Page 77 of Forged By Sacrifice

“Don’t start, Squirter,” Dani tossed at me.

“Gooberpants, really, you had to go there?” I sighed and dragged Georgie away before it really got ugly.

“Do I even want to know?” she asked.

“You probably don’t.” I smiled at her as we made our way back inside. Mom was in the kitchen in her own tennis outfit, ready to go to battle on the courts.

“Didn’t you have the court until eight?” she asked with a glance at the whiteboard leaned up against some of the kitchen cupboards.

“They started throwing names and euphemisms, and I called my training complete,” Georgie told her, sitting at the counter.

“Starting early, are they? Did they call Robbie Squirter already?” Mom was smiling, and I groaned.

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Mom!”

“When he was about twelve, he finally got serious about tennis and the tournament. He was so determined to win that he wouldn’t leave the court even when he had diar?” I moved and covered her mouth.

“Mom.”

“Your dad told the Mercedes story last night. Why can’t I tell the Squirter story?” she asked as she pushed my hand away.

I knew I was probably the same shade of red that Georgie had been on the court.

Georgie was laughing—her laugh that always reached into my soul and grabbed my heart.

Mom patted me on the shoulder and went out into the backyard, probably to find a way to weasel in on someone else’s practice time.

“I really like your family,” Georgie said as I sat down next to her at the table.

“Yeah?”

“They’re pretty amazing.”

“Lunatics. All of them.”

“But the love you all have for each other shows through.”

I nodded. We did love each other. And we’d do anything for each other—even asshole Thomas. “You’ve heard some pretty scary things about me now. I feel like you need to tell me some things about you to even the field.”

“Raisa said I didn’t want you to find out about my awkward stage,” she said, lips quirking.

“There is no way in hell I’ll believe you ever had an awkward stage,” I told her.

“Well, she said it was when I had my hair cut like a boy.”

“You did?”

She laughed. “Yes, but you met me that way.”

I thought back to the first time I’d met her in New York City. Her hair had been almost shaved on the sides with spikes and curls on the top and a purple tint that had matched her lilac contact lenses. She had the blue ones in again today.

“That wasn’t a boy haircut.”

“Raisa believes that if your hair isn’t past your shoulders, it’s a boy haircut.”

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