Page 42 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
A blush assails the apples of her cheeks, turning her complexion my favorite shade of pink, and she rolls her eyes and tries to ease the spotlight off herself.
“How’s he doing?” she asks, peering over my shoulder to watch Teague toy with the puck. The concern burnished in her gaze makes my belly somersault. Cali’s a great big sister, and I’m going to help her see that.
“He’s good. He’s just working through some confidence issues,” I disclose, matching her line of sight and tracking his small figure as he lands a shot in the net.
She doesn’t say anything, which makes me briskly turn back to her. Her nose is scrunched in displeasure, and her bottom lip begins to wobble.
“Don’t do that.”
She throws me a look of utter confusion. “Do what?”
“Blame yourself for something you can’t control.”
Cali huffs in a knee-jerk response, carefully crafting her next set of words to exempt herself from a possible lecture. “I’m not…blaming…myself,” she insists.
I lean my chin on the butt of my hockey stick, pulling my eyebrows together incredulously.
Approach with caution, Gage. You stick your hand in that enclosure, and she’ll tear it right off your body.
“Cali, your lower lip trembles every time you get in your head.” I sigh, wanting nothing more than to steady her mouth with my own—to alleviate her worries and swallow the self-deprecating comments that wait on the bed of her tongue.
Her fingers fling to her lips in betrayal, and her whole frame droops. “I just worry about him.”
“I know you do, Spitfire. But you have to trust that he’ll find his way on his own.”
She perks her head back up to witness Teague sinking another goal, and she remedies her distress with a meek half-smile. “I guess he does look like he’s getting better,” she notes.
Uh, that’s just because nobody is in the goal.
“He’s improved a lot,” I brag, lifting my head off my stick and puffing my chest out.
“Oh, really?”
“First off, your tone is hurtful. Second off, he has. He’s gotten so good that I bet you he’ll make the winning shot of his next game.”
Was that a good bet to make? No. Do I have anything to lose? Just my dignity, and that’s already been reduced to the size of a pea. I have full faith in Teague that he’ll play better in his upcoming game than he ever has before. Goal-worthy better? That’s…debatable. All very possible if he remembers what we’ve gone over—situational awareness, confidence, shooting, the good ol’have fun out there, champ.
Cali gives me a dick-wetting once-over, dragging her tongue over the front of her teeth. “What are we betting?”
I should back out now. A smart man would acknowledge when he’s lost and save himself from further humiliation. I am not a smart man.
“If Teague makes the winning shot of his next game, you have to get my jersey number tattooed on you,” I drawl, already scoping out the spots on her body that would be fuckingperfectfor my number.
None of that discreet tattoo shit. The side of her hip. Her upper back. The space between her breasts. God, her fuckingass. That’s a million-dollar tattoo. Hell, I’d buy her a private island off Maui to breathe that image into existence.
She laughs in my face. Bends over, does the thing where the laugh turns silent, and then starts swatting the air. Thankfully, her theatrics don’t alert the other hockey-goers, but my God, does this woman abuse my ego like a mail deliveryman throwing around a UPS package.
“I love my brother, but there’s no way inhellthat’s happening,” she says, and as much as I want to prove her wrong and shut her bratty mouth, I can’t help but love the sound of her melodic laughter.
“It will. Just you watch.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll dress up in high heels and do a choreographed dance of your choosing during our last game of the season.”
She ponders the two outcomes, and I’m not sure if she’s been mind-wiped by aliens—or if the possibility of Teague not only making a shot, but making thewinningshot is so unbelievable—but she sticks out her hand for us to shake on it.
“Deal.”
