Page 40 of Lovefool

“Is everything okay?” I ask, more than ready to pack up my shit and go with her—wherever it is—despite complaining about my struggling team synergy moments before. I’ve never seen her so shaken.

“It’s my brother. He got suspended from school for fighting.”

16

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

LAKE

Max is so dead.

How could he have gotten into a fight? That kid shuns mature video games. Yeah, maybe I told him in a motivational speech one time to “not take shit from anybody” and “make your enemies eat their words,” but I was being hyperbolic.

My mother couldn’t get time off work to be present, so, as Max’s unofficial guardian, the school called me. My brother is an angel. And as much as I hate to admit it, maybe he is picking up bad behavior because of the precedent I set.

The second I hung up the phone, I sprinted out of the rink like the place was on fire. Little did I know that I had a stalker in my midst, because Sutton squeezed his six-foot-five body into my tiny Mazda before I could argue with him. I have no idea how he stripped his hockey gear off so quickly, but I’m equally impressed and annoyed.

“Why are you sitting in my car?” I ask with enough venom to dissuade him, hand frozen on the ignition and prior patience distilled into potent fury.

I don’t like the thought of my crush being around to witness the capsizing of my world—how inadequate of a role model I am. The mental lambasting that I give myself is usually punishment enough.

“I’m coming with you,” he says point-blankly.

Something seethes in the recesses of my belly. I can either accept that I’ll have a hockey-player-sized attachment at the hip for the foreseeable future, or I’ll make us late by fighting over the next course of action.

My jaw clicks. “Why?”

“Because you might need backup, and I’ve been told I do well in high-stress situations.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m sure everything is fine. It’s probably just a misunderstanding,” I tell him, unaware that panic is about point two seconds away from overturning my composure.

The closer Sutton is to finding out that my carefree, cool-girl façade is a total hoax, the closer he’ll be to stepping out of my life completely. The truth is on its way out, and the stopper that I’ve used to plug up all my emotions is losing friction around its tapered edges.

This is serious. This is my baby brother we’re talking about here. I’d do anything for him. I’d do anything to protect him.

It’s a bit counterproductive when I start pulling out of the parking lot and continue questioning the man sat beside me. “Doesn’t Coach need you for practice?”

“He does, but this is more important right now,” Sutton replies.

The dude barely fits in my car. The top of his head brushes the ceiling, he hogs half the center console with his huge arm, and his legs are all twisted up to fit underneath the dashboard.

He’s right, Lake. Stop arguing.

With no time for pleasantries, I’m speeding through intersections and cutting yellow lights to get to the private middle school as soon as possible, treating this very time-sensitive mission like someone is about to die. Sutton doesn’t say anything. He just hangs on tight to the grab handle and swallows back a gag.

I pull haphazardly into one of the parking spaces with the grace of a student driver, fling myself out of the driver’s seat, and begin speedwalking toward the principal’s office without waiting for Sutton to catch up to me.

God, I hope Max is okay. A fight is serious. Is he badly hurt? They would’ve sent him to the hospital if that was the case, right? RIGHT?

I burst through the pretentious, mahogany doors like the Kool-Aid Man, huffing and puffing while I lock eyes with my little brother—who’s beyond ashen and probably scared shitless. He’s got a legion of lesions all over his face, a nasty shiner that has swollen his eye shut, and some late-blooming bruises decorating his extremities. He’s practically a walking PSA video on the dangers of physical violence.

“Jesus, fuck, Max.” I run over to kneel beside him, assessing the extent of his injuries with a quivering heart and barely concealed rage.

When Principal McDermitt glares at me for cursing in the sanctity of his office, I clear my throat. “Christ. I meant Christ.”

Sutton comes in behind me, worry unfurling over the defined contours of his face. He echoes my sentiment with a curse under his breath, and even though I’d never admit it, I’m glad that he came with me for moral support.

I need to approach this situation with caution. I don’t want to get Max into any more trouble by blowing my top and cussing out his principle.