Page 84 of Small Town Firsts

I run my fingers through my bubblegum-colored locks and sigh into the phone. “Ugh. You’re right. Promise you’ll help keep me sane?” I ask, all but begging.

“Duh. Now, go to sleep. Worry about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow.”

I disconnect the call and place my phone on its charging dock before scanning over his email once more. Only this time, my prior panic overwhoI’m tutoring is replaced with rage over the actual content of the email. How dare he just assume I’m free and willing to bend to his schedule.Ugh.That’s so like him to be an arrogant little prick—like father, like son.

Pissed as hell, I shut down my laptop and place it on my nightstand. With one more long, drawn-out sigh, I let my head hit the pillow and drift to sleep imagining tearing him a new asshole on Tuesday when I see him.

CHAPTER 2

BROCK

“Look,Dad, I really have to go. I’m going to be late?—”

Per usual, when Dad hears something he doesn’t like, he ignores it, and right now he doesn’t like the thought of me deciding when to end our call. “How’s your handicap?”

“Plus two,” I mumble, tugging the ends of my slightly overgrown brown hair, dreading his response. After all, Everett Brantley Larson is banking on me to follow in his footsteps—or maybe it’s that he plans on living vicariously through me. Either way, he’s not going to like my answer, regardless of the fact that a plus two handicap, in most circles, is considered a good thing.

“Come again?” he demands, and I repeat myself, enunciating clearly this time around.

“I said plus two, Dad.”

“Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful. When I was your age…forget it. Maybe I should bring on someone to coach you between team practices.”

“But we practice five days a week!” I blurt out.

“Then we’ll add him on the two days you don’t,” my father grits out, his temper getting the better of him.

“Dad, I have a full course load, regular practice, the gym, homework, my volunteer hours, and my tutoring. I really don’t think?—”

“I don’t recall asking your opinion, son. I’ve already emailed Coach Garza. I requested Saturday and Sunday mornings. Moving on, how’s your GPA?”

Fuck.“Three-point-five,” I tell him, hoping it’s high enough to satisfy him, but I know it isn’t.

“You know, I really expected more from you, Brock. Your mother is going to be so disappointed when I relay all of this to her.” He clucks his tongue at me, and I roll my eyes, knowing my mom won’t care even an iota. She’s always been my biggest supporter and would fucking be proud of me even if I was a slacker with a C-average. These are things most parents would be proud of, but nothing less than perfect is enough for my dear old dad. “What class are you struggling with?”

“Lit, but I’ve already set up a tutor. In fact, I’m running late to?—”

“I’ll email your professor and make sure your tutor is the best of the best. I’ve got to run, son, talk later,” he barks into the phone, like I haven’t been trying to end the call for the last fifteen minutes.

I’mclose to twenty minutes late when I make it to the library—I hope this AJ guy is still here, but I wouldn’t blame him for bailing. Shit knows I would have. From the doorway, I scan the tables, looking for a familiar face from my lit class.

On my first sweep, I don’t notice anyone I know. So, changing tactics, I begin looking for anyone who looks like a tutor.Do tutors have a certain look?I’m picturing thick glassesand a pocket protector, but once again, I come up empty. I’m about to turn and leave when the sensation of being watched rolls over me, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I give the room one last sweeping glance and just about stumble when I see a set of brown eyes I’d know anywhere glaring daggers in my direction. The look she’s aiming at me is damn near lethal.Why in the hell is sweet little Abby Jane Adams mad at me?Then again, Abby Jane isn’t little anymore. Or sweet.

Once upon a time, those brown eyes were the highlight of my day—seeing them light up with laughter, watching her cheeks blossom pink. Her smile was brighter than the sun, and her laughter was sweeter than anything I’d ever known. Even as a kid, I knew there was something special about her, which is why it didn’t bug me too much when our moms talked about us getting married when we were grown. Because, at age five, over mud pies, I decided Abby Jane would be my wife.

Turned out life had other plans. Middle school hit, I shot up by five inches, and suddenly girls thought I was cool. Abby Jane though, she was a late bloomer, and thanks to the glorious travesty that is grade school hierarchy—and me being a thirteen-year-old horndog—Abby Jane and I grew apart.

By high school, we hated each other. Well, she hated me. She was the antithesis of everything our families stood for. She was loud, opinionated, bossy, crude, and was always testing the limits, whereas I walked the straight and narrow. Her mother constantly asked why she couldn’t just do as she was told, like I did, which didn’t help matters between us. If anything, it only made her resentment toward me grow.

Still, none of that explains why she’s looking at me like she wishes she could roast me over an open flame.

Cocking my head to the right, I lift my brow at her in question, and she wastes no time marching right over to me.How freaking weird.

“How nice of you tofinallyshow up, Larson,” she barks at me, her eyes full of fire.

“Show up for what?” I ask.

“Tutoring, Jockstrap.”

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