Page 41 of Restricted List

Slim fucking chance of that happening.

fourteen

Cole

I walk into thekitchen at my parents’ house, rubbing my head as I try to relieve the headache that’s forming.

“Dad’s too loud, huh?” Harlow smirks as she stirs the cranberry sauce on the stove. Because we eat the real shit in my family.

“You know he is,” I laugh. “He should not be allowed to watch football on Thanksgiving.”

“He’s just as bad with hockey,” Knox chimes in, coming to stand beside my sister. “Harlow and I came over last weekend to watch the New York Kings game with him, and I swear James was about to have a heart attack.”

My mother, Vivian, walks back into the kitchen now, returning from the basement. “There’s a reason I hate the football and hockey seasons.”

I lean back against the counter, hands bracing the edge of the granite. “Be happy I picked baseball then.”

“Believe me, I’m grateful every day that I don’t have to watch you ram into people headfirst.”

“And,” Harlow says, “you can be happy your daughter has no athletic ability whatsoever, so you never had to worry about me.”

I slap a hand on Knox’s shoulder. “Your boyfriend has enough talent for the both of you.”

Knox throws his head back and laughs. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’m twenty-nine now—I don’t know how many more years I have left before my arm gives out anyway.”

“As long as you don’t tear your UCL,” I say, “you’ve probably got more time left than you think.”

“Average pitcher retires around thirty-two,” he sighs. “Tommy John surgery would probably be career-ending for me at this point.”

Harlow removes her pot from the burner and turns around to face us. “Why are we being so damn morbid right now? You’re both in your twenties—no one is ending their career yet.”

Knox and I laugh as my mom pulls the turkey out of the oven and sets it on a large trivet on the counter. “Cole,” she asks. “Can you grab the carving knife and take care of this?”

“Sure, Mom.” I grab the electric carving knife from the cabinet on the kitchen island before returning to the counter. “This turkey is kinda small. Is it just us this year?”

“Yes,” she answers. “Your grandparents have been a bit under the weather recently, so they’re just staying home today.”

“Fair enough.”

As I carve the turkey, my dad comes in now that the game is at halftime and sets up the table while my mom, Harlow, and Knox work together to get all of the food in the serving dishes. Once the turkey is ready, we spread everything out at the large dining room table.

Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, green beans, corn, cranberry sauce, rolls, and plenty of pumpkin pie.

I fucking love Thanksgiving.

The five of us take our seats, doling out the food before us until we settle into quiet conversation.

Dad asks Knox about his favorite game he’s pitched—game seven of the World Series, obviously.

Mom talks about some reality show she’s really into lately.

Harlow tells us about the new laptop she bought herself with her increased earnings fromStarred and Fast.

I talk about my trip to the planetarium—my parents miss the smirks on Knox and Harlow’s faces when they hear I went with Rory. I just ignore them.

“Now that we’ve finished eating,” Mom says, “why don’t we go around and say what we’re thankful for this year?”

I sigh. This isn’t my favorite tradition by any means, but I know how much she loves it, which means I’ll do it anyway.

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