Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“I looked at your GPA, boy. You either pull that grade up to a damn A, or pull that and two of your other classes up to Bs. If you don’t, your ass is going to be on academic suspension. And academic suspension means team suspension, which means your ass won’t be around here when they go to draft.”
Which would mean I was royally screwed. I stared at the turf, hating myself for letting it get to this point. School had never been my strong point. Football had been my only hope of getting out of the cycle of poverty Dayton churned out, but it was like that damn town had seeped into my skin, tainting any hope that existed. The worst part about it, though, was that Dad would have been so disappointed in me. That upset me more than losing out on the draft.
I ran my cleat over the grass. “I’ll fix it.”
“You damn well better, son. Go get a tutor. Hell, figure out a way to cheat on exams. I don’t give a shit. Just get those grades up.” He clasped a hand to my shoulder. “You’re the best damn player this university’s ever had. Be a shame to watch you sink a career down the shitter over some stupid math you ain’t ever gonna use.”
After practice, I swung to the outskirts of town to pick up Dog, the stray I’d found last year. He was wandering around the dump, bone-thin and half-eaten by fleas. Scared as shit.
Rogue had a rich-boy fit when I brought him into the house, but after a few days, he’d decided he liked him for the simple fact that the dog was a stubborn asshole. He’d sit, roll over, play dead for a treat, but try to get the dickhead to do anything without the promise of a reward, and he’d all but take a shit in the corner out of spite. Needless to say, I didn’t want him at the house when we had parties. He’d either get out while no one was paying attention and eat a chicken bone from the trash, or some asshole would probably try to spray paint him, which was why I had left him with Mrs. Seaton.
My truck rattled along the dirt path winding between the trailers of Sunny Times Trailer Park, and a sense of nostalgia settled over me. I’d grown up in a place not too different from this. Dirt roads. Single-wides parked in messy rows, most with about five clunkers scattered around the lot.
I parked in front of the white trailer with pots of plastic tulips decorating the rickety porch. The first time I’d come to drop off Dog, she’d told me she got them from the trash cans at the cemetery. It was morbid as hell, but I had to appreciate the thriftiness of it.
The wooden goose with “welcome” painted across its chest rattled when I knocked on the front door. Footsteps shuffled toward the entrance moments before the door creaked open to Mrs. Seaton. Curlers twisted her stark-white hair, and Dog’s orange fur covered her navy-blue sweatsuit.
“Come on in, Wolf.” She opened the door all the way, and Dog leaped from the recliner in the corner, his curled tail wagging as he ran toward me on a high-pitched screech.
“I swear to Lord Almighty, that ain’t no dog.” Her slippers shuffled over the carpet toward the kitchen. “Sounds and looks like a fox.”
Dog’s pointed ears lay flat, wiggling while he squinted up at me. She was right. He looked more like a cracked-out fox than a dog.
“He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”
“What is it your friend said he is? A Shih Tzu?”
I kneeled to scrub behind his ears. “Shiba Inu.” Evidently, some designer dog for rich housewives. How he’d ended up in Pikestown was beyond me.
She pfft at that. “Shih Tzu. Shinu. All the same.”
The little egg timer on her kitchen counter dinged.
“See. Timed it just right.” She opened the oven, and the heavenly scent of freshly baked cookies filled the tiny trailer. “Made you some snickerdoodles.” Grinning, she shoved her hands into oven mitts and pulled out a tray of cookies fit for a bakery.
“Ah, Mrs. Seaton, you shouldn’t have.”
“I sure as mess shoulda. You got that big ole’ game coming up.” She slid the baking tray onto the counter. “Need your strength.”
Because cookies were going to give me strength… I gave Dog one final pat on the head, then straightened and went to grab plates from the cabinet before she tried to get out her step stool. The last time she’d tried to climb up on it—at my disapproval—she threatened to swat me with her fly swatter, then nearly tumbled off the damn thing. It was best if I beat her to it.
While I put cookies on the plates, she poured two glasses of milk. Then she tossed half of a cookie onto the floor for Dog. I opened my mouth, and she held up a knotted finger.