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“Scottie, I swear to God, kid. You’ve got to stop with this titty shit. You’ll get into trouble saying stuff like that.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is.” He huffed. “Fenton’s dad said—”
“Okay, okay, bud. Time to move this conversation on. We don’t talk about girls that way, okay?” Not until he was at least fifteen, anyway.
“Fine.” He went silent, and although there were over one hundred miles between us, I could sense the tension emitting from him.
“Scottie, we talked about this. Sometimes, me or Mom or your teachers have to point out when you’re being inappropriate. It’s not—”
“I said it’s fine. Mom’s calling me. I need to go.”
“Scot—”
He hung up.
The little shit hung up on me, but I didn’t take it personally. Puberty was hitting the kid hard. He didn’t understand it for the most part. Just knew he had all these new and strange thoughts and feelings.
I tried to help where I could, but I didn’t always get it right.
I’d read every book out there on autism when Scottie was younger. But none of the information could account for the fact that most people on the spectrum presented differently. There wasn’t a one-size-fits-all approach, something I’d found frustrating in the early days when I didn’t know how to deal with one of his meltdowns or his tendency to come into my room in the middle of the night and climb into bed with me.
As I’d gotten older, I’d realized I was his safe space. Scottie turned to me whenever he was stressed or overstimulated or anxious. It was a fucking honor to be his person. But now I was gone, and he was back in Pittsburgh, navigating his way through all these new and scary changes without me.
The guilt I tried hard to keep locked away rattled inside of me, making itself known.
There was no fucking time to dwell, though. Not with someone hammering on my door loud enough to wake the dead.
“The fuck?” I muttered, stalking across my room and ripping the thing almost clean off its hinges.
“You’re up.” Ward looked confused.
“Yeah, I’m up, asshole. We have early practice.”
“You didn’t make it down for breakfast, I thought—”
“It’s cute you care.” I smirked. “But I was on the phone with my brother.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Although, it won’t be if we’re late for practice.”
Grabbing my bag, I followed Ward downstairs. Some of the guys had already left for the facility. But a few lingered, hoovering down their Coach Tucker-approved breakfasts of oatmeal and fruit or eggs and spinach. I opted to grab and go, snagging a protein bar out of the drawer and a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
We’d just reached the door when Tipper appeared with a petite blonde in tow. A couple of the guys wolf whistled, and he flipped them off, barging past us to walk her to the door.
“Call me,” she said, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.
He slapped her on the ass and ran a hand through his mussed-up sex hair.
“Lucky bastard,” Ward said. “Where the hell did you find her?”
“Stopped by the student center last night. It was yoga night.” His brows waggled suggestively.
“Oh, shit,” Ward laughed, holding out his hand for a high five.
“We should make a move,” I said, too jaded to be swept up in the freshman’s excitement. “Or we’re going to be late.”
“Yeah, yeah, Steele. Keep your hair on.”
