Yawning because it’s approaching three AM, I watch as the puck drops and Joker steals possession.
He dribbles the puck as he dances around the opposition before shooting it toward our offensive zone. It collides with the board then swings behind the goal where Zach’s waiting.
“Move the camera toward our boy,” I bark at Callan, who’s quick to obey.
He’s gotten pretty good at becoming my unofficial live feed of the games.
Joker swoops in behind the net, too, and Zach makes a pass. The Twisters’ D-man sneaks in and grabs the puck, but Mason’s ready to snatch it back.
The two tussle and Mason gets elbowed in the face before being shoved onto the ice?—
“IS THE REF BLIND?!” I screech when no penalty is called.
They don’t even stop the play!
Thankfully, Gregg’s there to ram that D-man into the boards as he snags possession and transfers it to Zach, who’s waiting beside thecrease. One almost gentle tap later and the puck’s where it belongs—behind the goal line.
“YESSSS!” I roar, my delight mingling with Callan’s and the rest of the home crowd.
When someone bangs on the wall next to me, I don’t even complain.
SansDyers and corrupt Coach Ridley,the team’s gelling well. The first few games with new coaching staff were interesting—only Zach’s propensity for breakaways and scoring kept the Dukes en route to the Frozen Four. But the team-building exercises Zach and Pecan bitch about are so obviously working, I wouldn’t be surprised if they take it all the way.
As for the rest of the game, Gregg scores and Mason too, while the Twisters get one past Peeks.
My eyes are so close to shutting permanently by the time the final buzzer goes off that I only have it in me to send a typo-laden text to Zach:
We’ll done baboon to pride of yo xxx sp l8r
FIFTY-FIVE
DADDY’S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET
*Denver sends picture*
I releasea breath as I stare at the ‘property’ in front of me.
It’s not what I imagined.
Or is it?
My memories of my grandmother have faded as time’s gone by. She died six years ago, and I remember her always carrying the massive Chanel purse my dad bought her to commemorate his first big contract with an NBA player, a cigarette in the other hand, and a baseball cap on her head. She wore things Dad didn’t approve of—jeans and camisoles and flip-flops. Her nails were damaged from bleach, she said, and her fingers bore the stains too…
Whenever she ate a snack, she halved it and used to put the rest in her purse for ameriendathe next day. She’d berate Logan for using too much ketchup and wasting it if he didn’t eat it, and I’m pretty sure she stole the toilet paper in her bathroom from one of the coffee shops down her street.
Twelve-year-old me never picked up on those things as signs of someone who’d endured poverty, but now? It’s staring me straight in the face.
Dad: What the fuck are you doing there?
The aggression would have taken me aback another day. Now, I’m looking at the remnants of a slum and it makes a sad kind of sense.
Me: You know how I convinced you to sign off on this half semester abroad by telling you how soccer is massive and it’s a growing industry in the US and I could be networking, yadda yadda yadda?
Me: I lied.
When my cell buzzes, I’m not surprised. It does surprise me that I dive into this headfirst by answering the call.
“Whyare you there?” is his immediate snarledgreeting.
