More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.
🤣what
“Don’t be sorry, Jesus fuck, I’m the one who forgot. Come in, did you swim here?”
I have the humor of a toddler sometimes 😆
Squelching over to the island, I slide onto a barstool and clutch the towel around me.
the word squelching did me in 🤣 holy shit
“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.” “Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”
I’m coming to realize that the expression I had thought was annoyance earlier, is actually just his face. He doesn’t seem to have another expression.
Inmate turned soup kitchen chef.
Covering up the tattoos has done nothing to make him less frightening-looking—now he only looks like a burglar.
“Oh, you have a lot of pads?” “No, I just block pucks naked and hope for the best.”
But that’s a nickname, right? Zeke?” “Oh. No, that’s my name.” “Weird.” “Whatever you say, Your Majesty, Carter Morgan the Third, Baron of Walnut Ave and King of the Hockey Court.”
He looks precisely like someone you wouldn’t introduce to your grandma. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Carter.” He holds up one of his clenched hands, waving it a bit. I bite my lip so that I don’t laugh.
“Carter, is it? What a nice name for such a lovely looking boy. Come on with me, Carter, let’s get you something to eat.” She keeps ahold of his arm and pulls him into the kitchen. He looks over at me and I grin, mouthing lovely looking boy at him.
I wonder if he’d think I was lovely if he knew I’d once set my uncle’s house on fire.
🤣😆
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
He looks like a man who’s been stranded in adolescence, held hostage by his small frame and boyish face.
“Why didn’t you show me that eight holes ago?” “Because I want to win, obviously. I’m not going to help the enemy.”
Sarahpants liked this
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
Whatever, same thing. You were very skilled at defending the crease. No puck breached your five-hole. Nobody was going to score a backdoor tonight, not in your kitchen. Okay, that’s enough, get off of the internet. Hockey terms are fucking WEIRD.
I’m going to delete that fucking app off of my phone; no hook-up is worth a conversation about anal fissures with Zeke.
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
When he sees me standing with his coach, his face breaks open into what I can only describe as happiness: a softening of his mouth and brow, and a widening of his eyes. He walks toward us, quickly.
This man is wasted as a hockey coach; he needs to be interviewing murder suspects for the FBI.
Nobody would ever pair him with Coach Mackenzie, who could easily be mistaken for an undertaker.
I’m trying to tell him that I thought about him the entire game, and felt like a better player because of it. It’s different, winning for someone other than yourself. I want him to know a lot of things that I’m incapable of putting into words.
“Do you want to stay up for a little bit? I’d like to talk to you.” “Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m going to crash, alright?”
my chest is in agony I'm heartbroken
Sitting up, I make my gloomy way upstairs. Reaching the top of the stairs, I stop dead. Carter’s door—which has remained wide open since the first day I set foot in this house—is closed.
I can't handle this book
There is something hugely entertaining about hearing Carter say ‘chill vibes’ while scowling as though he means to scare all those vibes away. He glances at me, nudging my arm with his elbow and rolling his eyes dramatically. “Shut up,” he says, making me laugh harder. “Chill vibes,” I mimic, making my voice sound low and threatening, like a growl.
“That’s a lot of attitude for someone who is fully reliant on me to remain upright,” I note, and he smiles.
“Jesus, no, I mean yes, of course I’ve liked you. What I meant is that I just realized that I like you. Like, I want to kiss you. And we should have sex, sometime.”
“Max, this is Zeke. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Carter.”
He turns to look at me as he grasps the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head. I’ve touched that, my brain supplies helpfully, as I stare at his abs.
Carter’s mom stays seated, but claps politely. I’m not actually sure she saw the goal happen, since her gaze hasn’t really wavered from Carter the entire game. He’s playing well, of course, and made some truly spectacular saves. A couple times, she’s leaned over to me and asked, “That was good, wasn’t it?”. Jefferson turns his head away and laughs every time this happens—the hockey blind leading the blind.
I look over at Carter, who’d probably be less surprised if she pulled a gun from her purse and shot him.
