She hops out of bed and starts searching the room for her clothes. I grin, because I’m the one responsible for why her pants are flung on top of the dresser and why her lacy panties are scrunched up in a ball across the room. So sue me. Groveling makes me horny.
“Is it cool if I invite Morris and Daisy to the game tomorrow?” She eases her panties up her smooth, bare legs, and I’m so distracted by the sight that I forget what she asked a nanosecond after she asks it.
My cock hardens beneath the sheets, tenting up as if trying to get Grace’s attention. She sighs when she notices the campsite on the bed.
“I swear, you’ve got sex on the brain every second of the day.”
“Pretty much,” I agree, then waggle my eyebrows. “Why are you getting dressed? Wouldn’t you rather come here and sit on my dick?”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure, if you want me to pee all over you.” When I open my mouth, she raises a hand in warning. “And don’t you dare say you’re into that, because I am not incorporating pee into our sex life.”
I flop onto my side and laugh hysterically. “Relax,” I stutter between chuckles. “Golden showers don’t get me off.”
Grace snickers. “Thank God.”
After she ducks into the hall to use the bathroom, I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and track down a pair of sweatpants. I’m thinking of suggesting the diner for breakfast. After last night’s strenuous sexcapades, I could really go for a huge greasy platter of bacon and sausage and—and Coach will murder me if I show up to practice sluggish and crashing from a grease high. Frickin’ in-season nutrition regimen.
I pace around as I wait for Grace to come out of the bathroom, because now I’m the one who needs to piss like a racehorse. My buzzing phone serves as a distraction from my about-to-explode bladder, but when my brother’s number flashes on the screen, my good morning mood fades away.
“Hey,” Jeff says after I pick up. “Can you come by today?”
I stifle a groan. “I’ve got practice at one-thirty, man.”
“Come now, then. We’ll be done long before that.”
“Done what?” I ask warily.
“No idea. Dad says he has something important to tell us, but he won’t give me any more details than that. Marty’s covering for me in the shop right now, so get your ass over here. It won’t take long.”
I hang up feeling even warier than before. He has something important to tell us? What the hell could it be? We haven’t had a family meeting in…ever. My father has never sat us down for a talk, serious or otherwise.
I’m still frowning when Grace reappears, and concern instantly creases her features. “Everything okay?”
I slowly shake my head. “My dad wants to sit down with me and Jeff today.”
“Today? But you have practice.”
“He said it won’t take long. He just needs to tell us something.”
“Tell you what?”
“I don’t know.”
She goes quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to go with you?”
I’m touched by the offer, but I shake my head again. “I don’t think he’ll want anyone else there.”
“Obviously,” she says with a smile. “I figured I could wait in the car. That way if it’s something bad, you’ll have someone to talk to on the drive back.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to take the risk of Grace running into my dad.
But I also don’t want to be alone.
“Okay,” I answer, releasing a breath. “But only if you stay in the car. I don’t know what kind of state he’ll be in when we get there.”
We’re both somber as we leave the house fifteen minutes later, and the weather matches our foreboding expressions. The sky is overcast, the metallic scent in the air hinting at a downpour.
My uneasiness grows the closer we get to Munsen. By the time I reach the end of the long driveway and park in front of the bungalow, my nerves have formed a solid, immovable ball in the pit of my stomach.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Grace, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
She shakes her head. “Take your time.” Unzipping her canvas bag, she pulls out a psych textbook and holds it up. “I’ll be fine out here, I promise. So don’t try to rush on my account, okay?”
I exhale shakily. “Okay.”
A minute later, I walk through the front door without knocking, flinching when the familiar smell of stale beer fills my nostrils. I swear, it’s like the walls in this house are soaked with alcohol, slowly releasing the sour odor into the air.
“John?” My brother’s voice drifts through the hall. “We’re in the kitchen.”
I keep my shoes on, a habit left over from childhood. I’ve stepped on far too many puddles on the floors and carpets of this house and soaked my socks. Puddles that weren’t always of the alcoholic beverage variety.
I know something’s up the second I enter the kitchen. Jeff and Dad are at the weathered oak table, sitting across from each other. Jeff is sipping a coffee. My father has a longneck bottle of Bud in front of him, both hands wrapped around the base.
“Johnny. Sit down,” Dad says.
The beer isn’t a promising sign, but at least he looks and sounds relatively sober. And by sober, I mean not passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
I sink into the nearest chair without a word. Studying my dad’s face. Waiting. Studying Jeff’s face. Waiting.
“Chad Jensen came to see me yesterday.”
My head swings back toward my father. “What? Are you serious?” Why the hell would Coach talk to my father?
Dad nods. “He called ahead, asked if he could stop by for a chat. I said sure, why not, and he came by yesterday evening.”
I’m still battling my shock. Coach Jensen drove out to Munsen and met with my father?
“I didn’t know about it,” Jeff speaks up hastily, obviously misconstruing my expression. “I was over at Kylie’s when he stopped by, and Dad only told me about it this morning.”
I ignore Jeff’s assurances. “What did he want?” I ask suspiciously.
Dad’s cheeks hollow as if he’s grinding his teeth. “To discuss possible solutions.”
“Solutions for what?”
“For next year.” His gaze stays locked with mine. “He assured me he wasn’t trying to be disrespectful or overstep his boundaries, that he understood the car accident was difficult for me and my family, and why you’re needed at the shop after you graduate.” My father’s hands tighten around the beer bottle. “But he was hoping there might be some way for you to play hockey next year while still helping out your family.”
My hands curl into fists, and I press them tight to the table, trying to control my temper. I know Coach meant well, but what the hell?
“He also asked me why I didn’t go on disability, if my injuries from the accident were bad enough to prevent me from working.”
Fucking Jensen. He absolutely overstepped his boundaries.
“Your coach has no idea I’m a drunk, does he?” Dad mutters, and now he’s no longer looking at me. He’s staring at his hands.
“No, he doesn’t,” I mutter back. “I only told him about the accident. And that was just because I needed to tell him something so he’d get off my case about not entering the draft.”