He shrugs. “Not bad.”
Noah wins the struggle, ruffling his brother’s hair. “He’s lying. He’s been blowing my phone up every other day about this guy on his team pissing him off.”
Jonah pulls a face. “It’s whatever. I can’t wait to graduate so I can get the hell away from him.”
“Oh yeah? You coming to play for Heston?” I ask. “Bet Coach would love that.”
“No, this little traitor wants to play for Elmwood.” Noah scoffs and pokes Jonah’s cheek.
“I like their coaching staff,” Jonah mutters stiffly. “It’s not personal, just strategy.”
I grin, shaking my head. The two Porter brothers couldn’t be more opposite in personality.
“I see my mom.” I tap Noah’s arm with the back of my hand. “See you when I get back.”
“Later, dude.”
I jog over to meet Mom and Asher waiting near the exit.
“Hey, sweetheart. Great game.” I bend so Mom can hug me easier. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go home?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze her in another half hug and high five my little brother. “Did you hear it’s supposed to snow tomorrow? We can skate on the pond if it’s cold enough.”
“Or I could kick your ass on Mario Kart,” he says.
“Asher,” Mom chides with an amused huff. “What did I say about your language?”
He shrugs. “I’m nine.”
“Almost nine,” she corrects. “Still not allowed to talk like that.”
He deflates with a whine.
When we lost Dad, he was just turning four. He’s entering middle school next year, and at that point where kids waver between wanting to grow up too fast and remembering they’re still just a kid.
I snort. “Dude, don’t try her. You won’t ever forget the taste of soap if you’ve got a dirty mouth.”
“Your mouth is dirty,” Asher mutters. “I’ve heard you.”
I smirk, whispering to him. “The trick is not to get caught.”
Mom gives me an exasperated look that melts into a loving smile as we make our way out of the arena.
It feels good to spend time with them. Most of my year is spent training and focusing on the season. If I’m going pro, I have to cherish this time.
FIFTEEN
EASTON
The house smellsfantastic on Thursday afternoon. Mom loves to start prep early. By lunchtime, she’s cooking.
“If you’re only going to snack on goat cheese and olives without helping me, get out of my kitchen.” She whips my hand with a dish towel to keep me from snagging another stuffed olive. “Go keep Asher occupied.”
I grumble in protest, mouth too full of the appetizer cheese-cracker-summer sausage masterpiece sandwich I crammed in a moment ago. Bracing my hands on the island separating us, I chew furiously and gulp it down.
“Do you need help, though? Put me to work.”
“I’ll call you back in when I’m ready for you to carry all this food to the table.”
