“What if I refuse?” Seventeen asks.
“You can,” I say easily. “Just know that the backup QB has been looking really good. And he had no problem picking up cones.”
“Are you threatening to bench me?”
“I’m trying to teach you a lesson, son. Haven’t you seen The Karate Kid? Or Kung Fu Panda?”
“I …what? Well, yeah.”
“If I’m asking you to do something, it’s not for fun or for my enjoyment. It’s because I think it will make you better, on the field or off. Now are you going to learn the lessons fast or slow? Up to you.”
I swear, I see a hint of something in his eyes that’s not all bad. He might even be teachable under all his bluster. Time will tell. With a grumble, he drops his gaze and begins collecting cones.
When he’s out of earshot, Chevy ambles over. “You know that’s Billy and Wolf Waters’s nephew?”
I groan. Can’t I escape that family?
“I did not. But now the attitude makes sense. Hasn’t anyone ever put him in his place?”
“People tend to let the Waters do what they want around here. I’m glad you said something. And I’m not the only one.”
Chevy lifts his chin toward the bleachers where the Bobs are grinning and clapping.
“That’s all it took? I would have skipped the donuts if I’d known. Now, what are you doing the rest of the day?”
I’m planning to pick up some supplies so I can fix Lindy’s upstairs toilet. I have a long list of home improvements, but this one seems like a good place to start. I’m not keen on the three people to one toilet ratio and going downstairs to use the bathroom is pretty annoying. With Lindy and especially Jo in the house, urinating out the window feels more than a little inappropriate.
“Not much,” Chevy says. “I’m not on duty until tomorrow.”
“Good.” I clap a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve just been promoted to plumber’s assistant. I’ve got a broken toilet with both our names on it.”
A few hours later, I’m bent over the back of a toilet, sweaty and shirtless, a wrench in my hand. Chevy is a terrible assistant, especially for a man who renovated his own home. Instead of lifting a finger, he just watches me work, occasionally chuckling at my unsuccessful attempts to make any headway with the toilet.
I hope it’s not a sign of things to come because there are a lot of things on Lindy’s list. In addition to the toilet, there is no A/C, no dryer, and no television. Add in the temptation of sleeping across the hall from Lindy, and I’m living in a specially designed hell.
“How do you dry your clothes?” I’d asked, when Lindy gave me the grand tour yesterday. Not like I needed it. The house is more of a bungalow. The laundry room is a closet with bi-folding doors in the kitchen. The woman doesn’t even own an iron.
Lindy had tapped the top of the washing machine, smiling in amusement. “I wash my clothes right here. And then I dry them on the line out back.”
She’d pointed to a clothesline strung between two posts, where some shirts flapped in the breeze outside the kitchen door. I didn’t even bother asking about the television in case Lindy has some kind of moral objection rather than a financial one. I’ve already ordered one to be delivered next week. I tried for two-day, expedited shipping, but Sheet Cake is too far from, well, everything.
“You’re no help.” I glower at Chevy. “I thought you renovated your whole house.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “I did most of the work on my house, but I knew what was beyond my pay grade and hired it out. We should call a plumber.”
We should. And I can’t explain the stubbornness in me that won’t allow me to do so. Am I trying to impress Lindy with my handyman prowess—which doesn’t exist, by the way—or is it Tank’s penny-pinching influence?