“If Coach Little allows it, maybe. But I don’t want it to be only hockey. That defeats the whole point.”
“So, what else?”
“Normal stuff.”
“Define normal.”
I studied him for a second. “You really don’t know?”
His jaw shifted slightly, and for the first time all morning, the humor faded just enough for me to see something bare underneath it.
Not sad exactly, but unfamiliar. Like normal was a language he’d learned academically but never spoken at home. That was the first time I wondered what a family had to be like for a guy like Cade Mercer to look at Sunday barbecue chaos like it belonged to another species.
“Normal,” I said gently, “means coffee runs. Studying. Dinner with friends. Watching you argue with Easton about drills or correcting literally all of Briggs’s grammar. Sunday dinner, nights at The Sin Bin. Maybe seeing the places you like when you aren’t being worshipped by an entire campus.”
He rolled his eyes as he shook his head. “I’m not worshipped.”
I gave him a look.
He conceded with a small nod. “Fine. Mildly venerated.”
“You’re agreeing.”
He grew serious as he looked at me. “You’re certain you want me?”
I almost choked but held my composure. “For a project.”
“For a year-long project,” he corrected. “That’s commitment.”
Fuck, he was relentless, and he knew it. “Academic commitment.”
“There it is again.”
“There’s what again?”
“You making hanging out sound official.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I am.”
Before I could save myself and tell him never mind and run for the hills, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Dad’s name lit up the screen with one text, then another, becauseDaniel Bennett did not believe in using punctuation when urgency and thumbs existed.
Dad: Do we have charcoal?
Dad: Actually never mind I found it.
Dad: Bring those little potatoes if you have time.
Dad: Also tell your brothers I am not listening to complaints today.
I sighed and picked up the phone. “Speaking of normal.”
Cade watched me. “Family logistics?”
“Barbecue warfare.” I typed back quickly, telling Dad I would bring potatoes and that I would field complaints today, then set the phone down. “My dad wants potatoes. Which means he forgot he already bought potatoes. Which means there will be enough potatoes to feed a minor league baseball team. Extra side dishes save us every Sunday when we all usually throw the barbecue in the garbage when he isn’t looking.”
“He’s really that bad?”
