the planet.
I wasn’t sure where they dug up all these people, because I’ve been around Coop almost around the clock for three years, and he is definitely a loner. When did he find the time to make these sorts of connections with people? Connections that would inspire them to make these comments. Perhaps like a television drama, the ceremony was all scripted.
I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Even with Megan rolling her eyes at him all night, he left the ceremony on a high, and we’ll be sure to continue the celebration at the afterparty even if I have to deejay the dang party myself. I’m going to go out with a bang even if it kills me.
Chapter Five
URSULA
“Gutterball!”
My sisters both brazenly high five each other as they cackle. Carla, the pregnant one, stuffs a few french fries in her mouth as she grins in triumph; while Monica pops a wad of Double Bubble in her mouth and then practically bulldozes me out of the bowling lane with her voluptuous hips.
“My turn!” she exclaims.
They’re both so ridiculously jubilant, because I just rolled a gutterball for my team—the team being me and our seventy-five-year old grandmother. I shake my head in disbelief. These two have no shame when it comes to competitive sports.
“It’s pretty sad when you getthisexcited about beating your Nana on bowling night,” I say scornfully.
My words don’t seem to faze either one of them. Self-satisfying smirks are still plastered across their faces.
“Speak for yourself,” Nana blurts out from behind me. “I haven’t thrown a gutterball like you just did since 1978. Your sisters didn’t beat me, they beat you.”
“That’s right, Nana!” My sisters roar with laughter. “You tell her.”
I make a pouty face and sit back over on the side bench.
Nana is a turncoat.
