Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(15)
"Where's your wife? How come she gets a pass on dinner?" My question is directed at Tyler, but I look to my Dad as he leans against the large arch separating the kitchen from the living room, wearing an innocent expression. One that says, Gracie is my favourite, that’s why.
"She’s teaching a dance camp," Tyler says, smiling ever so slightly. He’s proud of his wife, no doubt. She opened her own dance studio last year, using it to help little kids whose parents can’t afford regular dance lessons. She doesn’t charge them anything. Not for their uniforms, shoes, or competitions. It’s really something out of a fairytale for those excited new ballerinas. Something that Gracie’s able to do because of the millions racking up in my brother's bank account from years spent playing professional hockey for the Vancouver Warriors. They’re both so incredibly selfless that it makes me want to be better. Do better. Unfortunately for me, it’s not that easy.
"I hope everyone's hungry!"
Oh joy to the fucking world. Here she comes.
Three sets of eyes fall on Lana as she comes rushing into the living room, an apron wrapped around what looks to be a very tight red dress matched with a pair of terrifyingly tall heels—always dressing to impress, this one.
"Starving," Dad replies sweetly, grinning while slipping an arm around her waist. He looks hopelessly in love with her. It should make me happier to see him like this.
"Brooks!" she giggles when Dad's hand disappears behind her, grabbing her ass. Holding back my vomit, I turn to see Tyler doing the same, his hand moving to shield his eyes.
“Dad." I clear my throat. I can feel my eyes rolling when he ignores me and starts placing sloppy kisses on Lana's exposed shoulder. "Dad, the food's going to be cold," I say again, louder this time.
"Right!" Lana's the one to pull away first, finally taking notice of the people around her. "The kids must be starving, baby."
Her comment has my nostrils flaring. I'm not a kid.
"Right, right. Sorry." Dad chuckles nervously before waving us towards the kitchen.
"Thanks. For a minute there I thought I was going to empty the contents of my stomach on the floor," Tyler mumbles under his breath when we reluctantly start to follow Dad towards the kitchen.
"Next time it's on you," I huff. There are no number of mental speeches that I can recite in order to feel prepared for this dinner. No matter what I say or how many fake smiles I wear, I’ll never accept Lana as his wife. I don’t know how, and I’m not sure I’ll ever even want to.
"Deal,” Tyler replies, wearing a similar scowl to my own.
“What the fuck?” I say under my breath when we reach the kitchen. “It smells like a teenage girl's bedroom in here.”
At least ten vanilla scented candles stretch across the length of the new, sleek black table placed in the center of my dad’s outdated, crowded kitchen. The dark wood looks like it can seat at least eight people, which is confusing in itself, considering that there are only four of us on a good day.
What limited walking space there used to be in this yellow-lit room has shrunk by more than half. Tyler and I are forced to walk shoulder to shoulder just to get to two empty chairs on the left side. We choose the ones farthest from the Stacey's mom wannabe so we don’t have to listen to the love birds whisper dirty things to each other when we inevitably fall into tense moments of awkward silence.
Dad sits across from us with Lana on his right. He wears a broad smile while rubbing his stomach in big circles. "This looks delicious.” I can sense the double meaning in his words before I see his gaze moving up and down his fiancé’s body with a nod of approval. It’s something that I would say if I were in his shoes. It takes a solid two minutes before he actually looks at the overly extravagant meal laid out across the yellow, tulip covered table runner.
"I made all your favourites!" Lana smiles wide, proud of herself.
Oh, I bet you did.
Cocking my brow, I trail my eyes over every dish, getting more confused by the second. Kale salad, salmon with tofu. Is that quinoa?
"When did you start eating rabbit food, Dad?"
His tight lipped scowl doesn't pack the same punch it did when I was younger. I easily brush it off and speak again.
"If I had known that she was stuffing you full of green shit, I would have brought pizza." My lips lift slightly when I hear Tyler snicker before attempting to cover it with a cough.
"Braden," Dad snaps, steam nearly shooting from his ears. I can’t seem to shut myself up, though. Something about seeing someone make him eat like he isn’t already as healthy as a fucking horse makes my insides churn. My dad has been a boxer for his entire life. He’s probably healthier than I am. He doesn’t need to be on a damn diet. Lana clearly doesn’t understand how much we need to eat to keep up with the sport so that we don’t wither away to nothing. Dad’s probably just too nice to say anything.
"Yes, Father?" I sing, watching as he tightens his grip on the edge of the table, fingertips turning white.
"It's okay, Brooks," Mommy Dearest sighs. She places her hand on top of his in hopes of relaxing him. The rock on her ring finger that emptied out the entirety of my dad’s savings account sparkles under the hanging light. If I have to sit here any longer, I might just end up eating my own fucking tongue for dinner. “I’m just trying to keep his cholesterol down.”