“They can smile for cameras, but can they actuallyplay?” an unfortunately familiar voice says—loudly—from the Deer Drop bench as Tavi, Phoebe, Teague, and I arrive at our own bench.
“Andrew,”Hannah hisses. “Be nice.”
Tavi’s head whips around so fast you’d think it was spring-loaded.
“Donot,” I start.
“Oh my God, is that him?” she whispers.
I grab her by the arm. “Get your snowshoes on.”
“He hit on me.”
“You think everything hits on you,” Phoebe murmurs.
Tavi growls at her.
Phoebe smiles. “You’re right, Bridget,” she calls to the teenager, who’s already issuing orders to the rest of the team, since she’s the best coach we’ve ever had. “It’stotesfun to pick on our siblings.”
“But—” Tavi starts.
“My blood pressure can’t handle this,” I mutter to her, which is the most honest thing I’ve said all day. Andrew being a sleaze and hitting on other women while married to my pregnant-with-his-baby best friend is the icing on the cake, but Andrew hitting on Tavi—swear to the holy gods of my blowtorch, it makes me want to light the man on fire. “Just—can we wait until after the game?”
“Right. Game. Of course.”
“This is going to be, like,so much fun,” Lola says. She leaps to her feet as I walk by, her arms windmilling. “Oh mygah, I can barely stand!”
I look at Teague.
He stares back at me.
Hell.
Willie Wayne’s too far away, and he’s steering clear anyway out of worry for what Akiko would think if he looked at Lola wrong—dude was addicted toLola’s Tiny House—which means it’s on me to steady her.
“Oh, Lola, you poor thing.” Tavi leaps in front of me and wraps her arms around Lola. “Here. Let me help you. You have to have really strong core muscles to stand up well in these snowshoes.”
“I do five hundred crunches a day,” Lola says as Tavi hugs her.
“I like kettlebell swings so much better,” Tavi replies. “I’m up to like five hundred of those too.”
“Oh, but you have to be careful with those,” Lola says. “They can make you look fat with too much muscle.”
“You steady now?” I ask Lola. “Tavi’s gotta get her shoes on.”
And also not strangle Lola.
“Oh, I’msogood, Dylan.” Lola smiles at me. “And how are you?”
“Peachy.”
“Your TikTok has like thirty-seven million views overall now. That’s like, just wait.Good Morning Americawill be calling for sure.”
“I ordered one of your shirts, Dylan,” Jane’s husband, Gibson, calls to me. He’s a six-foot-four, bald Black travel photographer with more muscles in his left forearm than I have in both thighs together. “Gonna represent all over the world.”
“Shirts?”
“Silly, your shirts,” Tavi says as she pulls away from Lola. “From your print-on-demand store.”
