Page 45 of Trick Play
Hence the fancy breakfast.
A stack of four waffles sits on a plate in the middle of the table, a small carafe of syrup and a dish of butter next to it. Gray grabs one first, scraping a small amount of butter over it. I have no nutrition plan I’m required to stick to, so I’m more generous with both the butter and the syrup on mine, making a big deal about it when I take a bite. “Wow, Mom. These waffles are soooo good. And drowning them in butter and warm maple syrup makes them even better.”
Gray narrows his eyes at me, fully aware of what I’m doing. “Shut it, monkey butt,” he hisses.
“Make me, buttface,” I hiss back.
“Now, kids,” Mom says. “I thought you would’ve outgrown the name-calling by now.”
“You know we only do it with affection, Mom,” Gray says, putting a nearly dry piece of waffle in his mouth. “You don’t have to make breakfast like this every morning, you know,” he says around a full mouth. His tone is light, but I know he’d actually like Mom to lay off. Since we’re both home for the holiday break, she’s been going nuts. She made brownie sundaes for dessert last night after dinner—to celebrate Gray’s big win, she said. And now waffles this morning.
Since Gray has to count calories, this has to be hell on his nutrition plan. But Mom would get her feelings hurt if he turned her down and skipped dessert or had an egg white omelette for breakfast like he probably does on his own. And with the team’s Friendsgiving tomorrow night and our early Thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday, he’s probably going to be way over his calorie counts for the week.
Leaning closer, I kick him under the table. “Hush up,” I hiss, trying my best to be nearly inaudible. “If she wants to make delicious food every day this week, you can just eat smaller portions, or make use of the extra calories to power your winning game or something.”
Mom comes over and smooths a hand through my hair, placing a kiss on top of my head. “Thank you, Piper. I’m glad you appreciate my food.”
“I do, Mom. Your food is the best part of my week.” I’m not even lying. While the helping of lectures and advice that come with dinner aren’t my favorite, my mom’s a fabulous cook.
“I appreciate your food, too, Mom. But too much fat and carbs throws off my nutrition plan.”
Mom waves a hand, dismissing that like it’s nothing as she puts the last of the dishes in the dishwasher. “You’re a growing boy. You need good food. Your coach should understand that.”
Gray glares at me, and I just smile in return.
With a soft snort, he shakes his head, a smile creeping up his face too.
After breakfast, Gray changes and leaves for his morning workout, stopping to give Mom a quick kiss on the cheek.
Maybe I should start up a morning workout routine. At least for the break, just to give me something to do.
But is it really worth going for a run just to get out of the house? A quick peek out the front window confirms that no, it’s definitely not. The sky is varying shades of gray, the bare tree branches whipping in the gusts of wind blowing past, and every so often a smatter of rain that sounds like hail hits the glass.
Definitely not good weather for running.
Which means taking myself up to my room to study. Yaaaay.
When I return to my room after a lunch break, I let out a defeated whimper at the sight of my textbooks, notebooks, and laptop still in a jumble on my bed the way I left them an hour ago.
I can’t do this for a whole week with nothing to distract me. I’m already losing my mind, and it’s only been a couple of days.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and open my texts, contemplating my last exchange with Cal. I said I’d call, but what if he’s still at the gym? Or in the shower? Or …?
A text is better. Obviously. Cal’s weird with his preference for actually calling. And it’s not like we don’t text. We do. The evidence is right in front of me.
And I’m stalling. I don’t even know why I’m stalling. Cal’s my only hope of distraction right now.
With a deep breath, I type out a quick message and hit send before I can second guess myself any more.
Me: Help! I need a distraction, stat. I’ve been studying almost nonstop since I got home because there’s literally nothing else to do, and I can’t take it anymore.
I stare at my phone as the seconds tick by, fidgeting with the cracked corner of my case, waiting, waiting.
With a low sound of frustration, I flop myself back on the bed. He’s probably not feeling like a prisoner trapped in his room. Which isn’t entirely fair. I’m sure my mom would love it if I’d come down and do something with her. I’m sure she’d offer to take me shopping or ask if I want to help her bake a batch of cookies. And if last spring hadn’t happened—if Brent hadn’t happened—I’d probably take her up on that. But that shifted our relationship into this awkward hell of my own making. Now any time I spend with either of my parents consists of them gently probing to see how I’m doing, acting like I’m some fragile creature who might break at any moment.
And it’s exhausting. I have to act normal while trying to make sure I’m adequately reassuring but not call out what they’re doing, because that will be met with either outright denial or aCan you blame us?type lecture, and I’ve had my fill of both of those.
I love my mom. And I really do wish that I could just go down and say, “Hey, let’s go to Ulta and try out new makeup,” or, “I’d love some new throw pillows for my dorm room.” And then we’d make a day of hitting her favorite home decor stores and all the available makeup counters, and when we’d get home, Dad would pretend to scold us about spending us into the poor house before asking to see our haul.
