Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry, we’ll play a second game and switch up the teams,” Ryan assured Dax. “If need be, I’ll get stuck with Jizz the second game.”
“Hey,” I said again.
But Ryan just laughed.
“You need help, Mom?” Dax called to Mom in the kitchen.
“Nope! Dinner will be on the table in thirty!” Mom called back, prompting the four of us to grab our drinks and barrel into the garage, leaving Dad and Colby on the couch, semi-watching a baseball game.
As it turned out, Ryan and Josh soundly kicked the Wonder Twins’ asses in the first game, and, in the second game, after poor Josh was saddled with me (because Dax shoved me at him and screamed “You take her, for the love of God!”), my team lost again.
“Are you starting to see a pattern here, Kum Shot?” Ryan teased after my second loss. “Now let’s think. Who was the common player on both losing teams?”
“Hardy har,” I replied, feigning annoyance. But I wasn’t annoyed. Not even a little bit. In fact, I was walking on air, despite my two foosball losses. Because despite how much I typically abhor losing at anything, I felt like I’d just gained something a whole lot better than a couple of stinkin’ foosball victories: I’d gained my brothers’ approval of the man I love.
Holy shitballs, Ryan must have slapped Josh on the back at least five times during our first game and high-fived him another ten. And in the second game, when Ryan and Josh were on opposing teams, Ryan floored me by doing the one thing that conveys matriculation into the Morgan clan more than anything else: he christened Josh with a stupid nickname.
“Aw, come on, Lambo,” Ryan teased when Josh failed to guard against one of Ryan’s many goals. “You can do better than that.”
“Eh, you got lucky, Captain,” Josh shot back easily.
My heart stopped. I looked at Dax, ready to share a look of pure elation, but Dax’s gaze was fixed squarely on Josh.
“I thought you said you actually knew how to play this game, Hollywood,” Dax zinged at Josh. “Pfft.”
Josh laughed. “You best not be talking any smack, Whippersnapper—or else it’s gonna come back to bite you in your rock-star ass.”
And that was that. My brothers had made their feelings about Josh crystal clear—and Josh had returned their affection in no uncertain terms. Just like that, it was two Morgans down, four to go (or, rather, two Morgans down, three to go, since we all know Keane’s vote doesn’t matter).
And now, having finished our two foosball games, the four of us are walking into the family room, laughing and teasing each other as we go, joining Dad and Colby (and Colby’s boxer Ralph) on seats around the TV.
“Oh, yeah!” Colby shouts at the television. “Come on, baby! Come on!”
I settle myself onto Josh’s lap in a big armchair and glance at the TV, just in time to see the center fielder for the Twins run back, back, back—and then watch helplessly as a long-ball disappears over the center-field fence.
“And that ball is gone, baby,” Ryan says.
Colby and Dad shout with glee and the camera cuts to... Cameron Schulz, the All-Star shortstop for the Mariners, rounding second-base and fist-pumping the air.
At the sight of Cameron, I stiffen on Josh’s lap and look down, hoping against hope he’s somehow, through the grace of God, not looking at the TV right now.
“And Cameron Schulz smashes a three-run homer to put the Mariners ahead of the Twins three-two in the bottom of the third,” the TV announcer says, just in case Josh isn’t paying attention to what’s happening onscreen. “That was Cameron Schulz’s twelfth homer of the season after a ten-game drought.”
At the mention of Cameron’s name on the TV, I glance at Josh to find him shooting me a look that can only be described as homicidal.
I bite my lip.
“Schulz is sucking ass this season,” Dax says. He flashes me a snarky look, clearly reminding me he knows Cameron’s penis was once lodged deep inside me.
I shoot Dax a look in reply that unequivocally warns him not to say or do a goddamned thing to give my secret away or else I will cut him.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “The guy’s having a shitty-ass year. Glad he finally did something to earn his big, fat paycheck.”
Dax opens his mouth to say something but I shoot him daggers again, and he shuts it—for a nanosecond, that is—and then he opens it again. “I heard the guy’s juiced up,” Dax says, smirking at me. “I bet he’s got a tiny little peepee.”
I squint at him.
“Well, if that guy’s on ’roids, he should fire his dealer,” Ryan says, swigging his beer. “Because they’re definitely not working.”
Josh laughs.
“Totally,” Dax says. “The Mariners should trade him.”
“They’re not gonna trade Cameron Schulz,” Colby says. “He’s a franchise player.”