“Can’t wait ‘til we come home for Christmas.”
The small grin he delivers me indicates he knows exactly what he’s doing.
That he has my back the way I keep trying to have his – despite his teen denial.
“Gotta impress the new broadskies wink emoj.”
“Why?!” I chastise under my breath. “Whysaythe goddamn emoji?”
“See, nowthathat nonsense I won’t buy, but at least I believe you’re sellin it,” Grams informs on a small chortle. “For the last time, I don’t needno bodycheckin’ on me…Y’all need to be focusin’ ony’all.Time with each other. Time with Gilly.School. Hockey. Family.” Her pause doesn’t leave ample time for any more arguments to be made. “But I’ll give him your hat to bring home to you and a couple slices of pie.”
“Thanks, Grams.”
“Mmmhmm,” she brushes off again. “We’ll talk later. Love you, boys.”
“Love you, Grams,” we echo prior to the call ending.
Afterward, I kick my chin in his direction. “That was a different kinda hat trick.”
“No.” Bronny disgustedly shakes his head at the same time he opens his door. “No Dad jokes.” The action is executed faster. “Vomit emoj.”
“You’re a vomit emoj,” I childishly mock during my own exiting.
Post grabbing my coffee, my gear bag, and locking my truck, we head side by side into the barn, politely waving or greeting staff enroute in between reviving the fight we were originally having before Gramsfinallyanswered my call.
“Me learnin’ to drive is already happenin’,” he grunts. “Why can’t it be with your truck?”
“’Cause I saw what you did to my kitchen.”
“That was an accident!”
“And what do ya think will be happenin’ the first time you get a pair of tits in a text?”
“Groffeeeeeeee,” a familiar voice suddenly shouts from behind me, thankfully summoning my attention elsewhere.
“Snowman,” I greet as he jogs up next to me.
“Groffee JV,” he tauntingly states to my brother.
“No,” we reject in tandem.
Laughter precedes him adjusting his own bag and cheekily pointing to the object in our hands. “I see you two are supporting the family business.”
“Ginger molasses latte for me, some energy drink garbage for him.”
“Are you truly incapable of ordering something remotely normal?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You are so bloody weird,” playfully goads Snowman.
“You know I prefer to make my own, especially on non-game days, but I didn’t exactly have time this morning if you catch my clapper,” leaves me alongside an extended fist for bumping.
“Wait! Family business?!” my brother croaks stopping us dead in our tracks. “Your family owns LMC?!”
“MySlayer’sfamily does, yes.”
“No shit!”
