“Garrett?”
“Huh?” Oh shit. Scary eyes.
“I asked if you were coming, but you were too busy staring at my ass, you wiener.” She gestures at her bare legs. “Is this gonna be a problem, or do you need me to put pants on?”
I honestly don’t know how to answer that. Yes, it’s going to be a problem. No, please don’t put pants on.
My expression must say it all, because Jennie rolls her eyes and rips the bags from my hands. “Men. If it has tits and an ass, it’s good enough to fuck.”
“That’s not true.” Why am I talking? “I’m pickier than that about tits and asses.” I should shut my mouth right the fuck now.
“Oh? So do mine make the cut, or are you pickier than that?”
My brain has finally gotten the memo to shut up. Unfortunately, Jennie’s waiting on a response. Wish I could formulate one.
“Garrett? I’m waiting.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” I finally whisper.
With a smug hum, Jennie sets the dishes on the kitchen island. She hands me a beer, and when I’ve got a full plate, I flop on the couch, reaching for the remote.
“What were you watching?”
Jennie throws herself on my lap, nearly wearing my pad Thai, fumbling for the remote. “Nothing, Garrett, give me the remote.”
I hold it over my head, intrigued. “What were you watching?”
“I wasn’t—” She presses her lips together when I press Play. Simba, Nala, and Zazu fill the screen, singing about how Simba can’t wait to be king. Jennie tugs the neck of her shirt up to her nose. “Shut up.”
“Jesus, the Disney obsession is real with you Becketts.”
“I’m a better singer than Carter,” she grumbles.
“So you were singing?”
Her cheeks burn. “No.”
“Sounds like you were singing, sunshine.”
“Shut up, Gare-Bear.” She punches me in the shoulder and steals a spring roll off my plate, settling back in her spot, feet up on the coffee table. Her left ankle has an angry, red swell to it, a bag of ice melting beside it.
Jennie sobs so hard while Simba tries to wake Mufasa up after the stampede that she starts choking, coughing, using the neck of her shirt to wipe her eyes.
“Uh, do you need a—”
“I don’t need a hug!” She jabs my chest. “Stop looking at me!” She springs to her feet, slapping at her soaked cheeks. “I hate you!” she shouts, then dashes to the bathroom. It’s all hobbly because of her bum ankle, and I fold my lips into my mouth so my laughter doesn’t chase her.
When she returns, I’ve got Sportsnet on, ready for the game, and I’ve cleaned the dishes.
Jennie sticks her hand in the bowl of Sour Cherry Blasters I’ve just poured. “I’m sorry I said I hated you. It was in the heat of the moment.”
“It’s okay. Scar’s an asshole.”
“Scum of the Disney world.”
I chuckle as I grab another beer from the fridge. “You want another?”
“I didn’t have a first, but no, thank you. I don’t drink.”
“Oh.”
Jennie reaches for her collarbone, like she’s about to fiddle with a necklace. Instead, her fingers flutter over bare skin. I catch the sharp rise of her chest, and she quickly looks away.
Returning the beer, I grab a Gatorade instead.
Jennie frowns. “You can still drink, Garrett. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just my personal choice.”
And it’s a choice I’ll support when we’re together. If a drunk driver had taken someone from me, I don’t know that I’d ever be able to even look at alcohol again.
Sometimes I don’t know why I ever touched it myself. A childhood spent watching alcohol own my dad isn’t one I’d wish on anyone. Truth be told, it wasn’t much of a childhood at all. In the end, I guess I decided I wasn’t going to let him take something else from me, that I would have the control he didn’t and make better choices.
I head to the couch with my Gatorade and a fresh bag of ice, and at Jennie’s perplexed expression, I explain, “For your ankle.”
“Oh.” She hesitantly places her foot on the pillow I set on the coffee table and sighs when I cover her ankle with ice. “Thank you.”
I keep my eyes on the TV as the game starts. “What happened there anyway?” I don’t need to know Jennie well to know the answer she gave me in the elevator two days ago was bullshit.
“Twisted it during dance practice.”
From my peripheral, I catch her nibbling her thumbnail. “Thought you tripped over your bag?”
Her head whips my way. “Why are you asking if I already gave you an answer?”
“Why are you lying?”
“You’re so annoying.” She shoves her hand in the popcorn bowl. “I tripped over my dance partner. There, are you happy?”
“Steve?”
She snicker-snorts. “Simon. Carter only calls him Steve to piss him off.”
“Carter hates him.” He’s always grumbling about Jennie dropping pairs and going solo. “Says he wants in your pants.”
Jennie hums dismissively, then leaps to her feet. “Offside! That was so offside! You’re never gonna get those orange armbands missing calls like that, bud!”
With the way she keeps shouting at the officials, it takes me one minute to let go of the fact that she doesn’t want to talk to me about her dance partner, and another four to realize she might be my favorite person ever to watch hockey with. I even forget about the major case of FOMO I had about missing the trip.
When the third period rolls around, Jennie’s hoarse from yelling, and my stomach aches from laughing.
“If all you wanted to do was watch the game, you shoulda bought tickets like everyone else. You suck, ref.” She tosses a piece of popcorn at the referee on TV, then a whole handful at me. “Stop laughing at me.”
“I can’t. Watching with you is fun. My sisters hate hockey, or they’re too cool to watch. They only make it to one or two games a year, and they spend most of it buried in their tablets or making googly eyes at the guys.”
Jennie snickers. “How many sisters do you have?”
“Three.”
“How old?”
Skimming my jaw, I line up dates in my head. “Uh, twelve, ten, and nine.”
Jennie twists my way, feet on the cushion between us. Her toes are painted pale pink, a stark contrast to her black fingernails. “Oh wow. That’s a big age gap.”
“My parents separated for a couple years, then got busy when they got back together. I heard more than I’d care to admit when I was thirteen and they got remarried. Nine months later Alexa came along. I learned quickly to get out of the house when they were giving each other the eyes.”
Jennie snickers, stretching her legs out, toes pressing into my thigh. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “That’s nice they worked things out. You must’ve been happy.”
“Definitely.” Mostly happy that my dad was sober for the first time I could ever remember. “What kinda dance do you do?”
“Contemporary, mostly. It’s my favorite. I grew up doing ballet but fell in love when I discovered contemporary.”