Two

"Get in there, Turner!" Dad yells, catching my attention. He's standing in the middle of the rink, spouting orders to the guys on his team as if he's a commander and they're his soldiers readying for battle. But that's just Dad. He runs a tight ship during practice. And his dedication to his guys and the Dragons franchise is what makes him the best coach in the minor leagues.

Ronnie turns to me, a sly grin on her face. "Turner's hearing it from Coach today, isn't he?"

I breathe out a laugh. "Knowing him, he stayed up too late playing video games. He came in almost ten minutes late, and I thought Dad was going to lose it." I shake my head and clutch my notebook tighter to my chest. "He can't tolerate that kind of stuff."

And truthfully, neither can I.

Mom says Dad and I are both type As who value order and organization above all else. And she's not wrong, though I've suspected for a while that my brand of order and organization borders on obsessive. Ronnie says I'm just a neat freak, but I suspect it's more than that. In fact, I'm looking into getting an OCD diagnosis.

My parents know about my triggers and try to tread lightly where they're concerned. I appreciate the extra care they take around me and my things, but it doesn't make me feel any more normal. In fact, it sort of makes me feel fragile, like a ticking time bomb everyone must hold with care or else they'll get burned.

That's why I feel like an official diagnosis might help me. If I can find out why I am the way I am or how to overcome my triggers, maybe I could find the courage to—

"Are you coming to the team party tonight?"

Ronnie's question drags me from my thoughts. "I don't know. I've got homework to catch up on." I let out a sigh, knowing that's a total lie. Thankfully, my friend doesn't pick up on it, though she does eye the notebook I'm clutching to my chest.

"Oh, come on. You can take a break from homework for one night," she says, sending me that big sister look she gives me when she expects me to give in. "The guys will miss you."

My lips twitch, threatening to pull into a smile. "Sure, they will. Like they miss an annoying younger sister."

"Oh, you know it's not like that. They all love you."

I smile because it's true. As Coach Pratt's daughter, I do have a really great relationship with all the guys on the team. Some of them I've known since I was in junior high. They're all like big brothers to me—well, most of them. I don't know all of them as well as I'd like, simply because they haven't been a part of the team as long. Not to mention, a few of the guys are so quiet, pulling two words out of them is like trying to escape from Alcatraz.

But for the most part, they love me. Like an aggravating younger sibling who messes up all the stuff or orders them around like a mini drill sergeant.

"Okay, I'll go," I say. "I just won't be able to stay for very long."

"Good. I'll have more fun if you're there with me."

I turn and give Ronnie the most disparaging side-eye I can muster. "Uh huh. You'll be sucking Archer's face off in a dark room while I'm stuck in a corner forced to listen to Joel and Turner's stupid jokes all night."

"Will not!" Ronnie gives me a playful shove as a light blush stains her cheeks. She's a goner for the team captain, Archer Sullivan, and his little girl, Indy. I have no doubt that the three of them will soon be one big happy family and ride off into the sunset together.

A pang of jealousy pulses behind my rib cage, but I brush it off. It's stupid to want what my friend has, what she's waited a long time for and deserves. Though I can't deny that I miss having a boyfriend. Someone to hang out with, to share inside jokes with, to kiss…

But I'll never admit that to Ronnie. Not after the last hockey player I dated made me realize I may not be ready for a serious relationship. As far as she knows, I've sworn guys off. And I have, in theory. In practice? Yeah, I'm super jelly over the fact that she gets to be bundled up in biceps while I'm over here with only my imagination to keep me warm.

"Listen, maybe if you stopped looking at all these hot hockey players as your brothers, one of them might start looking at you like you're a girl he'd like to date." Ronnie leans close, eyebrows dancing.

Sheesh. Was my secret longing for love that obvious?

"Ew." I cringe in disgust. "It's impossible for me to find any of them attractive, you know that."

"So you say," she says with a skeptical look.

Shouts from down below gain our attention as Baros tosses a stick at McCoy. He's fired up about something, but what's new? He's our most aggressive defenseman, which makes him tough to beat.

Archer skates over and pushes the two guys apart, knocking McCoy in the helmet. We can't hear what he says from up here, but it looks as if he's imparting some kind of team captain wisdom. Archer and Aiden are like the team's big brothers, always offering up advice and keeping the guys in line when they act up. It's kind of cool to witness. It also helps Dad with coaching because if the guys keep themselves in line, he can do the real work of getting them ready for games.

Dad's a natural born leader, who instills that same attitude into his players. It's something we all admire in him. Even if his leadership style might be intimidating at times, even for his daughter.

Dad blows the whistle, marking the end of practice, and I stand to stretch my back. "I'll see you tonight, then?" I ask my friend.

Ronnie's eyes are glued to Archer, who's waving up at her. "Yeah, see you tonight."

My smirk comes automatically as we separate, and I make my way outside. The February chill freezes my nose off as I trudge through the sloshy parking lot to my car. But according to the forecast, we're about to have some warmer days. I smile just thinking about it. Usually, I don't mind the frigid temps as they give me another reason to curl up inside to try and finish my next manuscript, but I've been dying to ride my motorcycle for months.

And according to my group chat with the guys I usually ride with, they can't wait either. Any time there's sunshine, my phone gets assaulted with messages. It vibrates with another incoming text, and I laugh when I tap into our thread.

Christian

I'm just saying, man. Maybe don't go so hard on leg day.

Thorin

Dude, it was awful. I've never dropped my bike in front of someone before. Glad our pretty little Chantelle wasn't there. I might've died of embarrassment.

You must be forgetting all the other embarrassing things you do in my presence…

Thorin

Aw, come on. You saying my wheelies don't impress you?

I huff a laugh as I text back.

The wheelies are fine. I was referring to your dance moves.

Thorin

OK, now I'm just offended. My moves are exceptional. On point. Just ask the guys. Right, guys?

Christian

…

Caius

…

Des

No comment.

Thorin

OK. I see how it is. You guys just can't handle a man in tune with his body.

Caius

I think you meant to say a man in tune with parasites. You dance like you've got worms, dude.

I shake my head and toss my phone back into my purse. Every time these guys get going, they give me ideas for my next book. The male main character rides a motorcycle like mine and just so happens to have a quirky group of guys he rides with. Maybe he even has a group text thread with his buddies, and an annoying friend that dances like Thorin.

I smile to myself, thinking over the new material that always seems to come to me when I talk to the guys as I hop into my car and crank the heat. I rub my nearly frozen hands together and let friction do its warming work. Once the steering wheel isn't too cold to touch, I take myself back home to my parents'.

Like usual, my brain floods with plans and ideas. I mentally work through character profiles and scenes I want to write, along with content for all my social media pages. It's not easy being a brand new baby indie author, but when your book explodes in popularity seemingly overnight, keeping up with its success is a full-time job.

In the last three months, I gained almost twenty thousand followers, which kind of blows my mind. But I guess having a best-selling book will do that to you. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly after publishing. Truthfully, I didn't expect it to happen at all.

Yet here I am, trying to make this author thing work while keeping my real identity a secret. No one in my life knows I wrote a book and published it. Or that it exploded in the book community due to a video that went viral. And they can't, or else my entire world will crumble around me.

Okay, so maybe that's a bit dramatic, but if my dad found out I jumped from taking college courses for sports journalism straight into full-time indie authorhood, leaving school behind, he might actually disown me.

He and Mom have paid my way through college, and he's already said in not so many words that he's excited I'll be following his lead in a sports-related career. Truthfully, I was too…until a great idea for a book started keeping me up at night…and stalking me in the shower…and harassing me every time I stood at the sink to do dishes.

I really had no other choice but to put the thing down onto paper. Publishing it on a whim might've been a tad bit reckless, but how could I regret it? My readers want more from me. And the craziest part is…I want to give it to them.

My thoughts slow as I turn into my parents' drive. Tucked up on the side of a mountain that overlooks a beautiful, wooded canopy, my childhood home is lovely with its sleek, modern, mountain-home style. It boasts vaulted ceilings and large open windows that overlook the rest of our neighborhood. And Mom's penchant for decorating with jewel tones only highlights its natural beauty.

Walking through the garage, I bypass the kitchen on purpose, hoping to avoid an inquisition from Mom. Ever since hitting publish two months ago, my usual routine consists of avoidance and short, evasive conversations. I'm afraid that if we delve into a deep conversation about life goals or how school is really going, I'll slip up and give myself away. Then Dad will think of all the money he's spent toward my schooling and decide his failure of a daughter needs to find a new place to live now that she's no longer pursuing the career he wanted for her.

I don't like avoiding them, but I also don't know how to tell my once supportive parents the truth without breaking their hearts.

But turns out, girls who hold secrets like me run out of luck eventually.

"Chantelle? That you?"

I stop in my tracks, my sneakers squeaking on the shiny marble tile, and pivot toward the open-concept kitchen and dining area.

Like always, she's standing at the island, typing away on her laptop. Mom's day job for as long as I can remember has been to online shop. It's not technically a job, but she shops like it's her job. And Dad, being the softy he is for her, doesn't seem to mind in the least. He never bats an eye at the abundance of packages that show up at the door, at all hours of the day.

"Hey, Mom."

"You look cute today," she says with a wide smile, peering at me over her reading glasses. Her brown hair is half pulled up and a little messy, just the way I like it. The fuzzy sweater and jeans she's wearing add to her cozy look, and I can't help but lean in for a hug.

"Thanks. How was your day?"

"Oh, you know. Boring." She closes the laptop and swivels toward me. "I did plan a little weekend getaway for me and your dad, though. It's been a while since we've been able to do anything fun, all because of this." She sticks her right foot out, giving me a clear view of the boot she's been forced to wear for the past few weeks.

"I guess breaking your foot really puts a damper on fun excursions," I say.

Her tinkling laugh fills the kitchen as she opens the fridge. "For sure." Setting the orange juice down on the counter, she grabs two glasses from the cupboard. "Anyway, he and I are planning to catch a quick show in Boulder, then stay overnight." After pouring two glasses, she slides one over to me. "You'll be okay to watch the house, right?"

"Sure." An idea forms in my head the second the cool citrusy liquid hits my tongue. "What dates will you guys be gone?"

"Not next weekend, but the week after. He's got those big games coming up because of playoffs, so we had to work around that."

I nod, absorbing the info and mentally jotting it down. There's something I've been wanting to do for a while, and with my parents out of town for a couple days, this might be the perfect opportunity.

"Well, it sounds nice," I say with a smile. "You guys deserve some time alone."

Mom reaches out and covers my hand with hers as I sip my orange juice. "I hope you don't think we don't enjoy you being here, sweetie. It's not that at all, it's just—"

"Mom, please." I hold up a hand to stop her. "I know you and Dad are cool with me living here for the time being." At least, that was the consensus when I was attending school. If they find out I'm not…

Like a mind reader, Mom says, "As I've said before, as long as you're in school, we insist that you stay here. Rent free." She winks again, then turns toward the pantry. My stomach immediately sinks to the floor as guilt wraps around my heart with a vise-like grip.

Dad and Mom made it clear after high school that as long as I was attending DU, they wanted me to live at home. They've never put any financial demands or unreasonable expectations on me, either. As far as parents go, mine are the best. So why is it so difficult to admit that the career I'd chosen to go to school for is no longer the one I want to pursue? That I've found something better, a job that feels more like a fulfilling dream, one I make really good money at.

I clear my throat and set my glass down onto the countertop with a clink. "You know, Mom, I could start paying rent. Or even…find my own place."

She stops her shuffling in the pantry and calls out, "Don't be silly. You aren't even working right now. Your dad is adamant that you focus on school for the next year. We"ll reevaluate next summer."

I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "I know, but you know I've got a lot saved from lifeguarding." Which is true. I've worked at a summer camp every year since I was fourteen as a lifeguard, and Dad made me save every penny. He wanted me to use it to go toward living expenses once I graduated college, but with what I make as an author, I don't foresee me having issues paying my bills. My second month's royalties as an author surpassed what I made an entire summer lifeguarding.

"And," I add, "I don't want you guys to think I'm taking advantage of your generosity."

Mom emerges from the walk-in pantry with a curious expression. "Honey, come on. We know you're not trying to be a freeloader here. You contribute to this family, Chantelle. In more ways than one. Besides, your dad has worked hard to be able to provide you with this opportunity. We don't want anything to distract from you accomplishing your career goals."

Like her words are poison-tipped darts lacing straight through me, I brace myself against the counter, more ill than ever. I'm starting to think that if Dad doesn't kill me once he learns the truth, the sheer weight of the guilt I carry around will.

"Well, let me make dinner for you guys tonight," I manage to say through the heartsickness. "Please?"

Mom smiles brightly and sets two boxes of pasta on the counter. "I'll certainly take you up on that."