Chapter 17 #2
“Geez. That’s awful.” I knew Tristan’s relationship with his mom wasn’t good, but I didn’t know it was this terrible. If my mom didn’t remember my birthday, I’d be heartbroken. No wonder he has so many walls.
“Yeah. She’s a real gem. Tristan tends to go all out for his brothers on their birthdays. He’s getting Brody a car.” Flip pulls into East Side’s parking lot.
“A car? A real one? Like vroom-vroom ?” I pat the dashboard.
“Yup. He consulted with his dad and made sure it wasn’t something that would get Brody a million speeding tickets or anything. But he did it for Nate, so he’s doing it for Brody, too.”
“That’s sweet, even if it is a bit extra,” I say.
Flip and I exit the car and head for the restaurant. The smell of fresh bread and garlic butter instantly makes my mouth water.
“His mom is a waste of air. He’s trying to make up for it,” he says.
“I can see that. He’s doing his best to be a good brother.” He’s at one of Brody’s hockey games right now. This conversation sheds so much light on so many things. Those backwards hugs mean even more now. That’s Tristan letting his guard down.
Adelaide is our server again today. We plow through several bowls of salad and loaves of bread. Flip eats his entire meal, and I do what I always do, eat a few bites and save the rest for later. We still get dessert, though.
Afterwards, we head to the indoor glow-in-the-dark mini putt.
By the third hole, I’m kicking his butt. “For a professional hockey player, you sure suck at mini putt.”
Flip keeps overshooting. By a lot. He’s almost hit three people, and he can’t get the ball in the hole in fewer than seven tries. Even the five-year-olds are better than he is.
“Shh… You’re killing my concentration with all your smack talk.” He takes a few practice swings.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Tristan wants to know where I am and whether I feel like bouncing on his cock. Obviously, I’d love to, but seeing as I’m with my brother, who is still unaware that we’re fucking on the regular, sex will have to wait.
Rix
I already have my hands full with balls and sticks.
I snap a quick pic of my golf club and neon yellow ball and send that along.
Tristan
Is that glow-in-the-dark mini putt?
Rix
Yup
Tristan
Who are you with?
Rix
Flip
Tristan
Oh. Cool. I was two seconds away from plotting a murder FYI
Rix
Why I sent the photo.
*jellyfish gif*
He ignores the dig.
Tristan
Which location are you at?
Rix
The one close to Vaughn.
Tristan
I’m coming to play with balls too while I wait for you to play with mine
Rix
Uh. Maybe text Flip in five first, otherwise the jig is up????
Tristan
Right.
Rix
Got excited about having your balls slapping my chin later, eh?
Tristan
Maybe. *shifty eyes*
“Hey, Rix, you’re up.” Flip snaps his fingers.
“Right. Sorry.”
“Who are you texting?”
“Just the girls. We’re getting together sometime next week for dinner at Hemi’s.” This is not untrue, and they did text a couple of hours ago, but I told them I was with Flip and I’d catch up with them later.
“You’re spending a lot of time with those girls lately, eh?” Flip stands off to the side while I take my first putt and get it within a foot of the hole.
“Yeah. They’re great. And it was super nice of Hemi to help me get that interview.” I approach the ball and try to decide what angle to hit it from.
“I would’ve put in a word for you.” He almost sounds hurt.
“I know, but this feels less like direct nepotism. I’ve gotten more than enough legs up from you.” I miss the hole the first time, but now I’m only six inches away.
“But Mom and Dad funneled most of their savings into my hockey, so me helping you out is balancing the scales,” he argues.
“They saw your talent and were smart about making sure it was realized.” This time I get the ball in the hole.
This is the hard part of growing up in a family where money was tight.
Now that Flip is making a lot, he feels like he owes everyone something.
We all knew he was going to be a shining star.
Investing in his future was a sure thing.
“You have lots of talents, too. Like outside of financial planning, which you’re amazing at, you know exactly how to feed us for games.
That’s a huge skill. Players pay a lot to have someone do what you’re doing for me and Tris.
I had no idea you were good at that stuff.
Well, that’s not entirely true. You could always cook.
It’s like you were born to dominate the kitchen.
” He makes a face. “Sorry, that probably sounds sexist.”
“It would be sexist if you said I was born to be a kept housewife. And I love that I get to do that for you.” I pick up my ball, and we move to the next hole.
“My energy levels have been way up, and I know you’re the reason.” He sets up his ball for the putt.
“They’d be even better if you spent more nights actually sleeping,” I mutter.
“I’ll slow down during the season.” His phone pings, and he checks the message. “Uh, you okay if Tristan joins us?”
“Sure. That’s fine.” I roll the ball around between my fingers.
“It’s okay if you’d rather he didn’t,” Flip says.
“Do you not want him to come?”
“Sometimes you two get under each other’s skin.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. How upset would he be? How betrayed would he feel? I don’t want to risk telling him to find out. “It’s seriously fine.”
“If you’re sure…” He sounds unsure.
“Really. I promise not to bludgeon him to death with a putter.” I give Flip two thumbs-up.
“That’s not super reassuring.”
I roll my eyes. “Just tell him to come. We can be civil.”
“Okay.” He still looks skeptical as he fires off another message. “Looks like he’ll be here in ten minutes. Should we step aside and wait for him?”
“We could go back to the beginning and start over? Or he could skip the first few holes?”
“Tristan won’t want to skip holes.”
I cover a snicker by coughing into my arm.
“So we wait here or we go back to the beginning. Up to you.” We step aside for a birthday party of seven-year-olds and supervising parents who are trying to keep the boys from using their putters as swords.
Someone ends up getting hit in the shin and starts crying.
That makes our decision to go back to the beginning easy.
Tristan arrives a minute later.
“It smells like the inside of a sneaker in here,” he complains.
“That should not be a surprise.” I inspect my nails so I don’t eye-fuck him.
He’s wearing a pair of dark wash distressed jeans and a black T-shirt with his brother’s hockey team logo.
He’s also wearing black running shoes and a black belt.
He looks delicious and entirely too fuckable for his own good.
“If I remember correctly, your running shoes used to smell like something died in them.”
“If you two could not bicker for the next hour, that would be awesome,” Flip grouses.
“She’s not wrong. My running shoes had a funk when I was a teenager. I learned later it was because my asshole cat took a dump in them.”
“Oh, shit! I remember that!” Flip laughs.
A mom gives him the stink-eye.
“Sorry. My bad.” He motions for them to pass. “You go ahead of us.”
We step off to the side so the mom and her two kids can putt putt their way to happiness. “How did you figure that out?” I ask.
“We watched the cat go into the closet and cop a squat over his shoe.” Flip chuckles.
“I guess my brother accidentally locked the cat in the closet once, and he did his business in my shoe while he was in there. My brother dumped out the mess, but the damage was done. And he kept doing it every time the closet was left open.”
“Why didn’t your brother just fess up in the first place?” I ask.
“They were Tristan’s lucky shoes. He wore them to every game,” Flip replies.
“Ah.” I nod knowingly. “Superstition shoes.”
Tristan rubs his bottom lip. “I tried everything to get the smell out, but eventually I had to get a new pair. I swear it was the reason we lost our chance in the playoffs that year. And to the second worst team in the freaking league.”
“Or it was because our team captain broke his ankle on the ski hill the week before and our number one goalie got mono and couldn’t stay awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time,” Flip counters.
“But yeah, it totally could’ve been because your cat took dumps in your shoes and you had to replace them. ”
I tip my head. “I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“Just about certain things.” He swings his club. “Who’s ready to get their as—paragus handed to them?” He amends his swear on account of the family behind us.
The tween girl giggles.
We start again. With Tristan added to the mix, Flip’s competitive side comes out. He still keeps overshooting. And I keep hitting the balls within inches of the hole.
Tristan steps up and gives Flip a chin tip.
“Watch and learn, Madden.” He takes a golfer’s stance, and I try not to ogle his butt.
“You’re not trying to slam the balls into submission.
Caress the balls. Be firm but gentle.” He smirks as he taps the ball.
It rolls along the turf and circles the hole, dropping in on one shot. “That’s how it’s done.”
It’s my turn, so I step up and take aim. I fully expect I’ll need a second shot, but to my surprise, I sink it in one.
“For fuck’s sake,” Flip mutters.
“Nice shot. Looks like you know how to handle your balls.” Tristan turns to Flip. “You’re up. Any words of wisdom, Bea?”
“Firm and gentle. Tap, don’t slap.”
He overshoots again, and we heckle him.
Every time Flip is up, Tristan stands beside me, and we talk shit.
He also keeps touching me. A soft brush of fingers down the back of my arm, skimming my hand, sliding under my hair to squeeze my neck.
They’re all innocent touches, and it’s dark so the balls, sticks, and courses can glow, but they ramp me up all the same, because Flip is right here.
Of all the naughty things we’ve done, this feels particularly scandalous.
I don’t want to ruin what we have by slipping up and making a mistake, but it’s hard to keep my hands to myself.
By the time we reach the end of the course, Flip is seriously annoyed because he’s had his ass handed to him by both of us.
Tristan suggests we drop the cars off at the condo and walk over to the pub.
Philly is playing against New York in an exhibition game.
Kodiak Bowman, one of the most sought-after rookies in the league, started his career with Philly but got traded to New York along with another member of his team.
His dad played professional hockey for years, and Kodiak is on track to blow all his records out of the water.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s nice to look at, either.
We grab a table with a great view of the game and order drinks and appetizers.
I’m tucked into the corner with Flip beside me and Tristan across from me.
These booths are bigger than the ones at East Side’s, but despite that, Tristan manspreads into my leg room.
When he feels my foot against his shin, he lifts it and tucks it beside his leg.
“New York is playing tight.” The score is already two-zip and Bowman has a goal and an assist.
Flip glances at the screen as Connor Grace, another recent trade, takes a shot on net. “I can’t stand that guy,” he mutters, then turns his attention back to Tristan. “How was Brody’s tournament, anyway?”
“Good. They won the first two games, lost the third, but pulled it together in the fourth and won the final. Brody really needed the wins. He played well and scored a bunch of goals, which is good because he’s had a few off games recently, and he’s a lot like me and gets up in his head.
” Tristan kneads my calf under the table as the server drops off our drinks.
“I’m glad they won. That’s good for him. Any scouts at the game?” Flip asks.
Tristan nods. “A couple recognized me. There was one from Ottawa and one from Montreal. The ones from the States usually come up later in the year. But they’re looking at him, so that’s good news.”
“Is he excited about his birthday?” Flip takes another swig of his beer.
“Yeah. And it falls between games this year, so I’ll be able to celebrate with him. Are you two visiting the ’rents for Thanksgiving?” Tristan motions between us.
I shake my head. “My dad took a job on Sand Lake. He’s working the whole weekend for cash, so we said we’d find another weekend to do the turkey thing.”
“Do you want to come to my dad’s? Nate is coming back from uni for the weekend.
Brody has games on Saturday, but he’s off Sunday and Monday, so we’re deep-frying a turkey in the backyard.
There’s always way too much food and leftovers for days.
” Tristan’s gaze shifts to me. “You’re both welcome to join us.
” He squeezes my leg, then runs his hand through his hair.
“I’m down for deep-fried turkey,” Flip says and looks to me.
“Sure, that’d be great. I can bring pumpkin pie, or whatever kind of pie you want. Tell your dad I’m happy to help with whatever.”
“Pecan pie. I want pecan pie. And your candied sweet potatoes,” Flip says.
“I can do both. All three even.”
“Cool.” Tristan’s smile is genuine. “I’ll let my dad know you’re in.”