19. Chapter 19
Cody
“That's three in a row.” I spin the club between my fingers, grinning at Davis. “You want to keep going, or should I just start signing autographs now?”
“Oh my god, shut up.” Davis grabs a club from the rack and steps up to the tee. “You play hockey, not golf. We’re all equally bad at this.”
“And yet.” I gesture at the scoreboard, then drop into the chair at the high-top table and grab my water.
“You're the worst.” He lines up his shot, shifts his stance twice, then shanks the ball right into the safety netting. “That doesn't count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“Dad, tell him it doesn't count.”
“It counts.” Dad glances at the scoreboard and shakes his head. “Also, you're both beating me, so why are you complaining?”
My little brother sets up his next ball. His second shot hooks left but clears the first target and lands somewhere in the fifty-point zone. He pumps his fist. “Let's go.”
Dad chuckles, grabs his club, and makes his way to the green hitting mat. The screen mounted to the side of our bay updates Davis’s score with a sad little bloop.
I point to it. “Six points. Legendary stuff.”
Davis swings his club toward me. “Not for long.”
“You said that three turns ago.”
“Because I’m building suspense.”
“You’re building a case for lessons.”
Dad lowers his club. “Cody.”
I shrug. “What? That was constructive.”
“It was mean.”
“Constructively mean.”
Dad takes his swing. Clean contact, nice follow-through. The ball arcs toward one of the yellow targets and drops in clean.
My brother huffs, crossing his arms. “That was suspicious.”
Dad looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Suspiciously better than yours?”
“Rude.”
I snort and stretch my legs out under the table.
Nothing like spending a Thursday night at Top Golf with my competitive little brother.
I grab my phone and unlock it. No new texts from Doyle. Two Snap notifications. One email from Professor Demir I’m absolutely not opening right now. I go back to my texts and open the thread that should've been deleted five days ago.
Five whole days since I blocked the number. Five days of checking anyway as if somehow a message might come through. Five days of wondering if they’re still even trying to get in touch. Or if they even bothered in the first place.
And five days of jerking off to the picture of Kincaid’s ass.
Awesome. Getting off to two complete psychopaths. Peak decision-making there.
I tap on the name at the top, biting my lips together to keep from laughing.
Temu Slenderman.
I hit settings and scroll to the bottom, thumb hovering over the option to unblock Kincaid. It would just be to check. Not because I want them to keep trying.
“Are you even listening?”
I jerk my head up. “What?”
Davis is leaning across the table, glowering at me. “I said, did you see Brayden's new girlfriend?”
I lock my phone and flip it face down on the table. “No.”
“He's posting pictures of them all over his account.” My little brother makes a gagging face. “So stupid. Like we get it, you have a girlfriend. Congratulations, you can stand next to someone in an apple orchard.”
“Apple orchard?”
“Yeah. They went apple picking. In matching sweaters.”
Now it’s my turn to gag.
Davis sighs. “Think he's bringing her to Thanksgiving?”
“Probably.”
“Why can't it just be us?” He shoves a fry in his mouth. “He always brings someone.”
And Mom gushes all over every single one of them.
I love my older brother. But sometimes it would be nice if he showed up by himself and didn’t accidentally turn the whole house into a meet-the-parents audition.
Dad sits down and picks up his drink. “Leave your brother alone.”
My little brother rolls his eyes. “I'm just saying. Every holiday. Every single one.”
“Davis,” Dad says.
“Fine.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. “Whatever.”
Dad takes a sip of his beer, then looks at me. “What about you? Seeing anyone new?”
“No.” I grab my soda and take a drink. “Just concentrating on hockey.”
My knee starts bouncing under the table as I put the glass down. I open my mouth, the words right there, sitting on my tongue. I could say it. Right now. Just say it the way I did with Doyle.
Except Doyle was a slip.
This would be a conversation. With my father. With Davis.
What would I even say? What would it change?
I close my mouth.
Dad’s brows pull together. “You okay, Cody?”
I nod. “Yeah. I'm good.”
“You know I'm here for you.” He glances at Davis, then back to me. “Both of you. Even if it's bad. You're my sons.”
My throat tightens. I stand, grabbing my club off the table. “You might want to rethink that after I kick your ass again.”
“That's five dollars in the swear jar.” Davis doesn't look up from his phone.
I step onto the mat. “Only counts when we're at home.”
“Cody.” Dad gives me the look.
I arch a brow, staring at him. “So you're adding five bucks for that word you used when that guy cut you off on the expressway?”
Dad opens his mouth, pauses, then sits back. “That's . . . Got me there.”
I line up the shot, then swing. The ball sails clean, high arc, drops into the 150-point zone, and bounces once before settling.
“Oh, come on.” Davis throws a fry at me.
Dad whistles from behind me. “Nice shot. So, how's school going?”
And now we’ve entered the buzzkill part of the evening.
“Fine.” I grab another ball and set it on the tee.
“Tutoring center still helping?”
“Yeah.”
“If it isn’t, we can always get you a private tutor.”
“It's fine, Dad.” I rip the next shot, and it cuts right, clipping the edge of the white target. “You’re up.”
He stands, walks to the mat, then lays a hand on my shoulder. “It's okay to need help, Cody.”
“Fine means fine. Jesus.”
His hand drops from my shoulder.
Fuck me.
I sigh, shoulders curling forward. “Sorry, Dad.”
He shakes his head. “No, that’s on me. Didn’t mean to push. I just don’t want you to struggle if you don’t need to.”
Davis looks up from his phone. “I can tutor you.”
I stare at him. “You're in seventh grade.”
“Excuse me for trying to be supportive.”
My eyes narrow. “You cried over fractions last month.”
“That was one time.”
“You called Mom from the bathroom.”
Dad presses his fingers to his mouth, but his shoulders shake.
Davis glares at me. “Can we just play?”
I rack my club and drop into my chair. “Yeah, Dad. Swing away. You're still going to lose.”
Dad hooks his shot so badly that it barely clears the first net. Davis and I glance at each other. He points at both of us without turning around. “Don't.”
“Wasn't going to say anything.” I hold up my hands.
Davis is biting his fist to keep from laughing, then he leans closer, scrolling through his phone again. “Oh my god, I forgot to show you.”
“If it’s another picture of Brayden in a sweater, I’m leaving.”
“It’s you, dumbass.”
Dad looks over. “Language.”
My brother glowers at him over the phone. “That wasn’t a swear.”
“It’s close enough.”
“That is not how swear jars work.”
I chuckle. “Careful. He’s making up rules now.”
Davis turns the screen toward me. “It’s the video where you deke out the goalie and shoot it between your feet. It has one hundred and fifty thousand views.”
“Bullshit.” I grab the phone.
And there I am.
I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. It was a great game. Got three goals and two assists. For once my stats were not just solid. Not just fine. They were great.
Davis bounces beside me. “That goal was sick. I showed Milo at lunch, and he said you only scored because the goalie sucked. I told him he couldn’t even make the middle school team, and then he called me short.”
“Short? You’re like the tallest kid in your grade.”
He shrugs.
Dad sits beside us, and my brother hands him the phone. “Hell of a shot, Cody.”
“Thanks.”
When the bay host comes over to check on our drinks, Davis practically climbs over the table. “Hey, have you seen this? My brother is the coolest hockey player.” He holds up the phone. “That's him. Number thirty-four.”
She leans in, smiling politely at first, then her eyebrows lift. “Wait, that was you? I saw this on TikTok.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
“That goal was amazing.”
My face heats up, and I look at the table. “Thanks.”
Dad orders more drinks and a flatbread because Davis claims he’s “starving to death” despite having eaten enough fries to support a small village. The bay host leaves, and Davis hops up for his turn again.
I sit back and watch him slice two balls, then point at the screen when he faces me. “Still in the lead.”
“Bite me.”
I look at Dad.
He just shakes his head. His phone rings, a smile forming when he answers it. “Hey, honey.”
Mom.
His brows furrow. “Calm down. Say that again.”
I sit straighter. “Dad?”
He holds up a hand. “You looked everywhere? The door wasn't open?”
Davis walks over, club hanging loose in one hand. “Is Mom okay?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
Dad turns away from us, pressing a finger to his other ear. “Okay. Ask the neighbors. Maybe someone has a Ring doorbell that caught something.”
My heart rate picks up, breaths becoming shallow. “What’s going on? Dad?”
He disconnects the call and looks at both of us. “Blue's missing.”