Page 39 of No Shot (The Toronto Tundra #2)

Penn

The moment I drop my bags on the floor and flop onto the bed, my phone pings.

Brooks Bros

Reid: Tough game.

Penn: Thanks, Tips. What made you think

that? The 3-1 score or the fact that I barely

touched the puck?

Jack: If you couldn ’ t tell, he ’ s a little spicy

these days.

Reid: Damn, get this man a cookie or something.

Jack: Won ’ t help, he ’ s too set on throwing

himself a pity party.

Reid: Always has been a baby.

Penn: Fuck off.

Reid: It ’ s going to take adjusting to a new

line, you can ’ t expect everything to click right

away. Take a breather. How did it feel out

there?

Penn: Felt the same. Shitty.

Jack: See?? What did I fucking tell you. He ’ s

eyeore over there…

*Penn Brooks has left the chat*

*Penn Brooks has been added to the chat by Reid*

Reid: Wait, Penn.

Penn: What?

Reid: Do you need me to call you a waaa

-mbulance?

Reid: Get it?? For your crying? Cus you ’ re a

baby.

Penn: Nice, mock me while my career is going

down the drain.

*Penn Brooks has left the chat*

*Penn Brooks has been added to the chat by Jack*

Jack: You ’ re just getting started. Don ’ t give up

on yourself.

Reid: We ’ re messing with you, Penn. You ’ re going

to have a massive career, don ’ t stress.

Jack: Don ’ t think he ’ s going to listen to us.

Reid: Definitely wallowing as we speak.

Penn: Stop adding me back to this chat.

Reid: Stop leaving like a toddler.

Penn: **middle finger emoji**

Jack: Ahh, I really missed this Brooks family

bonding.

I toss my phone across the bed and march to the bathroom for a shower.

Wash the day away. Wash the game away. Wash away this shitty streak that ’ s been following me around for weeks.

As soon as I turn the shower head off, stepping onto the cool tile to grab my towel, my phone rings from the other room.

So much for washing those dick-heads away. I stomp over, hitting accept without so much as a second glance to check who it is. Either tweedle-dee—Jack, obviously—or tweedle-dum—Reid, because, of course—those are the only two possibilities. Mom is already asleep, and no one else calls me.

“ What?” I bark out, agitation already starting to bubble up again.

A tiny gasp comes from the other end. “ Oh.”

FUCK .

“ Soup?” I ask, a little too desperately.

“ Yeah.” My confident girl sounds shaken, and I ’ m the asshole responsible.

“ Fuck, I ’ m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“ Gee, you ’ re really spreading the love over there. Do I want to know who the recipient of that dickery was supposed to be?”

I chuckle. “ Dickery?”

“ Yeah. D-i-c-k-e-r-y. Noun. Similar to fuckery, except reserved for scenarios where a dick is in full form. Use it in a sentence? Well, of course, glad you asked.”

This fucking girl. I feel the tension easing already just hearing her voice, and a smile starts to form on my lips as she continues.

“ That Penn Brooks sure is something alright, shouting into his phone, waving his giant penis in everyone ’ s faces, flaunting his good looks, I mean, the dickery…”

I can ’ t stop the full-bellied laugh that breaks out. “ I miss you, Soup.” I wish she were here right now. Telling me to snap out of it.

“ He ’ s going soft, ladies and gentlemen.” Nah, only when it comes to her. I settle onto the bed, putting my phone on speaker, propping my head on my elbow, feeling instantly better.

“ Says the girl who packed a dozen protein balls in my luggage.”

Her entire tone raises an octave. “ You found them?”

“ When did you sneak those in there? Literally, how did you even have time to make them?” The night before I left on this road trip, she let me try her last powerball or whatever she called it.

Fucking delicious. Peanut-buttery, chocolate protein, oat goodness.

When I grabbed sweats this afternoon, I found the Tupperware and devoured them all.

“ It seemed like you liked them, so I thought I would surprise you. They ’ re not hard to make.”

“ You ’ re too good to me, Soup.” I could get used to this. Calls after games, snacks in my luggage, a girl waiting for me when I get home from the road… “Tell me something good.”

“ What do you want to know?”

“ How long you study for today?”

Silence. “ Not that long…”

“ Soup…” I warn. She huffs, but it ’ s light and airy like she ’ s smiling into the phone.

“ Five hours.”

“ Liar.”

Another pause.

“ Fine, six, but then I went to Cami ’ s and we watched the game. I even had a drink to celebrate my A on my Macro-Economics test. Wild times were had by all, trust me.” The floating feeling I was experiencing a moment ago stops. That means she saw me play. “ How was the game?”

“ Uh, fine.”

“ Can I buy another noun?”

“ Just discouraging.” I need to change the subject, already feeling the storm cloud of dread moving in. “ Your other test is this week, right? Organization business something?”

“ Organizational Behaviour,” she giggles into the phone, and I smile again, just a little. “ But yes, the quiz is on Friday.”

“ Don ’ t burn yourself out tomorrow studying.”

“ Yes-sir.” Oh damn, she ’ s trying to distract me. I can almost hear the smirk in her voice.

“ I mean it, Soup. I sent something to your email to make sure of it.”

“ What?” she asks, sounding baffled. I wait a moment because, knowing Bri, she ’ s already logged into her account to check her inbox. “ What ’ s Float?” Bingo.

“ It ’ s a sensory deprivation tank—supposed to be great for relaxation. I booked you a spot for tomorrow, you can drop by anytime for forty-five minutes of pure calm.”

“ W-why? Why would you do that?”

“ Because I thought you ’ d like it. Don ’ t even try backing out of this one. I know you don ’ t have work tomorrow, so you have zero excuse.”

“ How would you know that?” She sounds feisty.

“ Uh, maybe your extremely detailed calendar hanging on your fridge?”

She mutters a damn-it under her breath. “ But why would you do that for me?”

“ Because I like you. I saw an ad for it and thought it ’ d be perfect for you. Get you out of that head of yours.”

“ Thank you, that was uh, very thoughtful.”

“ You ’ re welcome, Soup.” Damn, I like being the one who gets to take care of her.

“ Penn, you know you can talk to me, right?” Her tone turns serious, catching me off guard.

“ Spoiler alert, that ’ s what we ’ re doing right now.”

“ No, it feels like you ’ re dodging. Tonight ’ s game, why was it so discouraging?

” This feels like dangerous territory. Territory I ’ m not ready to cross into with her.

She ’ s the one good thing going for me right now, and I don ’ t want that to be wrecked when she finds out I may be shipped off in the coming weeks. She ’ d run. I ’ m sure of it.

“ Don ’ t worry about it,” I reply, trying to sound much more level-headed than I feel.

“ I am worried.” This is what I was afraid of. “ Talk to me, Penn.”

“ I… can ’ t,” I admit with a sigh.

“ Why not? We talk all the time.”

If I told you what was going on, you ’ d end this in a minute.

Because I don ’ t want to ruin this.

I ’ m not ready to say goodbye.

“ I ’ m really tired, Soup. Is it cool if I crash?”

There ’ s a beat of silence on the phone. “ Night, Penn.”

“ Goodnight, Soup,” I manage before hanging up and rubbing my hands over my eyes.

I hate this.