Page 8 of The Home Grown
“I’m only saying, you—” she snaps her mouth shut, running a long nail across her jaw. “Do you remember that boy who lived next door? Not the one who died, his younger brother. That was a similar thing. I don’t know why you let yourself get so?—”
“Thanks, Kathryn. Thanks for the reminder,” I say.
She can be so crude. But I know exactlywhoandwhatshe’s referring to, and so does my nervous system. I peek a glance towards the red document wallet, unable to stop myself.
“What was his name again?” she says, acting like she doesn’t remember. There’s a pensive look on her face while she pretends to think. Then another moment passes before she blurts it out, “that’s right—Michael Betts. Didn’t everyone call him Bettsy or something?” She scoffs in a mock-laugh. “Ridiculous, if you ask me.”
I clench my jaw, putting my attention back on my laptop.
“Let me check something for a moment. Gimme.” She whips the computer from my lap, my hands still suspended mid-air like I’m about to type.
“Hey—”
“Just a moment,” she says.
I’m relieved to see she at least minimises the spreadsheet before pulling up a web-browser, tapping her inch-long nails against the keyboard as she enters ‘Michael Betts’ into the search engine.
“See? Total escape from catastrophe.”
My stomach does an involuntary lurch as his picture fills the screen.
There he is. The same Michael Betts who did indeed live next door.
Except—he’s different. Older, obviously, and he’s bulked out, grown into himself and—I bite my lip, trying to force the queasy feeling away as Kathryn drops the laptop back onto my thighs.
I know I should close the page, but I don’t.
My eyes fix on the screen and I skim the text, reading his basic information and hockey stats. It’s all stuff I don’t understand, but I read it anyway.
“Wait—Rick plays hockey?” I say, frowning at the screen. “Looks like he and Mike played junior hockey together and…” I keep reading. “They’re both listed on the preliminary roster for the Men’s Team GB Ice Hockey team—apparently, they’re holding trials or something. Wow.”
“Huh,” Kathryn says, flashing a look at the screen before becoming overly invested in her cuticles. “I guess so.”
Rick, or Patrick, is Greg’s best man, and according to Kathryn, they are far too ‘bromancy’for her liking. She’s beentrying to get Greg to change his mind for months, but he’s refusing—much to Kathryn’s dismay.
“Anyway, are you wanting to eat here before you head home?” she says, climbing off the bed.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen as my sister slips out of the room, pushing the door closed behind her.
This should definitely be my cue to return to my admin, but I can’t stop myself. Curiosity gets the better of me and I fall down a rabbit hole of nosiness, digging deeper into the hockey history of Mike Betts.
In fact, I only drag my eyes away from the screen when my phone vibrates on the duvet next to me.
A contact I don’t have saved.
My heart flutters and I extend my hand to reach for it when something catches my eye: a thumbnail photo of Mike Betts, tagged in another article.
A queasiness fills my stomach when the page loads.
The article mentions a fan forum, and a new post pertaining to the social life of Mike Betts outside of hockey.
I know I should probably leave things alone, but I click through to the forum, scanning the page before navigating to the post.
“I just wanted 2 come on here 2 let people know that Michael Betts (who wears no. 6!!!) is a complete and utter dickhead. Not only did he get me pregnant, he lied to me about his intentions and made me leave my previous bf for him. And… (this is the rly bad part) he forced me 2 get rid. Literally dragged me to the hospital. He also paid me 2 do it so he wouldn’t have 2 tell anyone he’s a complete asshole. But MIKE. If ur reading this … I hate you. And you weren’t even that good in bed. And your dick is tiny. I don’t even know how you got me pregnant in the first place.
But women all over … STAY AWAY!!! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got an STI or something.”
I’m stunned into silence, and it’s only a little bit to do with the way it’s written.
