“Whose idea do you think the bus was?”
Laughter leaves us both however afterward he asks, “Can I drive?”
Holding back a fearful scowl is even harder than the active listening shit I just pulled off.
“I need more hours,” he gingerly reminds. “Remember, I finished all my app shit Sunday.”
“You did.”
“And I need highway time.”
“You do.”
“Andnon-ideal conditions…”
“Which game day traffic certainly qualifies as.”
“So…” eagerness grows in his gaze, “is that a yes?”
“Fine.” His smirking naturally sparks my own. “But…”
“Totes ear emoji.”
“If you scratch or dent or wreck my car,your allowanceis covering it until the damages are completely paid forandyou’ll be grounded until Christmas.”
“Easy.”
“Of next year.”
“Done!” Bronny enthusiastically exclaims on a fist punch to the air.
“Five minutes now.” I resume my trek down the stairs, grin still lingering. “And you can’t drive my car if you’re busy riding the bus.”
Post grabbing my keys, beanie, and confirming Joey’s text regarding where to meet for the big photo as well as sending M his traditional pre-game “you got this” message, I’m joined by my boyfriend’s younger brother who is not only wearing the same hat he did for their family photo, but his Dalvegan jersey and the boots Thayne bought him the same day he bought me mine.
Hiding my giddiness isn’t impossible, although, necessary.
I know what happens when he seesyourwin.
I’ve watched enough telenovelas to learn a thing or two about what the villain will do in response.
And Bronny isn’t exactly a villain.
He just has villain-like tendencies.
Again.
Hormones.
There’s so much shit to blame on those things.
Including bad breath.
Something he also has often.
His chemical fluctuation being the cause of that is a fifty-fifty shot, honestly.
You would think the boy isallergicto toothpaste the way his mouth is rarely minty fresh.
