Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Besides, game talk is a different beast.
We watch the game together, yelling at the screen as if the players can hear us coaching them, supporting them, or telling them what dumbasses they are. And before long, the hard-fought game is over.
Moose: 3. Rockets: 2.
We won. But it was close. Too close. Dalton was solid for the first two periods, but the Rockets were relentless, and the third period was too tight for my own taste.
Almost as soon as the game’s over, the metro sports show starts, starring none other than Steve Milligan. I roll my eyes at his annoying, smarmy face, but listen to his analysis of the game regardless. Admittedly, it’s mostly so I can disagree with him, but I’m professional enough to admit that there are things I could learn from the man with decades of experience on me. Even if he’s a total asshole.
“And in minor league news, the Moose barely squeaked by the Rockets’ defenses, winning their doubleheader matchup—”
I throw a chip at the screen, knowing it won’t make it across the room. “Squeaked by, my ass,” I snort.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, getting up to pick up my mess.
I stand, taking the chip from her and putting it on my napkin. “You don’t have to clean up after me, Mom. I’ve got it. That guy irritates me.” I glare at the television, where Milligan is talking favorably about Shepherd at least, but he’s still making it seem like they won accidentally, not because they played their asses off.
“Steve Milligan?” Mom questions, looking at the screen. “Really? I think he’s handsome.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Dad grumbles.
I sigh. “If you two are gonna pick a fight so you can have makeup sex, I’m gonna go.”
Mom laughs, sitting back in her chair. “You don’t have to go anywhere, honey—”
“Yet,” Dad interrupts her, teasing, “It’s still early. But don’t hang out too long.”
Mom swats the air in the general vicinity of Dad’s hand. “Jim, hush. Don’t run her off. Joy, what’s wrong with Steve Milligan?”
She truly wants to listen to me, but Mom and Dad are also making flirty eyes at each other like I’m not right here, able to see them plain as day, or am too stupid to know what sexy eyes are.
My parents love each other. A lot. They also love each other. Also, a lot.
All three of us kids have stories of walking into the kitchen and finding them kissing at the sink, or Dad smacking Mom’s ass when he thought we couldn’t see, or talking in poorly disguised code about “staying in” all weekend.
It’s cute, adorable, and gross, all at the same time. Mostly, it sets the bar really high because that’s what I want. What we all want. So far, Hope’s the only one who’s found it.
Maybe not the only one.
“Milligan’s a misogynistic blowhard who wouldn’t know hard work, talent, or athleticism if it bit him on the ass,” I explain, lumping quite a few issues together but unable or maybe unwilling to give Mom the college-level length the subject deserves. “He shits on players who are doing their absolute best just for viewership and hasn’t done his own analysis in forever. That’s for the peasants to spoon-feed him. He’s barely a fan at this point, much less an expert.”
“Well damn, girl, tell us how you really feel,” Dad says, barking out a surprised laugh.
I guess I haven’t spit out that much vitriol about Milligan before, but after he hurt Dalton’s feelings, I’ve been even more contemptuous about the man than I already was. I’m also not going to examine why I’m angrier about Milligan hurting Dalton than I am about him treating me like an annoying female fly in his sports soup.
Mom glances at the screen, then back to me. “I guess he’s not that handsome after all.” When I meet her eyes, she gives me a quick wink of support. If I’m anti-Milligan, she is too. Out of the side of her mouth, she whispers, “Do we like Matt at the local station? He does a good job on the NHL games.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Mom. Matt’s great. I like working with him.”
She grins happily, but then she throws a chip at the television the way I did. “Change it, Jim. We don’t care what this . . . um, blowhard has to say.”
Thankfully, Milligan’s not even talking about hockey anymore, much less the minor league Moose vs. Rockets game, so when Dad changes the channel, I fake a yawn and a double-arm stretch. “I’d better get going anyway. I know you’ve both got work in the morning.”
I stand, moving to pick up Mom’s chip of support and drop it on my napkin too. “I’ll help get this all picked up.”
Mom and Dad both rise, shooing me off simultaneously. “We got it, honey. Be safe driving home this late. Love you!”