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“Do what?”
“Have sex with a kid in the house. Caleb is always rolling out of his toddler bed and coming into my room.” All I’ve thought about since last weekend is when, where, and how I can have sex with Reed—not that he’s still interested.
“Well, we try to do it when Kimmie’s asleep but sometimes, Dan has to cover my mouth.” She snickers. “Why? Do you have a boyfriend?”
I scoff, “No. I just need to get laid.”
Her husband Dan appears in the archway, and a red wave of embarrassment covers his face. “Am I interrupting?”
I bury my face in my hands, and Annie pushes on my shoulder, laughing. She skips to him, giving him a chaste kiss. The simple gesture makes me a little jealous. Somehow, they’re making it work. It just takes love.
“Ladies, can I refill your glasses?”
“Yes. It’s been a long week,” Annie says as she throws back her head.
The kids have gotten out at least ten costumes from her play chest. Caleb is a pirate, and Kimmie is a princess. Their swords are drawn, and the clinking of plastic begins when Kimmie says, “Walk the plank. Princesses don’t get their hair wet.” I have to fold my lips over my teeth.
“What if he ends up being her knight in shining armor? Like Dan was mine.”
“Please, girl, let me find a man before you go marrying off our three-year-old children.”
My phone buzzes, and I find myself praying it’s Reed. No luck. It’s my dad.
Dad:See you and Caleb on Sunday when I get back in town. Don’t forget.
Me:I have to study for a while after work. Let’s do dinner.
Dad:Perfect. Love you both.
Me:Love you.
Dad keeps hinting at buying Caleb a pair of skates. He goes on and on about how it teaches balance and coordination, which would be good for any sport.
How am I going to tell my dad that Caleb will never have a pair of skates? Not after what his asshole biological father did.
Chapter Nine
REED
The visitor's locker room at Galena University is devoid of any decoration, its once-white walls now a nauseating shade of cream. The absence of pictures on the walls highlights the true color they should be. The bathroom stalls lack doors, and the metal benches show signs of rust. Nevertheless, we place our bags down and proceed with our pre-game routine.
Our coach appears on the edge of the locker room and claps his hands. “I want you dressed in ten.”
There are a few shouts in agreement as we all dig into our bags. The trainer tapes a few ankles, and then we’re all in semicircle, waiting on Coach.
As he walks in, the Godfather says, “This is the worst locker room I’ve ever seen.”
Coach says, “We don’t need the best. We need to do our best. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. I coached their center for a year and believe me when I say he’s an ass. He doesn’t score. Got it? I want to shut them out.”
It’s not often that your coach lays out a goal of a shutout. I make a mental note to research the firing of our coach. The Godfather taps his stick against the concrete floor, and the rest of us follow suit.
“Stallions. Stallions. Stallions.”
Coach claps three times and attempts to motivate us. “Stallions, show them what men are made of. Men who stand up and admit their mistakes. Men who play to the buzzer. Men of substance, not of money. Men who succeed past their circumstances.”
While performing our warmup stretches, one of the Flyers skates past us, talking trash. He circles us several times before one of his teammates drags him away. I check his number and realize it’s their center forward, Erik Bratt, notorious for getting under the opponents’ skin—the one coach was talking about.
Dawes, Flynn, and I sit on the bench and watch the referee drop the puck as our center, Wynward, gains control of the puck, and the game begins. Our first line skates fast and smooth—their passing impeccable. Within the first minute, we have our first shot on goal, but it bounces off the goalie.
