Thirty #2
And it’s going to confirm the thing I’ve been trying really hard not to admit: that this stress, the pressure, the panic, none of it came from him. Or anyone else. It’s me. It’s always been me.
He wouldn’t care if I never got drafted to a pro league. Or if I quit and became a tattoo artist. Or, I don’t know, one of those people who farm worms. He’d still cheer me on like it was the Walter cup.
I know that. And yet, some part of me still doesn’t believe it. Some part of me still acts like letting myself down means I’m letting everyone else down too.
Just as predicted, a smile tugs at my father’s lips, and he turns back to his giant mess of cookie dough.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s quite alright with me.”
“Good.” I turn to my mom. “And you,” I fume, and she’s already shrinking a little, hands raised in defense. ”A complete invasion of privacy—”
“I know,” she cuts in quickly. “You just haven’t talked to us about what happened yet, so—”
“—and also, a wild conclusion to jump to. I’m majoring in exercise science. Wouldn’t your first thought be that it was for a class?”
She falters, considering it. In her defense, she’s wound tighter than a triple-knotted skate. Having one kid building model animal lungs at gifted-and-talented science fairs, while the other was bashing her head into the boards every weekend will do that to a person.
“That’s a good point,” she admits finally, averting her eyes. “So is it? An assignment?”
“It’s…” I trail off, trying to decipher how to explain this. I had planned to bring up AIHL to my dad later, when he’s full and mildly buzzed on too much peppermint mud pie and spiked eggnog, ogling his trophies like he does every year. But I guess now’s as good a time as any.
“Kind of,” I concede, taking a deep breath. “Basically, there’s this girl.”
As a collective, my family leans back in their chairs, all at once letting out a synchronized “Ohhh.”
Immediately, I shake my head.
“Not like that. She’s my student coach.”
My mind flashes to what transpired at the resort last month. And the hotel last week. And my DMs last night.
Though, that was one sided.
“Okay, maybe a little like that, but not really. Nothing’s going to happen. Anyway—” I shake my head, trying to steer the conversation back on track. But my family, as loving as they are, veer me off course.
“Hold on,” my mom interrupts, leaning forward, eyes wide. “You can’t just say ‘there’s a girl’ and not elaborate!”
“Wait, did you say she’s your Coach?” Dad asks.
“Student Coach,” I clarify. He grins.
“Nice.”
My mom continues. “Tell me about this girl.”
Jesus Christ.
“There’s nothing to—”
“You know, I had this gut feeling you were going to end up with a woman,” Avery cuts in.
My parents are all about buying things in pairs. Two remotes, two vacuums, two refrigerators—one for the house, one for the garage. So, of course, they had two kids … who both turned out to be pansexual. Guess they like having doubles of everything.
“I’m not ending up with anybody!” I object. “Need I remind you all that I have yet to secure an actual relationship?”
“Well, that’s by choice sweetheart,” my mom rebuts.
“Yeah. Like, you could’ve said ‘yes’ when Miles Evans asked you out instead of telling him you were already betrothed to hockey,” Avery adds.
“I was nine!”
He shrugs, unfazed. “Still could’ve.” His eyes catch mine, and that antagonizing smirk tugs at his lips.
I love my brother, but sometimes I want to punch him in the fucking face.
“You’re blushing.”
I scoff and look away, swiping at my cheeks as if my fingertips are made of rubber and I can erase the color. “I am not.”
“Are too.”
“No!”
“Yup.”
“No, I’m irritated because my family has no sense of boundaries!”
That shuts everyone up. The silence is palpable, four seconds, then five, and when Pumpkin lets out a mitochondria-sized sneeze, we all burst into laughter.
For the rest of the afternoon, as we bake the gingerbread and construct our houses, I tell them about Darcy.
Not everything, but the important stuff.
How we met, how she retaped my stick, AIHL.
And how we will never turn into anything more.
And as much as it hurts, it’s nice to share it with them.
I always forget how much I miss my family until they’re back in my arms.
“I got all your genes, huh?” I ask, eyeing the completed row of gingerbread houses. Ours (mine and Dad’s) look like we ran them over with a car, especially next to Avery and Mom’s art-gallery-quality creations. My dad crosses his arms defensively, regarding our pitiful attempts.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you lend me twenty?” I whisper.
His brows furrow, and I quickly shift my gaze back to my sagging hobbit house. That’s kind of how they looked in the movies, right?
“For what?” he questions.
“I wanna bribe all the cousins to vote for me.”
My dad tilts his head back, chortling, and his arms drop to his sides. “That’s cheating,” he answers lowly. His amber eyes catch mine. “I’m stealing it.”
With a scoff, I playfully shove my elbow into him, then snap a photo of my creation, sending it to Darcy. My phone pings immediately with a response.
KIM POSSIBLE
What the hell is that?
ME
What do you mean?
Can’t you see that it’s a hobbit house?
KIM POSSIBLE
Perhaps I could if you’d scrape away the pound of neon green frosting.
My tongue traces the dent on the inside of my cheek, fighting a smile.
ME
It’s the hill.
KIM POSSIBLE
It looks like Flubber melted.
ME
You know, it’s hard to imagine why people find you cold.
KIM POSSIBLE
I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.
So what is this for? Punishment?
ME
Gingerbread house contest. Wanna vote for me?
I send her the link.
KIM POSSIBLE
If I click that link is it going to take me to porn?
ME
Would you like it to?
A few moments later, I get a notification banner across the top of my screen.
Darcy Cole voted on a poll you’re tagged in.
I click on it, skimming the census. A frown tugs at my lips as I open our thread and send her another message.
ME
You voted for the wrong one. Mine is number 3.
That one is Avery’s.
KIM POSSIBLE
I have a moral obligation to stay unbiased. His is objectively the best.
ME
That is so fucked up.
KIM POSSIBLE
Rules are rules.
Even Jay Gatsby would be impressed.
ME
Who is that? The architect?
KIM POSSIBLE
Did you take eleventh grade english?
ME
Okay now you’re just being mean.
And of course I did. It’s just that Bailey did all my summer reading annotations so I would do her pre-calc.
KIM POSSIBLE
Why am I not surpri
I don’t get to finish reading Darcy’s message before I’m cut off by Avery dropping Pumpkin into my arms. I frown, cradling the yeasty little beast as my eyes meet his.
“She needs Auntie time,” he explains.
Beside him, Mr. Bubbles nuzzles into his leg. One extremely irritating thing about my brother? He’s basically Snow-fucking-White. Animals are obsessed with him. Since he got here yesterday, Mr. Bubbles has spent more time curled up in Avery’s lap than mine.
He’s a dog thief.
“You do realize I have to take him back to school with me?” I say, pointing at my dog with my chin. Avery glances down at him, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he scratches behind the pup’s ears just right to entice a groan out of him.
“We’ll see.”
My gaze flicks around the room, catching on my dad who is now admiring his trophy case, as expected. He always gets nostalgic about his time in the league when he’s tipsy. I huff a laugh, drawing Avery’s attention. We both stand there, side by side, watching.
“Reminiscing the good ol’ days,” Avery mumbles, still petting Bubbles on the head. A sad smile tugs at my mouth.
“Yeah, that might be the both of us soon,” I say. It’s supposed to be a joke, but the way it comes out, Avery can tell that I mean it. His eyes flick over to me, only briefly, before he looks back to Dad.
“You know, Dad doesn’t care if you make it to the PWHL,” he says, softer this time. A metallic taste floods my tongue as I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“I know.”
My hand glides over the top of Pumpkin’s soft fur, and she lets out a little sound of contentment as she melts into me.
“Then why do you act like he does?”
When Avery asks you a question, it’s never to corner you.
He’s not being malicious, or even passive-aggressive—though sometimes it feels that way.
He just genuinely wants to understand why things are the way they are.
Which is funny, because he already seems to understand things better than most. My dad sips from his mug of eggnog, head tilted as he stares at his trophies.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Avery’s hand rests on my shoulder. It’s quick but warm, and he scrunches his brow at me as he pulls it back.
“You say that like it’s new.”