Page 111 of A Little Crush
“You saying I should trade you for a younger player?” I quip. “One with a little more stamina, maybe?”
Everett scoffs. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though.” He stretches his arms over his head. “I’m gonna hit the showers.”
“Me, too,” Reeves adds. “Good game, Coach.”
“Thanks, man,” I return while the crowd makes its way out of the arena.
When I realize my baby brother’s still hanging out by the bench, I say, “You did good.”
“Thanks.” He grins, still reeling from the win. “Only so many times a team will buy it, but I’m glad the play worked.”
“Me, too.”
He smothers a laugh and shakes his head. “Fuck, that was something else.”
“Yeah, it was.”
Riding the high, he cups the back of his head and turns to me. “Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Being out here.” Arms spread wide, he motions to the ice. “In the action.”
“Every day,” I admit. “Miss it every day.”
“Still don’t get why you quit.”
No one does. No one but Rory. And it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve tried explaining it, my reasoning, people always look at me like I lost my mind. And maybe I did. Even then, I wouldn’t change it. Wouldn’t trade places with my brother or my dad or anyone else.
“Didn’t quit, just pivoted,” I offer, using Rory’s words from before.
“Guess so.” He rests his elbows against the half-wall separating us and stretches out his lower back. “You’re right about some of us getting too old for this shit, though.”
“Nah, you’re still a young buck,” I counter dryly.
“Sure, I am.” He rolls his eyes. “Not all of us spend our time hanging out at arcades and playing miniature golf.”
I drop my head back, trying not to lose my shit as I grumble, “What is it with everyone talking with everyone?”
With a laugh, he slaps his hand against my shoulder. “God forbid you have a family that communicates.”
I glare back at him. “Communicates. Gossips. Same difference, right?”
He grins. “Depends on what you consider gossip, ‘cause usually that means there’s something to hide.” His brow kicks up. “She still got a thing for you?”
She. As in, Rory. As in, the woman I went miniature golfing with. Guess it goes to show how many opportunities my brother’s had to give me shit for something that happened weeks ago. Keeping my emotions locked down, I say, “What?”
“Finley wanted me to ask. Although, Iamcurious.” His gaze narrows as he studies me carefully, waiting for me to show my hand.
If only he knew.
“We’re friends,” I answer.
“Friends who play miniature golf together.”
“Friends who are trying to figure out how to be friends again after everything we’ve been through,” I counter, deciding a half-truth is better than nothing.
My brother cocks his head. “You got a thing for Rore?”
