Page 1 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Fallon

T he only thing standing between me and my morning cup of coffee is my roommate’s bare ass.

All I want—all I need, really— is a scalding cup of caffeinated glory. It’s the magic elixir that turns my sassy self into a charming, well-mannered young lady.

Okay, that might require two cups.

Or possibly two hundred.

But it doesn’t look like I’m getting any cups this morning.

Sure, I could tell Kendra to move. I could tap her on the shin and sign for her to scoot over a few inches. But I don’t want butt coffee.

Plus, her boyfriend’s face is trapped between her thighs like he’s searching for treasure that’s buried behind her spleen, so she might be too distracted to read my words.

Huffing and rolling my eyes, I grab my bag and leave our apartment, mentally calculating if I have enough time to swing by Drip and still make it to my grandparents’ house in Bellfield without being late.

I hit every red light—because of course I do—so, coffee is officially out of the question. It’s not like Gran and Grandad won’t serve coffee at brunch. The long oak table in their formal dining room will be filled with all the beverages, pastries, and breakfast foods a girl could ask for.

Jim and Carol Nolan are overachievers that way.

They smother my family with attention, especially since my mom and dad’s divorce a few years ago.

When my mom was finding her footing after two decades of living under my father’s controlling thumb, Gran and Grandad swooped in and gave us all the support and love we needed.

I’m grateful, I swear.

The only trouble is that these days they focus all that love and attention on me and it’s a little overwhelming.

I can’t blame them, I guess. A few months ago, my brother, Booker, moved out to Santa Fe to start his AHL career. Two weeks after that, Mom and my little sister, Emersyn, moved to California so Em could train at an elite facility and make her dreams of Olympic ice dancing come true.

Since I’m the only chick left in the nest, I get enough attention for four people.

But one thing I won’t get is a pass for being late, which means a crooked parking job in their circular driveway and a mad dash to the porch. I reach out to press the button by the door, waving into the camera above it. A second later, the doorknob twists and I’m ushered inside.

Grandad winks at me as he taps his watch. His once coal-black hair is now more salt than pepper and his hands are a little slower than they used to be. When Gran rounds the corner, I play along as he explains that he was showing me the new sprinkler system on the front lawn.

Gran wraps me in a hug and then scolds Grandad for keeping me outside for too long.

He shoots me another wink, and I smile in return.

We walk from the entryway into the sitting room, which is set for tea.

I’m not too worried, though. Grandad will sneak me a cup of the high-test java we both crave.

Just as I’m about to take my seat on the overstuffed ivory sofa, I realize it’s occupied.

By a man.

He’s about my age, maybe Booker’s, and he has the clean-shaven, aggressively combed look of half the boys who graduated with me from Rockvale Christian Academy two years ago, though I don’t think I actually know him. He just fits a mold I know a little too well.

His crisp white shirt hangs on his lean frame, and the yellow tie around his neck reminds me of oily movie-theater-style butter as it drips over the side of a half-popped kernel of corn.

The seat-stealer smiles up at me, reaching his hand out for a limp shake.

You know that moment in movies and books where the heroine first meets the hero?

She’s the waitress at a diner and he’s the handsome newcomer who just got sat in her section.

She hands over his burger and fries, and when she does, their fingers share the slightest touch, but it feels more like a lightning strike or a jolt of electricity.

This is not that.

Seat-stealer slips his pale, bony hand into mine, and I don’t feel any tingle.

The only thing I’m feeling is a burning desire to find some hand sanitizer, and I’m not even a germaphobe.

I leave that hang up to my friend Maggie most days, but something about our guest tells me the extra precaution is necessary.

I grew up with my brother and his three closest friends.

We played outside every chance we got, and we didn’t come inside until the neighborhood street lamps signaled our curfew.

I’m no stranger to sweat, and I don’t mind a little whiff of the great outdoors.

Nothing about this guy screams adventure, though.

He has the sterile look of a man whose most daring move is dog-earing the pages of his Bible instead of using his bookmark.

Gran turns away from the tea set to observe the meet-awkward occurring in her parlor.

Her ash blond hair is perfectly styled and her demure makeup expertly applied.

She seems unfazed which means I’ve finally gotten a poker face or—more likely— that she’s choosing to focus on Seat-stealer’s wide grin rather than my grimace.

“ Fallon ,” she says, signing as she speaks and looks at me. “ I see you’ve met Thomas. He’s joining us for brunch today.”

Thomas looks utterly confused. “Isn’t she Deaf?” he asks, pointing in my direction.

“ Yes, Thomas ,” Gran acknowledges awkwardly, continuing to sign and speak.

“ Fallon is Deaf, but she typically wears hearing aids and she reads lips. You can sign to her, of course, using the signs I taught you, but you can also talk to her as you typically would. Just make sure she can see your lips .”

I’ve been Deaf since I was a toddler, and if I had my way, I’d happily sign and lip-read my way through life. But the world is easier to navigate with the help of my hearing aids, so even though they often give me headaches, I wear them whenever I’m out in public.

Thomas starts talking, but then he catches himself and stops. Folding his thumb against his palm, he waves his hand slightly, giving me the ASL sign for hello before finger-signing a butchered version of the words My name is Thomas .

At least he’s done his research. It’s not much, but I’ve certainly gotten less from people who are related to me. So while I don’t feel the love connection Gran is no doubt hoping for, I have to give Thomas credit for making a bit of an effort.

An excruciating hour later, after we’ve all devoured our meal, I revoke that credit based solely on the fact that Thomas is the most boring person on the face of the planet.

“You two have so much in common ,” Gran signs, her face beaming.

If that’s true, I may just remove one of the tiny knives from the cheese board and stab my eyes out. The only similarity I can discern is that we both need oxygen to survive.

“ Tell us about your trip this summer, ” Grandad says, signing as he speaks. “ Fallon loves to travel, too.”

“I went to Canada,” he says, and though I can read his lips, Grandad’s fingers move rapidly, translating his words for me.

It’s sweet, and just something my family automatically does, but when Gran’s pouring herself another cup of tea, I sign to Grandad that he’s more than welcome to stop signing and pick up his fork and help himself to more quiche.

He shoots me half a grin and a wink, but keeps going, just as Thomas drones on.

Don’t get me wrong. Canada’s beautiful. We took a ski vacation in Vancouver when I was younger, and I’d happily take another trip north any time, but the baseball game Thomas went to in Montreal isn’t the kind of adventure I’m looking for.

“ How bold of you to try relish on your hot dog, Thomas. I’m so sorry it was too spicy for you, ” Gran says, her face betraying no irony when she signs. “ You’ll need that sense of daring later this year when you go to Europe.”

Gran’s eyes light up as she signs the final word to me.

She’s laid down her best hand, and she’s so proud of it.

Too bad I’m not playing this game.

Instead of taking the conversational bait, I pluck a chocolate croissant from the platter and take a bite.

I can feel the conversation lull around me and though I smile congenially, I don’t make fake, polite conversation the way my grandparents do.

That’s who they are, but it’s not me. And I wasn’t the one who issued the invitation to Mr. Adventure in the first place.

When brunch is over and even Gran can’t sustain the conversation any longer, I busy myself with clearing the table. I’m stacking plates in the dishwasher when I feel a tap on my arm and have a phone thrust into my hand by bony, pale fingers. The Notes app is open, so I read what he’s typed.

There’s an informational meeting about the Europe trip at church this week. It’s Tuesday at six. I can pick you up and then we can go for coffee after. I don’t drink caffeine that late, but I’ll splurge and treat myself to some hot cocoa.

Without hesitation, I tap back my response.

Thanks for the invitation, but I’m not interested in the Europe trip. It sounds like fun, but I’m busy with school .

He swipes his phone back to type out a reply.

It’s over the holiday break.

I shake my head firmly while reaching for his phone.

I’m still not interested. Have a nice time .

My polite smile is plastered to my face as I hand his phone back and head for the sink in search of more dirty dishes.

Thomas must sense that he’s been dismissed because I watch out of the corner of my eye as Grandad shakes his hand and leads him toward the door.

I haven’t finished drying my hands on the dishtowel when I can feel Gran’s eyes on me.

Looking up at her, I see her hands fly into a frenzy as the words pour out of her.

“ It’s perfect, Fallon. The itinerary is fabulous. You start with the Christmas Markets in December and end in the Canary Islands in January. You’re going to love it. And before you tell me that Thomas is …”

Bringing my index finger to my nose, I twist it twice.

“ Boring is harsh ,” she signs back. “ But don’t worry, there are plenty of other young men going on the trip. You’ll meet them, and the young ladies, too, on Tuesday .”

Shaking my head, I sign that I’m not going on Tuesday.

Grandad walks back into the kitchen and catches the last of our conversation.

I watch as he frowns. He’s torn, and I hate it, but I’m not like my mom or my brother.

I’m not one to give in or make nice. I don’t mind discomfort, and I certainly prefer a little tension over being forced to do something I don’t want to do.

Still, I know they love me, and that they only want me to be happy. The problem is that they’re trying to press me into their mold of happiness, and it just doesn’t fit.

It could be a lot worse, I know. After all, Gran and Grandad are pushing me toward a European vacation.

That’s hardly torture. And it’s nothing like the confining life my father wanted for me.

My mom’s parents aren’t controlling or manipulative.

But they are old school. As Grandad lifts his hands and opens his mouth, I know what’s coming.

“ Fallon, think about what we’re offering. You love to travel, and this is a safe way to do it.”

“Safe? I don’t know these people,” I reply, signing and speaking.

“ You’ll meet them Tuesday. And we know them, and their families.

That’s certainly much safer than a young woman traipsing through Europe alone and staying in hostels.

” Gran’s lips and fingers convey the same argument we’ve had for over a year now.

Much to the dismay of my grandparents, I’m planning to backpack through Europe next summer.

The thought of a woman going anywhere without her husband, or at least a man, is risky to them.

Riskier still is staying anywhere that hasn’t been given a five-star rating.

“ It’s such a nice group of young people. You can make new friends, maybe even find yourself a beau. Perhaps Thomas wasn’t quite right for you, but there are plenty of other fellows. ”

“I don’t want a boyfriend, Gran,” I tell her, because it’s mostly true. I’m not opposed to hanging out with a guy or having a casual relationship, but if and when that happens, it will be on my terms, not because of something my grandmother set up.

“Darling, if you don’t date anyone, how will you ever find a husband and have a family?”

I just don’t have the strength to tell my grandmother—for the hundredth time— that marriage and babies aren’t every woman’s life goal, but the look on my face must say it all because she's shaking her head, as though that will delete her last sentence.

“I guess the world is a different place than when Grandad and I were young,” she continues.

“But I really want you to give this trip some consideration. It’s the perfect solution.

You’ll be safe in a large group, and you’ll be able to explore new corners of the world. Please just say you’ll think about it.”

I’m torn, but then I look across the table. Lifting his hand to his temple in a circular motion, Grandad wiggles his fingers and pleads with his eyes.

It’s so hard to say no to this man, even for me.

He’s never shown me anything but love and affection.

Whereas my dad was controlling and dictatorial, Grandad has always been kind and accepting.

He stood up for me when Mom was unable to.

I hate to admit it, but I owe him this much, so I nod, agreeing to give the idea some thought.

I’m not going on that particular trip to Europe, and I’m not going anywhere with Thomas, but maybe there’s some sport of compromise we can reach? Some happy medium between a solo adventure and a month-long youth group field trip?

After kissing my grandparents goodbye and promising to come back for brunch next Sunday, I drive home to Bainbridge and hope Kendra and Cody are locked in her bedroom, or better yet, out of the apartment entirely.

I’ve peopled and played nice all day, and my tank is empty.

If they’re screwing on the couch or she’s giving him a hand job while he’s watching cartoons, I can’t be responsible for my actions.