Nice Guys Don't Win (The Boys #2) - Micalea Smeltzer Page 0,7

green eyes narrow on me. “Shit, stop being so chivalrous and making me look bad.”

I snicker. “Don’t worry, Teddy. You make yourself look bad all on your own.”

Teddy tips his head back, sniffing haughtily on purpose. “Fine, no chicken for you or you.” He gives us each a look before turning with his bucket of fried meat and walking away. I don’t hear the door, but the TV does come on a second later, so I know he’s not going anywhere.

Zoey sits down on the end of her bed, resting her hands on her bare knees. “Your friend is weird.”

I snort. “That’s an understatement.”

“It’s good to have friends like that. Ones that really care.” There’s a lost look in her chocolate brown eyes, but I don’t ask her to elaborate. We’re barely acquaintances and it’s none of my business. Standing, she says, “I’m going to go ask Teddy if he’ll share his stick.”

I know she’s joking, and only talking about goddamn chicken, but something in my chest squeezes at the idea of her asking Teddy for anything. Before she can leave, I yell out, “Teddy, get your ass in here and bring the fucking chicken!”

Teddy shuffles down the hall, and I swear to God if he leaves shoe stains on the carpet, I’ll make him pay for them to get cleaned. “Oh, so now you want my chicken.”

“Zoey does.”

Teddy lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, but I don’t share my chicken with just anyone. We’re bonded for life.”

“Uh, on second thought maybe I don’t want any.”

“Come on, you know you do.” He holds the bucket out in her direction. “Take one. Join the club. On Wednesday’s we wear pink.”

I roll my eyes. “Will you ever stop quoting Mean Girls?”

Zoey, presses her lips together, fighting laughter as her head bounces between the two of us.

“Um, no. Tina Fey is a literary genius who deserves our undying love and gratitude for such a masterpiece. Now take some chicken.” He shakes the bucket. “And remember, I’m not a regular mom. I’m a cool mom.”

4

Zoey

It was guilt that made me agree to my dad’s invitation to dinner tonight. Classes begin tomorrow and I’d much rather be in bed with a coloring book and markers trying to calm my nerves over starting my junior year at a different college. But when he asked if I’d be willing to come over for dinner, I felt like it’d be rude to say no.

That’s how I’ve found myself parked outside on the street of a massive house—no, mansion—tapping my fingers nervously against my steering wheel while Taylor Swift hypes me up in the background.

The house is beautiful, with a circular driveway and beautiful stone front. The front door is one of the largest I’ve ever seen, with intricate ironwork around the glass.

It’s definitely out of the budget for your typical college basketball coach—but my dad isn’t typical. He spent nearly five years in the NBA before a career-ending injury took him out.

If I’m honest with myself, he’s part of the reason I want to be a physical therapist. To help athletes and others who’ve been hurt and need help, and maybe prevent someone from walking away from their family like he did.

All because he didn’t want to face the reality that he couldn’t play anymore and apparently my mom and I weren’t a good enough reason to move on.

They met when they were in high school, and dated through college, where my mom got pregnant with me their sophomore year and they decided to get married and make it work.

It’s too bad ‘making it work’ was only temporary.

The worst part is the divorce came years after the injury, but he was never the same after it happened. It was like nothing meant the same if he didn’t have the NBA anymore.

I inhale a deep breath, and shut my car off, Taylor’s voice cutting off in the middle of Shake it Off.

Slipping from the car, I sling my purse over my shoulder and lock the car behind me. Though, in a neighborhood this nice—one where I had to enter through a gate—locking it is probably unnecessary. I doubt any of these rich pricks want anything to do with my ten-year-old Honda.

I trudge up the driveway, my arms wrapped around my body.

I don’t know why, but the memory of my high school graduation floods my mind. I gave my dad the cold shoulder after the event. My heart pangs in remembrance of his warm smile, the pride in his eyes