Page 40 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
His entire face softens at the rather chaotic crash-landing of the truth, and a Gage-patented smile slings up the corner of his lips. “I don’t. I could never, okay? When will you understand that Iliketaking care of you?”
Oh.
I can tell he’s seriously contemplating force-feeding me the fries, so I quickly dig into the greasy dish before he gets the chance to baby me. And the minute the potato crunches between my teeth and the cheese slides down my throat, I groan.
“Thank you. This is amazing. Oh my God, I could kiss you.”
“I would happily take that as payment,” Gage chirps, pitching forward to slant his lips over mine in another world-spinning kiss.
I rear backward and immediately cover my mouth. “Not right now! My breath is all…cheesy.”
“Cali, I couldn’t care less.” He moves my hand to prove it to me, kissing the rest of the night’s pain away like he’s always known his lips were made for mine.
14
WAVE THE WHITE FLAG NOW
GAGE
“Okay, remember what we talked about,” I debrief Teague, looking down at him in his adorably oversized hockey gear.
“When my sister comes to pick me up, I make a goal and show her how good I’ve gotten,” he recites back to me, readjusting the helmet that doesn’t quite sit right on his head.
I twirl around the whistle hanging from my neck—yes, I bought it just for this occasion—and nod. “Because?”
“Because you’re going to make a bet with her.”
“About?”
Teague sighs, the smile on his face flatlining. “About me making the winning goal in my next game,” he mumbles, his voice curling with dubiety.
My eyebrows draw together. “Hey, hey. No gloom and doom, okay? You can do it, buddy. I know you can.”
“Coach Gage, I know you mean well, but we’ve only had a few lessons together. I don’t think I’ll be able to make the winning goal.”
I feel for the little guy. Teague has heart, which is something a lot of hockey players lack. He’s determined, but he refuses toforgive himself when it comes to his mistakes. He puts a lot of pressure on himself for someone who’s only playing youth hockey. I want to help him feel confident in his skills, but I think it’ll be hard for him to celebrate any improvement since he’s lived so long punishing himself for not being “good enough.”
I blame everything on the fucking snot-nosed twerps picking on him. When I was his age, I played hockey for fun. I wasn’t focused on going pro. But I can tell Teague takes the game a lot more seriously than I did. I’m worried that he’ll grow up and regret treating hockey like a job rather than a hobby.
I crouch down to Teague’s height—with surprisingly little resistance since Cali’s been helping me stretch—and lower my voice to a gentle register, pride humming in my heart louder than the resounding pucks in play around us. “You’ve improved so much, T. I know you don’t see it, but I do. All I ask of you is that you try your best and have fun. There’s no pressure to make any winning goal, even though your sister would shit her pants to see you do so.”
I’ve never really liked kids. I mean, I don’t hate them, but I never looked at one and thought to myself,Wow. That kid is adorable. I want to have six for myself and make my own hockey team, then name them all different L names that sound eerily similar to one another.
But Teague’s brought out some weird paternal feeling inside of me that I never knew existed before. He reminds me a lot of my brother.
“Cali says you shouldn’t say that word,” Teague reprimands, trying his best to look all serious with a pouty frown.
“Cali’snot here right now,” I say, winking at him. “You can say it as much as you want around me. Shit doesn’t even begin to scrape the tip of the iceberg, Little Man. My personal favorite cuss word is cunt.”
Teague clutches his stick to his chest. “What’s a cunt?” he asks innocently.
My favorite food.
I bite back a grin, but I lose when a chuckle climbs up my throat. “It’s another word for butt face.”
God, I love poisoning the minds of the youth.
“Ooh, there are a lot of butt faces on my hockey team.”
