Home > The Grumpy Player Next Door(12)

The Grumpy Player Next Door(12)
Author: Pippa Grant

He grunts an old man grunt, just like he does every time we have this argument. “It’s all those people heading over for sushi day at that Korean place. You on a pegleg today, girlie?”

Dammit. He’s not supposed to notice. Or worry about me. And no, I’m not worried about Crusty Nut losing business to the new restaurants in town. Slow sushi day is normal.

I’d go have sushi lunch myself except one, Dad needs me here so he’s not paying for double help, and two, if there’s any chance that the guys are headed that way, there’s no way I will.

No way I’m giving Max Cole the pleasure of thinking that him calling me a priss for only ordering California rolls led to me branching out and experimenting with a broader variety of items on a sushi menu.

Plus, I really don’t want to see him.

I nod to Pops. “Yep. Getting in the spirit early for next year.”

“Ye be missing your pirate hat.” He pulls his own off and plops it on my head, where it settles so low it almost covers my eyes, smelling like wood smoke and sweat. “There. Now ye be a proper pirate lass. Arr!”

“Thanks, Pop. I feel like a real pirate now.”

“Ye be a real pirate, Matilda Jean. It’s in your blood.”

It is. And it probably explains why lately, I’ve been feeling unsettled.

It’s like I need to get out to sea and pillage and plunder or something.

Have a real vacation, since I forgot to do it last year. Sloane and Georgia and I have been talking about a girls’ weekend away in New York City forever. We should get it on the calendar, but it seems like there’s always something else more important that pops up.

Or possibly I need to crash at Cooper’s place for a weekend of playing video games and catching up for real. We haven’t had much of a chance yet this off-season between his time with the guys and the increase in endorsement deals he’s working through. He’s even taking longer to prank me back—with anything good, I mean—which is killing some of my joy in the off-season too.

The bells over the door jingle again, and speak of the devil, there he is.

Cooper walks in, makes eye contact, and starts grinning. “TJ. Long time no see. How’s my favorite sister?”

“Meek and humble and not planning any revenge at all for someone replacing my sugar with salt.” Which was super lame as far as pranks go, and makes me wonder what else he’s planning while he thinks I think that’s the worst he’ll do.

Or if he’s giving me up.

If he’s outgrown me now that he plays for a team that wins.

Is this the universe’s way of telling me I, too, need to move on? Is that why I’m feeling off lately?

Dammit. Where’s my coffee? I need more caffeine to handle thoughts like this.

He shakes his head like he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Grady’s really giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”

He’s not. Not really. I actually wonder if the fake puke was one of my cousins. “Yep. It’s all Grady.”

Trevor, Robinson, and Max all file in behind my brother.

“Hey, Max.” I wink just to annoy him. Again. “Lookin’ good today. Take the seat by the window. It’s got the best view.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches.

Cooper growls.

And I turn and sashay back to the bar.

Or try to.

Stupid ankle.

“That be a damn good pegleg walk,” Pop says.

“It’s all that pirate in my blood.”

My three friends are wearing identical frowns, which is remarkable considering they look nothing alike.

“Order up,” Dad calls. “TJ? Where’d you hide the mustard?”

I paste on a smile and get back to work.

My ankle will heal. The guys will get food and go. And tomorrow, Max will continue to pretend he didn’t kiss me two weeks ago, that he didn’t catch me falling off a roof this morning, and he’s never seen me naked.

Just like my overprotective brother wants.

It’s what’s best for the Fireballs, right?

And that’s all that matters.

Dammit.

 

 

7

 

 

Max

 

Tillie Jean’s limping.

It shouldn’t piss me off. What she does isn’t my business. But she’s limping after she fell off a roof this morning, which means she probably needs to see a doctor, and instead, she’s pulling a full shift at a restaurant.

Cooper nudges me hard. “You’re not staring at TJ’s ass, are you?”

I shake my head automatically and wrench my gaze away from her to look Cooper straight in the eye. “No. Her head. Her hat’s a train wreck.”

Reason number two. Her ass. She has such a fucking fantastic ass that it was the very second thing to ever go on my list of things I hate about her.

He relaxes back into his seat, his usual grin returning. “It is, isn’t it? Pop swears it’s been passed down through the family from Thorny Rock himself. Grady’s gonna get it one day. Can you imagine? Wearing seven generations of your ancestors’ hair grease for forty years?”

Tillie Jean’s eyes snap our way, and her blue irises light up like a Bunsen burner while I remind myself he’s talking about his sister’s hat and not her ass.

“I can imagine your lunch is gonna be decorated with spit if you don’t quit irritating your sister,” Stafford says.

“Dude, you should lay off the pranks,” Robinson agrees. “I like TJ. She’s nice. Be good if she stayed nice this winter.”

Stafford nods. “Don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

But Cooper’s still grinning. “You kidding? She lives for the off-season months when I’m home every year. You know how boring this place gets otherwise?”

Stafford, Robinson, and I glance around the restaurant. It’s designed to make you feel like you’re in the hull of a ship. Plank wood walls. Pirate statue in the corner that looks just like Cooper’s grandfather, who supposedly looks just like Thorny Rock, founder of Shipwreck, himself. Pirate treasure maps plastered to the walls between paintings of ships at sea, some with muted colors, some so bright you shouldn’t look at them without sunglasses. Barrels holding menus and tourist information stand at either side of the thick wooden doorframe, and more barrels make up the hostess stand. There’s a half-wall separating the bar from the rest of the restaurant, and a row of fake parrots sitting on bird swings hanging down above it.

Except for the one real parrot that keeps picking a different swing and insulting the fake birds.

And there’s even a mascot for the damn restaurant—a pirate peanut on a pegleg.

“You get bored here.” Trevor stares at Cooper like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Only so many times you can do glow-in-the-dark pirate putt-putt and tube down a snowed-over waterslide before you’ve been there, done it all.” Cooper shakes his head. “Winter in Shipwreck is a sad, quiet, lonely time.”

“Beg to differ,” Annika calls from the bar. Cooper’s sister-in-law is seated between two other women I’ve met in passing a time or two in the past few weeks, and I’m starting to remember them all, less from experience and more because Cooper talks a lot.

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