Shea

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck is the word that continues to repeat. It's like whenever Call Me Maybe plays on the radio—I can't get the fucking song out of my head.

With sweat dripping down my temples, I shift into another squat, adjusting the grip on the bar across my back. The weights on each end are heavy, representing seventy percent of my body weight. As much as I hate back squats, they're the foundation for my exercise routine. I thought the burning muscles in my thighs and arms would be enough of a distraction. They should be enough of a distraction. I've done over fifty squats and my thighs are trembling; I want to collapse to the floor.

Why did I kiss Brenna?

Goddamn it.

Gritting my teeth, I raise to the resting position, and then squat again. Sweat slides down my temples. My thighs shake. I'm tempted to throw the bar across the room. Maybe shatter the mirrors in front of me. I haven't been able to keep eye contact with my reflection for over two seconds. All I see are my stupid decisions.

Fucking Harrison. She always gets in my way.

"Kid."

Tearing my gaze away from the black floor, I make eye contact with Coach. He's wearing his typical tracksuit, his last name embroidered on the left side of his chest. His peppered hair is combed back, and the hard lines on his face look rougher thanks to the blinding fluorescent lighting. A clipboard sits in his right hand. He holds a pen in his left.

"Yeah?" I ask. My voice shakes as I push to a standing position. Sweat soaks the back of my shirt.

"Go join Jones and Miller on the track. Do a light—and I mean light jog. You're overworking yourself."

I open my mouth to protest.

He raises his pen. "Not another word, Smith. Track. Now."

I hold his intimidating gaze for several seconds, challenging him. He doesn't back down. Sighing, I carefully set the barbell down and return the weight plates to the rack in the corner. As I'm crossing the gym, I mumble an unappreciative thanks to Coach. He claps me on the shoulder with the clipboard, grinning. He knows how much I dislike running indoors. Especially that goddamned track above the two indoor soccer fields. Last time, Coach made me sprint the whole damn track. He pushed me until I completed the circle in under two minutes.

But that's not why I hate the track. Ironically, running and jogging inside are my least favourite forms of exercise. I would rather spend time naturally building my muscles via weight training. I'll run or jog if I have to, but I'm picky. I prefer jogging the hiking trails in Rose Valley or along Mission Creek Greenway. An indoor track, even if music is drowning out my surroundings or I'm able to watch indoor soccer games going on below, makes me feel confined.

But Coach wants me to jog.

After I've gathered my belongings, I head for the door that connects the main gym to the track. While I'm crossing the area covered in mats, where Connor and a few other guys are stretching, I keep my head down. I ignore their invasive glares. Using my Gatorade towel, I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"Smith! How's Jayden?" Connor calls.

I clench my fist around my water bottle. If Coach's eyes weren't drilling into me, I'd toss the bottle at Watt's head. Maybe it would concuss him. Maybe he'd sit out for a month or two.

Fucking asshole.

Pausing, I glance over my shoulder and send him a sardonic smirk. "He's here, isn't he?"

The malicious grin on his face fades, replaced by a frown. Pushing his buttons isn't smart, but hockey gods help me, I want to throttle him. A man who takes pride in hurting his teammates doesn't deserve to play hockey. It's a team sport. I'm not sure where Connor's hatred for me stems from. I can only assume it's because Coach chose me as captain instead of him.

Our gazes stay locked for several seconds, representing a silent challenge. I want him to attack. Punching him would make me feel better. He deserves some bruises. Even if I come out with worse injuries than him.

"Smith!" Coach barks.

I roll my eyes and continue across the room. I open the door, stepping onto the track. I'm welcomed by the sound of soccer balls slamming against the plastic boards and girls shouting. Feet pounding against the track as KJ and Jayden race against each other. They're on the far side. Leaning against the wall, hidden from view of the windows, I decide to wait for them to arrive.

While they're racing to each corner, I wrack my brain for a solution to my Connor-Brenna problem. Pairing their names together makes me cringe, but it speaks the truth. Connor's stupid bet has caused problems with Brenna. I don't want to associate myself with her over a bet. But nor do I want KJ or Jayden to be harmed.

I could tell Coach about what Connor did to Jayden. But what proof do I have? And what the hell could Coach do? Although his attitude stinks, Connor is a good goalie. All he'd receive is a slap on the wrist. Maybe a suspension for an x-amount of games. The punishment wouldn't change Connor. It'd fuel him. He'd come back with a vengeance. A shudder reverberates down my spine. I fear for KJ and Jayden. If I decide to not follow through with the bet...

Jayden and KJ sprint to the far left corner. Jayden wins again.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the stale smell of sweat and artificial grass. Soccer balls banging against the plastic boards echoes through the spacious area. Stress weighs on my shoulders. It's wrong to pull Brenna into this disaster. I can see that now. I wish I would've never gone to that party. Never touched the alcohol. I'm ridden with guilt.

They make it to the next corner, Jayden winning by a split second. I watch as the two of them line up. Within seconds, they're sprinting towards me. For the first five metres, KJ has the lead.

When they skid to a stop in front of me, Jayden winning by a hairline.

"Fuck," KJ curses, leaning over. His elbows rest on his thighs as he tries to catch his breath. "You beat me every time."

Jayden leans against the pillar, a tired smirk on his face. "Of course I did."

While they have their brief conversation, I get lost in my thoughts. Kissing Brenna wasn't smart. At first, I did it to shut her up. The last thing she expected me to do was kiss her. I thought she'd stop pushing me.

Things changed when she kissed me back. When I touched her curved cheekbone. I can still feel the heat of her skin beneath my thumb. Still taste the cucumber melon lip balm she was wearing.

After the kiss, when I realized what I'd done, I felt nothing but shame. I knew the risks. Brenna wasn't the only one who received a warning when she joined the boys' league. Brenna is to be treated fairly and viewed as another player. We received a severe warning about becoming romantically involved with her. No dating. No kissing. We aren't even supposed to think about it.

No bending or breaking the rules.

If we ever did, our spots on the team would be compromised. As would Brenna's.

Again, I'm ridden with guilt.

Which is strange. Days ago, I would've done anything to have her removed from the team. I could've lied and called her out for trying to make a move on me. Knowing she plays in the same league still pisses me off. But I'm trying—I'm really trying to change my perception. Especially after the comment she made about Chelsea. And our conversation in the cafeteria.

Yet I made a foolish decision. If word gets out about me kissing Brenna, there's going to be hell to pay.

I close my eyes and knock my head against the wall.

I'm a fucking idiot.

Why didn't I realize it before?

Connor knows the consequences that will follow if I'm caught with Brenna outside of hockey, school, and socializing. After being favoured for captaincy, he wants me out of the league. He wants there to be a stain on my record. Connor sees me as a threat. Fuck, I'll bet he kept nudging my injured shoulder to prolong my time off the ice. He wants me out of the eyes of the scouts. That has to be why he's targeting me. 

Bastard.

His motives must run deeper, though. Why drag Brenna into this? She isn't a threat to scouting. Scouts who come to games are looking for NHL material. Brenna... she's not there. Women don't have a professional hockey league. I'll admit she has skill, but unless she can make a university team, her only other option is the Winter Olympics. She couldn't make a living off of hockey.

My thoughts sound rude and discriminatory, but they're the bitter truth.

"Christ, Smith," Jayden says. "I haven't seen you out here for years. What happened to squats?"

Opening my eyes, I glance between KJ and Jayden. They're both sweaty and panting. Jayden is leaning against the pillar. KJ is sitting down, stretching out his leg muscles.

KJ grins as he leans over and grabs his feet, pressing his chest to his thighs. "Bet Coach forced him out here." He glances at me. "Am I correct?"

"Yeah," I reply, rolling my eyes. "He said I was overworking myself."

Jayden laughs and shakes his head. "Coach has a point. Squats kill me, man. I don't know how you're able to walk."

I shrug. My thigh muscles are powerful, the reason behind why I can skate so fast. I want to keep them that way. "Connor was staring me down, too."

Jayden's face darkens. Although the doc cracked his nose back into place (figuratively speaking), the bruising is still prominent. Even beneath the splint he's wearing. He was cleared for training and hockey, but he's missed a game and a few practices. I applaud him for making that decision. Putting yourself at risk when you're already injured isn't smart. He probably shouldn't be sprinting, but it's better than playing hockey, where a broken nose is almost guaranteed in your lifetime. 

"I hate that bastard," he spits.

"Who doesn't?" KJ snorts. He pulls one leg to his chest and positions it over his left thigh, turning in the opposite direction. His back cracks as he does so. "So, have you thought of any ideas? How are we stopping the bet? It's obvious Brenna doesn't deserve this shit." He nods at Jayden's nose. "We all know you don't want to be part of it. Hence the reason Connor attacked his teammate."

"We?" I frown. "What are you talking about?"

"Please," Jayden says, crossing his arms. He pushes from the pillar and joins KJ on the ground. "You don't think we're leaving you to deal with Connor alone, do you?"

My gaze flicks between Jayden and KJ as I sit down. We're in the corner closest to the door. If Coach comes out, I might as well look like I'm prepping for jogging or sprinting. Whatever I decide to do. Once I'm seated, I shift into a stretching position, placing my right foot on the other side of my left thigh. It feels good after assaulting my lower body with squats. I like the burn of sore, tired muscles. What doesn't feel good is involving KJ and Jayden in this drama. It makes me wary. I got myself into this mess. It's my problem to deal with. Connor never told me about the consequences should I fail. It's too risky to involve my friends.

"You can't," I say, keeping my voice firm. My gaze flicks to Jayden's bruised nose. The collage of colours makes my stomach flip. When Connor attacked him, I didn't do enough for him. Connor loves dishing out consequences. I could've at least warned Jayden or had the same level of guts Brenna did when she prevented me from punching Tucker. "If Connor finds out you're scheming with me..."

I'm scared Connor will permanently sideline one of them. 

Jayden shrugs. "It's not bad, Shea. My family doctor cleared me for training. I opted out of playing to reduce the risk of my injury becoming worse. Why don't we tell someone about Connor? He's being abusive. He doesn't deserve to get away with this shit."

"He doesn't," KJ nods, "but we've got a problem. We know what happens if we're caught being more-than-friendly with Brenna. Even if Shea was drunk when he agreed to the bet, he still agreed. Agreeing could be enough to turn the tables on us."

"But Connor beat up his own teammate," I argue, gesturing to Jayden's nose. "And... And I have done nothing with Brenna. We've been hanging out because we're partners in French."

The lie tastes terrible on my tongue. I glance down at my hands. Kissing her was a mistake—even if I enjoyed it. Even if it shut her up. It's funny how she can push people, but she can't take it. She doesn't enjoy someone telling her what to do. She doesn't enjoy hearing opinions when they aren't synchronous with hers. The first time I was over, she wasn't keen on heading inside. It's as if she doesn't know how to relax. 

She's a contradiction that piques my interest.

"Connor also has allies that will support him," Jayden says softly, switching legs. He leans forward and grabs his foot. "He'll frame you as the villain. I can already hear him telling Coach you agreed to manipulate Brenna into bed."

Silence washes over us, save for the soccer games going on. KJ and Jayden stare at me.

I blink. Silence is the only response I offer. How am I supposed to respond? Either way, I'm fucked. Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair. If we blab, Connor will fight back. He will ruin my chances at being scouted, and Brenna will be removed from the league. We'll also be labelled as snitches.

"You know," KJ says, climbing to his feet. He stretches out his arms. "What they're doing to Brenna is sexist. Why does dating one of us matter? She contributes to the team and has the skill to play hockey..." He trails off, shaking his head. "It's fucked up. That would be like them telling me I can't date because it would distract me from the game."

I open my mouth, ready to voice my agreement. Dating is a distraction. A waste of time. I can see the point he's making, though. These rules, the ones Brenna and I bent, are stupid. Hockey is about skill and contribution. But dating isn't my thing. 

KJ holds up his hand. "Keep your mouth shut, Smith. We all know where you stand on romance."

Laughing, I drop my face into my hands and rub my tired eyes. Now that I've sat down, my legs are aching.

Jayden stares down at me. "Do you need help up?"

I drop my hands from my face. "No." To prove my point, I stand up with a grunt. My thighs burn and my muscles ache. I grit my teeth.

"You look like an old man." Snorting, KJ imitates leaning over a walking stick while clutching his lower back.

"Shut up, Jones," I mutter, shaking my muscles loose. "Coach may have been correct, though. About overworking myself."

"Sometimes you win, and sometimes you learn," Jayden shrugs. He claps me on the back. "Race you to the end?"

Feeling weathered, I glance at the stretch of track ahead. Its distance looks longer than it did five minutes ago. My shoulders slump as I walk up next to Jayden. I'm losing this race, no matter what, but I might as well run. Coach is probably watching us.

"Fine," I sigh.

"Jones," Jayden calls over his shoulder. "Count us down."

KJ counts down from three, and then we're off. I try to match Jayden stride-for-stride, but my muscles feel like jelly. Odds are I'm sleeping on the living couch tonight—the stairs will be impossible to climb. Jayden knocks his fist against the far wall three seconds before I do.

After we've caught our breath, Jayden knocks his shoulder against mine. "It's a wonder you can keep up to Brenna on the ice. Yet you lose to me on the track." He heads over to the railing.

"Probably because she's not—"

I bite my tongue. It's an effort to hold back the sexist comment sitting on my tongue, but I have to. Although I support my sister, my actions account for nothing. Effort has to be inclusive instead of exclusive. Just like Brenna said.

Jayden pauses next to me, mid-step, a skeptical look on his face.

"What?" I snap.

He stares for several seconds before a cheeky grin crosses his face. "What's with the sudden vibe switch, Smith?"

My cheeks flush pink, and I turn away, ready to sprint. Fuck this. If Coach won't let me do squats until my biceps are shaking and my thigh muscles have given out, I'll fucking sprint. If my thigh muscles have been overworked, then they can suck it up and stop whining. I'll sprint.

Jayden grabs my shoulder and spins me around, the cheeky grin still present. "Holy fuck," he says. "What did you two do?"

"Nothing," I reply too quickly. "What makes you assume something happened between Brenna and I?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "Never thought I'd see the day Shea Smith panicked over something."

Rolling my eyes, I shrug his hand from my shoulder. "Nothing happened."

"Bullshit," Jayden laughs. "You had something to say, yet you stopped yourself. Why?"

"I kissed her!" I snap, throwing my hands up in the air. Although I want to be pissed off, it feels like I have removed a weight from my shoulders. My tense muscles relax and my voice softens. "I kissed her."

Jayden's mouth drops open.

"You did WHAT?!" KJ exclaims as he joins us. "Who did you kiss?"

"Brenna Harrison," Jayden replies.

They exchange a look before staring me down.

My cheeks flare. "I-I was t-trying to shut her up!" I sputter, clamping down on my emotions. Do I regret kissing her? Yes—but only because my actions could cause me to lose my spot on the team. Or cause her to lose hers. Would I kiss her again? Yeah, maybe I'm a little addicted to that cucumber melon lip balm.

Big fucking deal.

How many more times can I swear? I think I've set a record.

"What an excellent excuse," KJ drawls. "Are you going through with the bet?"

"No!" I exclaim.

"Then why'd you kiss her?" Jayden asks.

I run a hand through my hair again. How do I explain it? Brenna... I'm enjoying time with her. After our conversation in the cafeteria, there's still tension between us, but it's as if we've come to a mutual understanding. We're competitive, yet we fuel each other to be better hockey players. Brenna and I also have a history. We used to be friends. Perhaps there's a part of me that longs for those days. Or maybe I'm realizing liking someone is easier than hating them.

Yet there is still that stubborn part of me that's jealous. Who thinks she belongs in her own league. A part I'm trying to exterminate. Somehow, I need to appreciate the move she's making to raise awareness about women's hockey. If my hockey options were restricted, I wouldn't be happy. 

"I don't know," I sigh, ignoring the small smile on KJ's lips. "It was the heat of the moment. She kept pestering me about responsibilities I shouldn't hold and toxic masculinity shit. I just... I wanted her to shut up."

That's not the truth. I wanted her to shut up, yes. But Brenna also called out the bullshit I've been dealing with. Her comment was low, but she made a valid point. I'm dealing with responsibilities I shouldn't have to at this age. My post-secondary life shouldn't be questionable. It gave me the impression she cared, and that got to my head. Badly. Unlike KJ and Jayden, who usually give up after I shut them down, she continued to pester me. I guess I kind of liked it. 

The picture she has doesn't help, either.

I still want to know why she has it hung on her wall.

Brenna also kissed me back. She didn't curse my name or shove me away. It makes me wonder...

I shake my head, eliminating the thought.

Leaning against a large pillar, Jayden crosses his arms. He looks smug, which causes me to grind my teeth. "So... you kissed her because she called you out?"

I stare down at the two indoor soccer fields. They're surrounded by netting and plastic boards. The last time I played soccer there was ten years ago. When I was seven. Dad wanted me to pick a sport. I couldn't decide between soccer and hockey. I thought I would be a good soccer goalie, so I opted to play goal that day. My opinion changed after a soccer ball hit my face and gave me black eye. 

Resting my elbows on the railing, I press my forehead against the cool metal. "I don't know, okay?" I groan. "I just did. It was impulsive and wrong. It will not happen again." Fixing my posture, I glance at my friends. "You won't say anything, will you?"

Both of them look offended.

"Seriously?" Jayden asks.

"Fuck you, Smith," KJ says, "for even asking that question."

I raise my hands. "Sorry."

"Yeah, man," Jayden says, adjusting the collar of his sweaty grey T-shirt. "You should be. We wouldn't sell you out. Just... tread carefully. Don't let this French project and truce turn into something or else Connor will strike. If worse comes to worst, you'll be off the team."

I rub the heel of my hand against my jaw. "I know."

KJ looks like he's about to say something, but before he can, Coach shouts: "Jones, Miller, and Smith! Quit wasting time! Get back to work!"

We look to where Coach is standing. He's across from us, staring out over the railing with his clipboard under his arm. The three of us nod when he taps his watch and turns around.

"Oh," Coach adds. "And Smith?"

"Yeah?" I shout.

"I said jog." 

I roll my eyes and turn to the track, pushing away from the railing. I figured he was watching us. Before we break into a jog, we exchange a glance. Jayden doesn't look pleased. KJ looks cautious.

I don't know what emotion my face holds. If I were to hazard a guess, though, I'd say it resembles a mix of stress and exhaustion.

There has to be a solution to this mess. 

*  *  *

After our training session, KJ and Jayden invite me out for dinner. There's a new vegan place in Kelowna that's supposed to be delicious. None of us are vegans, but we're open to trying new things. We've tested out many different restaurants. I, of course, can't make it. I've got a four-hour shift I need to cover at the café. I tell them to stop by for a coffee later. Closer to when customers are nonexistent. When I can get away with scrolling through my Instagram feed or sitting on my ass and doing nothing.

As I'm heading across the parking lot to my vehicle, I notice Connor loitering around the bus stop. Gym bag slung over my shoulder, I change my route and head in his direction. There's a question burning on my tongue. Several are, but one in particular.

"Smith," he says when I've planted myself in front of him. "How's Miller?"

"What happens if I fail the bet?" I ask through gritted teeth.

Connor's eyes trail down my track jacket, stopping at the embroidered "C." It's a resemblance of my captaincy. Something I know Connor wanted.

"You didn't learn your lesson?" he asks.

I keep my gaze level with his, refusing to back down. I should be suffering from a broken nose. Not Jayden. I need to make a point. I motion between us. "This bet," I say, "it's between us, Connor. Leave KJ and Jayden alone. If you leave them alone, I'll..." I trail off.

He cocks an eyebrow. "Continue."

Rubbing the back of my neck, I expel a heavy sigh. "I'll resign from captaincy and recommend to Coach you take the position."

His eyebrows raise in surprise. He's shocked. I can't say I'm not shocked, either. Giving up captaincy is taking a piece of my soul. It physically and emotionally pains me. Unlike Connor, I earned the title. He's using manipulation to gain it. It's unfair, but I'll give it up if it means Jayden and KJ will be okay. Every time I see the bruises on Jayden's nose, I feel sick to my stomach.

He leans against the sheltered bus stop. There's an ad for Orchard Park Mall behind him. It's a plum-purple with a shopping bag and an apple. The typical symbol for anything in the Okanagan: a piece of fruit. "I don't want your captaincy, Smith. You shook on the bet. It's time to follow through."

"I don't want to!" I snap. The control over my temper is fraying. "Why can't you get that through your goddamn head? You know exactly what will happen if someone catches me sidling up to Brenna. Why do you want me off of the team?"

Connor snorts and sets his gym bag down. He crosses his arms. "That's far from my goal. I'll be scouted before anyone on this team. What I don't want is Harrison fucking up our shot at winning the playoffs. A win means more publicity for us."

"Don't put me in the same category as you," I growl. "How do I play into this? What is my role supposed to be?"

Shrugging, Connor throws his shoulders back and stretches his arms out. "You're thick-skulled, Smith. Harrison is a girl. Manipulate her into thinking you love her, break her heart..." He throws his hands up, a crazed grin on his face. "She doesn't have it in her to play hockey anymore. It will solidify our chances at winning."

I roll my eyes, tightening my jacket around me. A chilly breeze has picked up, causing a shiver to shake my body. The darkening sky also reminds me I'm running out of time.

"I knew that part," I say. My drunken mind thought that when the bet started. "Why me? What role do I play, Connor? You could've challenged Jayden or KJ or anyone else on the team. I know I made a comment that helped prompt the situation, but..." I toe the sidewalk, the noise of gravel grating against cement filling my ears. "But you despise me, Connor. This isn't a coincidence or convenience."

Connor closes the space between us. "Your little sob stories are tiresome, Smith. A weakness. One you shouldn't have revealed. You'll do anything to get out of here, won't you? Pull Harrison in, keep it a secret, and then break her heart. Follow through, and I will keep my mouth shut. Therefore, you have a better chance of getting to Boston. If your parents don't fuck you over first."

I step back as if someone has slapped me. He must've overheard a previous conversation. The manipulative bastard.

Before I can say another word, Connor's bus pulls up, and he leans down to grab his gym bag. As he boards, flashing his bus pass, he never breaks eye contact with me. A silent challenge.

When the doors close and the bus leaves, I expel a soft curse, tugging at my hair. Although this bet isn't in my favour, I have to give him props. He thought this shit out. He's cut off every route. If I tell someone about what's going on, Connor will frame me. He didn't need to say it—it was written on his face. If I don't follow through, he'll ruin me and Brenna.

Turning around, I head to my vehicle, pondering the desperate options I never wanted to think about. What are the odds Brenna will help me if I tell her what's going on? A truce isn't a viable reason to team up. And playing a fake couple is so overworked. So cliché.

Even if she agreed, she wouldn't drop her hockey stick when playoffs came along.

She'd punch me for even suggesting it. 

Groaning, I unlock the vehicle. I toss my gym bag into the backseat. High school drama and other shit that fits within that category is annoying. I want to be a kid again. When responsibilities, problems, and decisions didn't weigh on my shoulders.

Climbing into the vehicle, I ignite the engine and blast the music so loud it drowns out my thoughts. I'll continue to ponder my options later. I need to get to work.

So that's what I do. The drive takes twenty minutes thanks to slow-moving traffic, but I make it. I'm even lucky enough to find a parking spot out front.

When I enter the building, Noah waves at me from behind the counter. He's ringing up an elderly couple that comes in every Friday night for tea and biscuits. I remember them because they love honey drizzled over the biscuits. It's funny how you remember the usuals and their strange orders.

Heading into the back, I slip into the change room and discard my sweaty gym clothes. I pull on a pair of weathered jeans, a black T-shirt, and make sure my shoes are clean. When I'm walking down the hallway, back to where Noah is, I grab an apron from the hanger.

"How was training?" Noah asks when I step into the workspace.

"Great," I mumble, pulling on the apron. It's stained with splotches of coffee. My grandma is probably rolling around in her grave. You never serve customers with a dirty apron.

But I'm too exhausted to care.

Sighing, I fasten my name tag onto my apron and start my shift.

*  *  *

Dinner is the first thing I tackle when I arrive home. And by tackle, I mean I throw the pizza boxes on the countertop and plate Chels and I up. She's in the living room, kneeling before the coffee table. It's covered in different papers and pencil crayons of every colour, and some pencils. A hockey game is on in the background while she works on her homework. Homework I'm probably going to help her with later.

"Oooh!" she exclaims, dropping her pencil. "Pizza!"

I set the plate of Hawaiian pizza down in front of her. Three slices with the crust cut off—just the way she likes it. "Here you go, kid."

"Thanks, Shea," she smiles.

Exhausted, I flop down on the couch behind her. Five slices of deluxe Hawaiian pizza are piled high on my plate. I glance down at the food, noting the cheese, jalapeños, mushrooms, ham, and pineapple. My stomach grumbles. People can say what they want about pineapple being on pizza, but I enjoy it. Besides, people disliking it means more for me. So who's really winning here?

I'm also so hungry I could eat a sock and be satisfied. After training, I snuck a carrot muffin at work. But that's it. 

For the first five minutes, Chelsea and I eat in silence while watching the Canucks and Habs game. When Montréal scores, I groan. It was a terrible goal right through the five-hole. Although I've missed half of the game, I can tell the Canucks are slacking tonight. I wonder if Brenna is watching and thinking the same thing. At her house, our perception of the game seemed pretty parallel.

After I've devoured three slices of pizza and am no longer hangry, I nudge Chelsea's leg with my foot. "How was school today?"

She sets her pizza down and glances at me. There's sauce on the corner of her mouth, which makes me chuckle. Before things went to shit, Mom always used to say messy eaters enjoy their food more. I like to believe that. "It was okay," Chels shrugs. Her sandy-blonde bangs tangle with her lashes as she looks down, picking at her food. "Mom and Dad were fighting when they picked me up."

I suppress a groan, wishing I had the guts to call them out on their shit. Ever since our parents started fighting, they've been opposite to what parents should be. There are days where they attempt to act civilized. Their attempts never end well. I can't imagine how Chels felt sitting in the back of the car while Mom and Dad were caught in a stupid disagreement.

"I'm sorry, Chels," I say.

Her bottom lip trembles. "Why are they fighting? Did I do something?"

"No," I reply, my voice firm. "Chelsea Smith, never blame yourself for their problems. Okay?"

Whether it's the firmness of my voice or the relief on her face that drives her to nod, I'll never know. Our gazes stay locked, and I can tell she's having an inner battle. She wants to believe my statement, but she also doesn't understand the dynamics of a relationship. That it's Mom and Dad who are having issues—not her and our parents.

"What homework are you doing?" I ask, changing the subject.

Chelsea pushes her plate away and picks up the paper. She holds the flimsy product up, and I squint at it. The title of her worksheet says Multiplying with whole tens. "Math," she replies. "Multiplication. I hate math."

"Do you need help?" I ask.

While she's contemplating her answer, I take another bite of pizza. Tonight, the jalapeños are extra spicy, making my mouth burn. Jayden introduced me to ham, pineapple, mushrooms, and jalapeños two years ago. Ever since then, I've been hooked. I'd been hoping Jayden and KJ would stop by the café tonight, but they didn't. Discussing viable options regarding my Connor problem needs to happen soon. Telling Brenna sounds appealing, but I'm worried exhaustion has made me loopy. I need a full stomach and twelve-hour sleep before I attack this annoying problem.

"I don't think so," my sister replies.

Her voice shakes as she speaks.

"Hey," I say, setting my plate down. As usual, I took too much food. There's still a piece of untouched pizza on my plate. "What's wrong? You can talk to me."

She shakes her head and grabs a slice of pizza, stuffing her mouth. I'm about to make a sarcastic comment about how mature she is when I realize I'd probably do the same. Nothing buys time like stuffing your mouth full of food.

As she chews, her eyes fill with tears.

I glance around the living room, noting her homework and the drama she experienced today. The pressure on my shoulders has distracted me from my surroundings. Today was hard for Chels. Talking about homework, which is stressful, isn't helping. My sister needs a break.

"I'll finish it before bed," Chelsea says, picking up a pen. "Dad said I have to. I'm not allowed to go in the hot tub until I finish."

What am I doing?

I decide tomorrow isn't about babysitting. We're not staying cooped up in the house. She needs a distraction from all the shit going on in this toxic environment.

She's done enough homework for the night. "Chels," I say, collecting our plates. Hers is empty. Mine still has a single slice on it. "Put your homework away."

"Why?" she frowns, her innocent hazel eyes peering up at me. A tear slips down her cheek. "Dad said I have to finish."

"Well, I'm overriding Dad's orders because you've done enough. Your homework isn't due until Monday. There's nothing wrong with taking a break. You and I can have a homework day on Sunday, okay?" I pause, remembering my plans for tomorrow. Brenna's supposed to come over.

Damn it.

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Yes," I reply, displaying confidence. "Just this once."

"Can we go in the hot tub?" she sniffles. 

Testing my sore muscles, I decide that's what we're going to do. Instead of watching a hockey game or doing homework, Chels and I are going to relax in the hot tub. It'll be beneficial for my sore thighs and work as a distraction from today's drama.

I nod. "Go change into your bathing suit. We'll go in the hot tub."

"Really?" she asks, her face shining bright.

"Yeah," I yawn. "I'll clean up dinner."

Without another word, Chelsea bounds out of the living room. Her footsteps echo from the stairs. If Dad has a problem with Chelsea not doing her homework, he can talk to me. Fuck, I'll do it for her if it relieves the pressure.

Heading into the kitchen, I pack up any remaining slices of pizza in a plastic container and put it in the fridge. Next, I discard the boxes and load the dishwasher.

When all the chores are done, I remove my phone from my pocket and open my messages, tapping on Brenna's name. It's almost nine o'clock. I have two options. One, Brenna could come over tonight and we could work on the project after Chels goes to bed. Two, we could cancel this weekend. She may not take kindly to cancellations, but we still have plenty of time before the project is due. Odds are her mom will not let her come over so the second option is best. Either way, I express both options in the text.

Hey, can we switch our French project to tonight or cancel this weekend all together? I know it's last minute, but...

My fingers freeze. What do I use as an excuse? Is she going to think I'm weird for spending time with my sister?

I decide to opt for the truth.

Hey, can we switch our French project to tonight or cancel this weekend all together? I know it's last minute, but Chelsea needs a day off tomorrow.

I send the message. Drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, I set my phone on the kitchen counter and wait for a response. While I'm waiting, I grab a glass of water. I sip it slowly, using the action as a distraction. The suspense is killing me. Will she agree to tonight or cancel?

Seconds turn into minutes before my phone goes off.

Sure. Right now or later?

Give or take, we'll probably spend half an hour in the hot tub. 9:30? We don't need to work too long on our project. Maybe just get the base down for the second section? 

Brenna sends me a thumbs-up emoji and says she'll be over at 9:30.

I toss my phone onto the counter just as Chelsea steps into the kitchen with her bathing suit on and a towel draped over her arm. "I'm ready!" she smiles.

Though my smile is much more exhausted, I give her one in return. It's good to see the tears are gone. "I'll be right back. Why don't you pick out an aromatherapy pouch? They're in the closet."

Nodding, Chelsea sets her towel on the stool and disappears into the hallway. I hear the squeak of the closet door before she rummages through the box.

Pushing away from the counter, I exit the kitchen. I'm looking forward to relaxing in the hot tub.

If I can make it up the stairs.