Garrett
I’M WORKING AT the kitchen counter tonight, frustrated as fuck as I read over the practice essay Hannah “graded” for me earlier. She left my house with orders for me to redo the paper, but I’m having a tough time with it. The answer is simple, damn it—if someone commands you to murder millions of people, you say no thanks, I’ll pass. Except going by the criteria laid out in this bullshit theory, there are pros and cons for both sides, and I can’t wrap my head around it. I guess I suck at putting myself in someone else’s shoes, and that’s kind of disheartening.
“Question,” I announce as Tuck wanders into the kitchen. “Answer,” he replies instantly.
“I haven’t asked the question yet, asshole.”
Grinning, he washes his hands at the sink and then ties a neon pink apron around his waist. Logan, Dean and I gave him the frilly monstrosity as a joke for his birthday, on the argument that if he was going to be our mother hen, he might as well look the part. Tucker countered by insisting he’s masculine enough to pull off any item of clothing we throw his way, and now he wears the damn thing like a badge of macho honor.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” he says as he heads to the fridge. “What’s the question?”
“All right, so you’re a Nazi—” “Fuck that,” he interjects.
“Let me finish, will ya? You’re a Nazi, and Hitler has just ordered you to commit an act that goes against everything you believe in. Do you say, cool beans, boss, I’ll kill all these people for you, or do you say fuck off, and risk getting killed yourself?”
“I tell him to fuck off.” Tuck pauses. “Actually, no. I put a bullet in his head. Problem solved.”
I groan. “I know, right? But this asshole—” I point to the book on the counter “—believes that government exists for a reason, and citizens need to trust their leader and obey his orders for the good of the society. So in theory, there’s an argument to be made for genocide.”
Tuck pulls a tray of chicken drumsticks from the freezer. “Bullshit.” “I’m not saying I agree with that line of thinking, but I’m supposed to
argue this guy’s point of view.” I drag a frustrated hand over my scalp. “I fucking hate this class, man.”
Tuck unwraps the meat tray and places it in the microwave. “The redo is on Friday, huh?”
“Yup,” I say glumly.
He hesitates. “Are you going to play in the Eastwood game?”
I brighten up, because this morning I received official word from Coach that I’ll definitely be on the ice on Friday. Apparently the midterm grades aren’t entered into the system until the following Monday, so at the moment, my average is still what it needs to be.
Come Monday, if my Ethics grade is a D or lower, I’ll be benched until I turn things around.
Benched. Jesus. Just thinking about it makes me queasy. All I want to do is lead my team to another Frozen Four victory and make it to the pros. No, I want to excel in the pros. I want to prove to everyone that I got there on my own merit and not because I happen to be a famous hockey player’s son. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I feel sick knowing that my goals, that everything I’ve worked so hard for, is in jeopardy because of one stupid class.
“Coach said I’m playing,” I tell Tuck, who high fives me so hard my palm stings.
“Hell yeah,” he exclaims.
Logan enters the kitchen, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You better not smoke that in here,” Tucker warns. “Linda will ream your ass.”
“I’m going out back,” Logan promises, because he knows better than to piss off our landlady. “Just wanted to let you guys know that Birdie and the guys are coming over tonight to watch the Bruins game.”
I narrow my eyes. “What guys?”
Logan blinks innocently. “You know, Birdie, Pierre, Hollis, Niko—if he can stop being pussy whipped for long enough to leave his dorm—um, Rogers and Danny. Connor. Oh, Kenny, too, and—”
I stop him before he can name every guy on our roster. “So the whole team, you mean,” I say dryly.
“And their girlfriends, those who have ’em.” He glances at Tuck and me. “It’s cool, right? Won’t be an all-nighter or anything.”
“As long as it’s BYOB, I’m cool,” Tuck answers. “And if Danny is coming then you better lock up the liquor cabinet.”
“We can move the hooch to G’s room,” Logan says with a snort. “God knows he won’t drink a drop of it.”
Tuck glances over at me with a grin. “Poor baby. When are you gonna learn to handle your liquor like a man?”
“Hey, I handle the drinking part just fine. It’s the morning after that does me in.” I smirk at my teammates. “Besides, I’m your captain. Somebody has to stay sober to keep your crazy asses in line.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Logan pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually, no, you’re the mom,” he tells Tucker, grinning at Tuck’s apron before turning back at me. “Guess that makes you the dad. You two are positively domestic.”
We both flip him the finger.
“Aw, are Mommy and Daddy mad at me?” He gives a mock gasp. “Are you guys gonna get a divorce?”
“Fuck off,” Tuck says, but he’s laughing.
The microwave beeps, and Tucker pulls out the defrosted chicken, then proceeds to cook our dinner while I do my homework at the counter. And damned if the whole thing isn’t domestic as hell.
