Page 102 of Cherry Picking
He shrugs. “Boredom and a Kindle on a twenty hour drive with my very boring, very broody big brother?”
“You don’t tell her, and I won’t tell her.”
“Didn’t plan on it. Now. Big gesture.”
“No gesture.” I sigh. “This isn’t a romance novel, and I’m not some sap.”
Parker huffs and throws his head back against the seat. “It’s a good thing I brought a backup.”
“Excuse me?” I throw the car into park in the lot of the hotel that I hope we don’t have to stay at for long, fixing my brother with a hard stare. “Parker Easton, what did you do?”
The permanent dip of aggravation between his brow lifts as his lips tip into a grin. “You’ve been mooning over him for months, and I had kind of, sort of started working on something before he left that I never got around to finishing. I vote we run in, change, and get this bad boy wrapped up for you to show off.”
He hooks his thumb toward the backseat, and nestled amongst our bags is one of his canvas containers.
“You miss him,” Parker says, voice going soft. “I hear you up late some nights. Talking to him on the phone.”
Griff and I haven’t been entirely no contact. It’s quiet moments talking about the game or our friends, always skirting around the deeper meanings neither of us can bring ourselves to say.
I reach over and scrub my fingers through Parker’s hair, laughing as he ducks away.
“Let’s be sappy, then.”
We aren’t going to talk about the amount of art supplies stuffed into the trunk of my car. We also aren’t going to talk about the t-shirts ruined from working on Parker’s “Grand Gesture Project” and how we had to tiptoe around the huge canvas material while it dried since it took up most of the floor space.
Camp starts at 9AM sharp, so it’s no surprise that I have us in the practice center lot by 8:45, and even less surprising that Parker is sitting in the passenger seat with murder in his eyes and a beanie pulled so low he thinks I can’t tell he was sleeping until moments ago.
“This whole thing was your idea, bud.”
He grumbles and groans, unfurling from the ball he’s tucked himself into. “I’m a child. Smart decisions are your territory.”
I quirk my brow and crack the door open. “I’m in this position specifically because I make un-smart decisions.”
Parker rolls his eyes but follows me from the car, grabbing his container from the backseat and slinging it over his shoulder while I grab the gear bag from the trunk.
Since this camp isn’t a usual Hornets sanctioned activity, they don’t have their own kid-sized gear to lend out, so it’s basically BYOG.
Inside, there’s a table set up with a sign in sheet manned by a chipper Rory.
“They put you on desk duty to scare the kids orstopyou from scaring them?”
My tiny, excitable, ex-teammate shrugs, holding the clipboard out to Parker, who takes it with more muttered curses.
“This must be your little brother!”
Parker hands it back, giving Rory a cautious stink eye. “Who gave the Chihuahua coffee?”
Laughter crackles from behind us, and I peer back to see another kid waiting in line. There are no parents or siblings, just a kid close in age to Parker with unruly ash blond hair.
The two of us step aside to let him check in, but instead of going straight to the locker room, he stops in front of Parker and holds out his hand.
“That Chihuahua is my cousin. Micky Donovan.”
Parker’s eyes flick up to mine then back to the kid, taking his offered hand. “Parker Easton.” He points over at me. “Older brother.”
The kid—Micky—looks over at me and breaks out into a wide grin. “I hear you’re retired now.”
Kids these days; it’s hard to tell whether they’re poking fun or making conversation.
