Page 27 of Whistle

“There’s always your bed,” Rush quipped, shoving a huge roll of uncooked food into his face with a pair of chopsticks.

Sometimes I really wondered what was wrong with his generation.

Grabbing the whistle around my neck, I blew it long and loud.

At the end of the table, Bodhi abandoned his bottle of polish to slap his hands over his ears while Rush kept eating.

“Feel better?” he asked when I was done.

Yes. I do.

“Those mouth breathers better not even put a toe inside my bedroom,” I declared.

“Maybe you should get some more furniture,” Rush mused, grabbing more food from the second container in front of him. Groaning appreciatively, he said, “This slaps.”

“Not hard enough because you’re still flapping your lips,” I muttered and dug into the bowl of ramen.

Yes, it was a running joke around Elite that I had little to no furniture in my house. What the hell did I need all that useless shit for? I was at the pool eighty-five percent of my day. I had a couch, a TV, and a bed. What else did a man need?

Please note my daughter had a fully furnished room. I might not need stuff, but girls seemed to require an abundance of it.

Please also note this ramen did indeed “slap.”

“I’m calling Walsh,” I muttered, dropping my fork to grab my cell. I’d tell Elite’s unofficial captain what I thought of him using my house as a hotel.

Rush laughed beneath his breath. “Relax, Coach. They’re on the floor.”

“Emmett.” I reminded him. Why I bothered, I didn’t know.

“I’m going to bed,” Bodhi announced, standing from the table. I glanced at his uneaten dinner in front of him.

“You didn’t eat,” I pointed out.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll regret it when your ass is sitting on a plane for six hours,” I quipped, feeling Rush’s stare bounce between us.

“About that,” he said, palming the bottle of dark-purple polish he’d been painting his fingernails with. “I’m not coming.”

Rush tossed his chopsticks down, and one bounced off the side of the takeout container and rolled into the center of the table. “You already agreed.”

He shrugged one shoulder, the exaggerated action dragging the side of the crop top he wore higher up his side. The sweats were riding low now, dipping well below his flat navel and teetering dangerously on his hipbone. “I changed my mind.”

“You don’t have a choice.” I reminded him.

Bodhi’s blue eyes widened, disobedience lighting them. “What are you going to do, tie me up and throw me in a duffle bag? If I don’t want to get on that plane, you can’t make me.”

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and then expelled it the same way. Oh, the things I wanted to make him do.

“Give it a rest, Bodhi. You signed the court documents. If you don’t go, you’ll go back to jail,” Rush said.

“They’d have to find me first.” He challenged.

My gut burned. Frustration and the urge to force this blond brat into submission made it hard to sit still. Just before I could jolt to my feet and act on my urges, Rush spoke. His voice was even, flat, and resigned.

“Fine. Go. But don’t call me ever again. I won’t come back. I’m done.”

Bodhi straightened and rotated toward Rush. He stared at him, but Rush refused to return the gaze. Instead, he sat there facing ahead, stone-faced and determined. It was the face of the swimmer who first showed up at my pool last semester. Not at all the face of the man dating my daughter.

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