Milo flips the pancake. The underside is black. He stares at it for a long moment, then slides it onto the plate with the other burned ones and pours fresh batter into the pan. "That one was a practice round."
"That's what you said about the last four."
"Practice makes perfect, Quentin. That's literally the foundation of athletics."
"You're making breakfast, not running drills."
"Breakfast is a drill. Breakfast is the most important drill of the day."
Quentin sets the knife down and looks at me. "How long do I let this continue?"
"Until he gets one right or we run out of batter. Whichever comes first."
Milo points the spatula at me. "Traitor."
My phone buzzes against the counter beside my hip. I pick it up expecting a notification from the athletic department about next week's budget meeting, but the name on the screen makes me pause.
Dad:Dinner next Sunday. Bring them.
Two sentences. No preamble, no explanation, no follow-up. Just the invitation and the assumption that I'll know what he means. I turn the phone toward the twins.
Milo reads it first. The sound that comes out of him isn't a word. It's somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, the spatula freezing mid-air, a drop of batter sliding off the edge and hitting the stovetop with a sizzle. Quentin leans over to read it, his eyes scanning the text twice before he nods once.
Milo grips both hands with the spatula, his scent souring a bit, what little I can gather beneath the blockers. "Do I need to bring something? Should I bring something? What does Coach eat? Does he have dietary restrictions? Should I make something? I can't cook but I could buy something and pretend—"
"Milo." I set my coffee down, jump off the counter, and take the spatula from his hand before the current pancake joins its fallen brethren. "Just bring yourself. And scent blockers."
"Right. Scent blockers. Every day. Got it."
Quentin takes over the stove without comment, pouring fresh batter and producing a golden, evenly cooked pancake within ninety seconds. Milo watches with open betrayal on his face. I eat my fruit and my one acceptable pancake and let the morning settle around us. Vague thoughts about pack and our future filter through my head but I push those away.
We’re not ready for those discussions and as much as I would love this to be more than just a college fling, I don’t want to jinx this.
The conversation drifts while we eat, the three of us crowded around my small kitchen table with our knees bumping underneath it. Milo mentions that practice yesterday was the first one where he didn't have to pretend, where he could watch me on the bleachers and let his scent do whatever it wanted without panicking about who noticed.
Quentin snorts. “Bro, you’re wearing scent blockers. No one would have noticed.”
Milo glares at him, angrily shaking his empty fork. “Bro? When have you ever ‘bro’d’ me? That’s a Chad thing. Don’t everbrome again.”
I snort, settling back in my chair as the reality of what we’ve started takes route. Milo and Quentin filed all of their information yesterday morning, the three of us crossing our fingers that it would be enough to send Chad packing. Of course, the moment he found out, he tried to submit some kind of appeal. That failedspectacularly.And at 6:02 this morning, I got a text from my father that I’ve beendyingto share.
"Chad's been removed from the team and the campus, effective immediately," I say, spreading cream cheese on the edge of my pancake. Milo scrunches up his face at my choice of condiment, before my words register with him
Milo's fork clatters against his plate. "Wait, what? Like for good? Like, fully gone? Like, gone-forever and ever?"
"My father texted this morning. Between my records and your statements, there was nothing to contest. That and the fact that apparently administration already had a case file on him and this was the nail in the coffin."
Milo's fist slams the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. "Yes! Fuck yes! That's what he gets! That's what happens when you mess with—" His elbow catches his glass of orange juice on the backswing and sends it toppling sideways, the juice sloshing across the table and over my hand before either of us can grab it.
"Milo!" I pull my hand back, juice dripping from my fingers.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry—" He grabs my wrist before I can reach for a napkin, his eyes locked on mine, and then he lifts my hand to his mouth and sucks my index finger past his lips.
My brain stops working. His tongue drags along the length of my finger, cleaning the juice off with a thoroughness that has absolutely nothing to do with the mess and everything to do with the way his eyes darken as he watches my reaction. A moanslips out of me before I can catch it, my thighs pressing together under the table.
I pull my hand back. "We're eating breakfast."
"Wewereeating breakfast," Milo says, his voice innocent, his expression anything but.
