Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Sorry, we’re the laughingstock of the league?
And why do I need to say sorry?!
He was the one who couldn’t resist the porn style photoshoot with me in the next room!
He’s the one who can’t seem to keep his oh so silky mitts to himself!
Awkward silence easily floats onward, only ceasing when Dad reaches for another fry. “You really punch the camera dude in the face?”
“Right in the fucking gibs,” I gloat and suck a bit of sauce off my finger.
“He lose any?”
“Don’t know.”
“He need a med assist?”
“Don’t care.”
He dips the potato in the dressing while nodding. “And your sister?”
“I would’ve punched her in the gibs, but you threatened to take away my inheritance if I beat her again, so I refrained.”
Light chortles precede him politely nodding. “Appreciate it.”
“I mean…you really fucking should.” Abandoning the latest bone for a napkin from the plastic bag occurs between sentences. “She creates the worst shit show in my personal history and doesn’t get hit in the face. Pretty sure you should nominate me for Sainthood or at the very least a Mark Messier award because it takes true leadership not to smack a broadskie for that level of fuckery.”
More laughter comes from the houseguest between chews. “I don’t think they give those trophies to non-players.”
“Maybe they should.”
“And maybe you should ask yourself what it is about Audrey that really bugs the shit out of you.”
“That’s easy.” I let my back hit the edge of the couch. “Her.”
“What about her?”
“Everything. Anything.”
Dad’s head falls slightly to one side, nonverbally requesting more information.
“I hate that she wears so much goddamn makeup. And that her outfits are always so tiny. And show so much skin. And she always looks so fucking perfect in photos. And so perfect in crowds. And at dinner. And parties…and events…and…” the ugly truth struggles to glide out of me, “like she belongs in spaces and places I don’t. Like she belongs with someone like Frosky. And behaves like it. And can play the role I know I can never play. I hate that…she is what the world expects to see with him. And I hate that she goes out of her way to fucking remind me of that.”
“You know what’s funny?” His fingertips brush together to remove the seasoning from them, an action that summons Bear to lick up the crumbs. “You and your sister are more alike than either of you realize.”
“Ugh,” rolls off my tongue as my head lolls backwards, “don’t say that. I don’t wanna pukeskies.”
“You think you’re not pretty enough or flirty enough or mannered enough or manipulative enough to be in places you wanna be while she thinks she’s not strong enough or smart enough or secure enough or clever enough to be in the places she’s convinced herself she wants to be.” An almost downtrodden headshake leaves him. “Neither of you seem to understand how to appreciate your own strengths without seeing what it is you have convinced yourself you lack. And as your father? Me rompe el corazón.” Dad’s fingers drop to pet the top of Bear’s head. “However, this is not about what breaks my heart or my failures as a parent or even about the increasingly extensive therapy we will be pushing your sister into exploring, but about you.” He continues to stroke my dog’s thick fur while a lump of tears begins to matt itself in my throat. “So what…if the world expects to see something different than what it does? Since when has that ever mattered to you?”
“Since I fell for the one dude who needs me to be someone I’m not,” is choked out just above a whisper.
“Does he need that, or do you think he needs that?”
“I-”
“Has he ever asked you to be anything other than you?”
“No but-”
“Not buts, Arden.” The tone is firmer than anticipated. “Don’t punish someone for something they haven’t done because you pre-emptively think they will. That’s like benching a player for an entire season because you think he might get a penalty in one game.”
My lips press firmly together in a pouty fashion.
“And double fuck whatever is the so-called status quo, mi pequeña rebelde. LMC was built and has thrived in spite of that.” Bear less than cleverly inches his hand over to retrieve him a fry. “Plus, the league is changing. Yeah, a little slower than a puckhead who should’ve retired long before forty, but it’s still happening.” He slips the treat into my dog’s mouth without care or concern of my potential scolding. “Remember, once upon a time, there were no female owners. No female coaches. No black coaches. No black head coaches. Very few Hispanic and Latino players. Even less Filipinos and those of Asian descent. Yet now? Now, those stats are evolving. Progressing. And the sold-out stadiums around the country are bringing all types of people together, boosting watch numbers, exceeding predictions, and showing that the sport can be for everyone if we let it, which proves that change can be good.” An undeniable fatherly stare is presented. “All you have to do is let it.”