Page 7 of Pucking Forbidden

I blink. “What?”

“Your grades,” she repeats. “What are they?”

Confused, I answer, “I mean, the term just started, but I’ve always had straight A’s…”

Skyler groans dramatically, dropping her head back.

“God, damn it,” she mutters. “There goes that plan.”

I frown. “What plan?”

She leans forward again and sighs.

“The one where you accidentally-on-purpose flunk out so your dad has to actually listen to you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Grace snorts, and Sutton laughs outright. Stacey lets out a chuckle, shaking her head, and Rylee rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning.

I laugh too, because it’s ridiculous.

“Yeah, that would go over so well,” I say. “He’d love that.”

“I’m just saying,” Skyler raises her hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Desperate times.”

“Extremely desperate,” Sutton adds.

“Borderline chaotic,” Grace says.

“Nuclear,” Stacey murmurs.

“Yeah,” Rylee nods. “That’s some burn-everything-to-the-ground and salt the earth shit.”

I shake my head, grinning. “Well, I’m not quite to that level of self-destruction yet, so that’s gonna be a no.”

“Yeah,” Skyler sighs, drawing the word out. “I suppose that’d be a little…drastic. There are probably a few options between where you are now and dropping a bomb on your life.”

“Yeah,” I agree with another burst of laughter. “I think so too.”

I laugh again, the sound coming easier this time. I push the thought aside quickly, but even as I nod along, that idea lingers quietly in the back of my mind.

CHAPTER THREE: HAPPY BIRTHDAY

JULIAN

The house feels small. It always kind of has, especially since I’ve always been big, but now that I live in an apartment that could swallow this place, it feels especially tiny.

Still, it feels like home. Or, rather, she feels like home. The little old lady shuffling across her cracked laminate kitchen floor to pull a chocolate birthday cake from her ancient fridge is the only person who’s ever really felt like family to me. The top of her head barely reaches my chest, especially now that she has a slight stoop in her shoulders. Her gray hair is pinned back into a neat bun on the back of her head. Her dark green eyes still sparkle through her fatigue.

I need to fix that crack in the laminate before I leave, and anything else I can to make things easier for her.

“Grams, I can get that for you,” I insist, pushing out of my chair at the kitchen table, ready to cross the room to take the cake from her delicate hands.

“Oh, you sit yourself back down,” Mrs. Clay orders with a wave of her hand, setting the cake on the counter by the fridge. She’s also got something delicious-smelling simmering on the stove. My mouth waters.

Nothing about her place has changed. She’s got the same worn couch, the same mismatched chairs, the same faint, musty smell that I’m pretty sure is standard for every house on this block. Maybe every house on the South Side of Chicago. Faded floral wallpaper, outdated appliances, and creaky floors. It’s not much to look at, and Mrs. Clay refuses to change anything about it, but I don’t think there’s anywhere else I feel more at ease. Not even my own place back in Denver.

She clicks her tongue. “I still can’t believe you came all the way out here for this. You got a life in Denver now. Friends who can celebrate with you.”

I shrug, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. I adjust the rest of the glasses behind it into a neat row, and I carefully wipe dust off the shelf with a nearby rag. “It’s not that far. Besides, I always celebrate my birthday with you, and once we’re out of preseason in a few weeks, I won’t have as much free time to come visit.”