Page 42 of The Stud

Not that.

Bench sister, maybe?

That’s probably better branding.

“Tanner?” Father cautiously calls through the speakers in my car. “You alright?”

“Yes,” I clumsily retort, doing my best to shake off the thoughts of this being a mistake. “My apologies for the delay. I was verifying that I had the correct address.”

“Of your ill teammate?”

Alright.

I might’ve adjusted the truthjust a bitto fit the narrative I needed to sell in order to not feel like shite for disobeying Cap by being here.

And you know what?

Idoconsider Hoss a teammate.

Plus, according to the Dalvegan team motto, I am supposed to.

Everyone that puts the crest on their vest matters.

That. Includes. Her.

It’s not my fault she just happens to have tits under hers instead of pecks.

Tits I pray to my lucky skates I one day get to actually see.

“Yes.” Killing the engine at the very edge of what I hope like hell is her driveway precedes me adding, “With our first pre-season game coming this weekend, I just want us all feeling our best.” I skeptically eyeball the front exterior of her Mediterranean style home. “Healthy scratches are better than hurt ones, aye?”

Except there is no scratching Hoss.

She has no replacement.

She’s never missed a game or chance to film, and she’s not about to start now.

Especially if I can prevent it.

“I suppose they are,” Father cautiously concludes. “Exactly how ill are they?” There’s a small ruffling sound that indicates he’s adjusting his grip on the device. “Should they perhaps see a physician? Perhaps theteam’sphysician?”

“Likely just a cold.” My attention continues to scan the surroundings for something –fuck, I’ll take anything– that reveals to me I’m not about to knock on a complete stranger’s door. “Honestly, I think some of your famous spicy chicken tortilla soup will clear everything right up.” An innocent grin thoughtlessly grows on my face. “It always works for me.”

“Soups from around the world isstillone of the most beloved parts of my curriculum.”

“What is not to love? You combined history with eating making it nearly impossible for uni kids to deny signing up for your course.”

“Food is a very respectable language and teaching tool all its own.”

“I’m aware.”

“Understanding the West African roots of gumbo and the Kamakura period ties to miso soup and-”

“Father,” I gingerly interrupt, “I did not call for a history lesson but a recipe, remember?”

Light chortles leave us both. “My apologies.”

He cannot help it.

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