Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Dude, does he think I want to be lying here with my eyes bugging out?
“So? You gonna tell me what’s keeping you up?”
I hesitate. Fuck no, I’m not going to tell him I stole the Parker Lane Prep mascot, that I got caught, that Harper Conrad is blackmailing me into being her prom date, that I have to be on the stupid prom committee—and now the girl I have a crush on is finally paying attention to me when I’m being pressured into asking Harper to the dance.
Yeah. Didn’t freaking think so.
Then, the inevitable: “You do realize how important sleep is for athletes of your caliber.”
I groan internally.
Great. Here we go.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t perform at your best if you’re running on fumes. You think your opponents are lying awake at night staring at the ceiling?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“You can’t lie here like this every night.” His voice is firm—as if I were doing this on purpose. “Bad habits start small. One late night turns into two. Suddenly, you’re sluggish at practice. You’re missing plays. And then what?”
I don’t have to answer. He does it for me.
“You lose your edge. And in hockey if you don’t have an edge—you’re nothing.”
I swallow, pressing my lips together. “Awesome.”
“Hey. Don’t be a smart-ass.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, but I know better than that, so my mouth stays shut and I continue staring at the ceiling, willing this conversation to be over.
Dad shifts his weight like he’s debating whether to push the issue further. Just as I’m bracing myself for another lecture—
“What’s going on in here?”
Mom.
Thank god.
She sounds mildly annoyed because she already knows the answer: Dad’s doing his standard Bedtime Lecture. Her arms are crossed as she looks at Dad, looming at the edge of my bed, then at me. I’d rather launch myself out the window than lie here…
“We’re talking,” Dad says.
“No, you’re talking.” Mom laughs, stepping into the room. “At a guy who should be sleeping.”
I could kiss her for rescuing me.
Dad presses his lips together, not quite glaring but definitely not pleased. “He’s not sleeping, Alexia—he’s lying here wide awake.”
“Right. I’m sure giving him the ‘hockey is life’ speech at eleven o’clock is helping with that.” She rolls her eyes. “Out with you.”
Dad’s brows go up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Out.” She waves a hand toward the door. “We can stress about his career path tomorrow.”
Dad doesn’t move at first.
There’s a silent standoff between them, the kind that happens when two stubborn people both refuse to blink first. But eventually, Mom wins—because she is a lawyer and always wins. Basically she’s the only person Dad is terrified of.
With a sigh, he shakes his head in defeat. “Unbelievable.”
“I’m right behind you, babe.” Mom smiles at him sweetly, stepping aside to give him a clear path to the door but presenting him with her cheek so he can plant a kiss on it. “I want to say good night, too.”
He stands, muttering something under his breath—how someday I’ll regret not listening when I don’t get scouted by the NHL or whatever—but he leaves.
Mom waits until he’s completely out the door before turning to me.
“He loves those motivational speeches, doesn’t he?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “It’s his favorite hobby.”
She shakes her head, moving toward my bed. “You okay?”
I nod, my shoulders relaxing now that the lecture is over. “Sure.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s debating whether or not to pry. Then she reaches over, ruffles my hair, and sighs.
Like, don’t tell anyone, but I love it when she tucks me in.
Cheesy, right?
“He’s not wrong,” Mom says gently. “It’s late. You need sleep.”
“I know.” I roll to my stomach.
She sits in the space that Dad absconded. “Having a hard time clearing your head?”
I shrug. Yes. I am.
She begins rubbing my back the same soothing way she used to when I was little and she was trying to calm me down or comfort me. Except I don’t need to be calmed down and I don’t need to be comforted—I need my brain to shut off. Tune out.
“What’s on your mind, honey?”
Pfft. Only a mess so tangled I wouldn’t know where to start.
“Just…stuff. You know how it is.”
My mom nods in that way she nods when she wants to be sympathetic and understanding even though I’ve given her zero information to work with.
“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes,” she says quietly. “Whatever is bothering you will still be there in the morning.”
Little does she know the pressure I’m under.
Stealing. Trespassing.
And not only that, I was railroaded into a double date tonight, via group chat hell.
My first date. In all my seventeen years I’ve not been on one date and here I am: cornered into it.
Guilt assails me.
Cornered? Railroaded? Shit. I’d be embarrassed to say those words to Harper’s pretty face. She would be devastated.