Page 25 of False Start
“Lonnie would have wanted me to.” They don’t hesitate to say it.
“You don’t have to do that.” I shake my head, unsure if it’s enough reason for me to do something as drastic as moving into their house.
“They’d give you a very stern talking to for trying to reject my help.” Kade smirks, walking over to the cabinet and pulling two mugs from the middle shelf.
One saysI’m mad at the governmentand has a picture of a frog on it, and the other saysDon’t talk to me until I’ve eaten this mug. I’m not sure I understand either of them, but they make me laugh, and laughing sober is a guilt-ridden reminder that happiness is not for those grieving.
“How do you take it?” they ask, pouring the fresh pot of coffee into both cups.
“Straight to the face and I prefer it if it hurts a little.” I blurt out, an amused snort from K before I translate, “Black, a little sugar.”
“Psycho.” They grin, passing me the frog mug and then the box of raw sugar packets.
They’re grabbing oat milk out of the fridge when I decide to finally answer. “Yes.”
“Hmm?” K looks back at me, stirring the beige liquid in their mug.
“I’ll take the room.” I smile, sipping my coffee.
It’s really good—rich, bold, and smooth, with notes of chocolate that aren’t muted from roasting.
“Don’t let me twist your arm.” Their sarcasm is familiar and welcome.
“Lonnie and I used to do this all the time,” I say between sips, a stuttered inhale settling in my chest to prevent my voice from breaking.
“What? Coffee?” they ask, looking down awkwardly at their mug now.
“Yeah, but usually in the afternoon. Cafezinho. Brazilian coffee time.” I stare off to the side, like my brain finds comfort in recalling the memory by focusing on the moving hands of the kitchen clock. “I’d bring my mom’s frozen cheese bread balls, and we’d bake them, spending the afternoon chatting away.”
“At least if it’s going to hurt, it’s over someone worth hurting for,” Kade says, their eyes stuck on the clock as well.
“Amen or something,” I reply, raising my coffee up to cheer them.
11
HARVEY
It’s Friday, minutes before practice, and I’m sitting in my car, Nia’s little bag of pills in one hand and my phone in the other, search engine results on my browser for what they may be. Some generic painkillers. The little Ziploc baggie tells me it’s not a doctor giving these to her, though.
I have two options: I can be a narc and run inside the rink right now with the evidence in my hand that Nia is violating the contract she signed just days prior guaranteeing drug-free players.
Or, I keep my leverage.
And Idolove a long game.
Plus, I don’t trust this reptile of a man for shit, and between the two of them, I’m smart enough to lean toward the smallest of the threats here. As it stands, that’s Nia.
I’m not a snitch anyway.
I pocket the pills just as K pulls into the parking lot, stopping their car just three spots away from mine. Inside their mustang is Nia, sitting in the passenger seat.
Have they been together since Wednesday?The thoughtcrosses my mind before I can try to swat it away. It shouldn’t bother me, but for some reason, it burrows under my skin, taking root. K-Otic opens the door for her, but she looks over at me, saying something with a smile that forces them to walk on without her.
Once K is inside the rink, Nia turns to my car and stares straight at me from the passenger side window. She flares her nostrils before pulling the door open, but it sticks, the damn thing broken for nearly two years now. I reach over, opening it from the inside and allowing her into my space.
“You have something of mine,” she says, closing the door behind her.
I try to contain my amusement, “Do I now?” I’m a little surprised that she’s not denying it or begging me to keep her secret.
