<h2 ss="chapter-subtitle">Shane is the sausage king</a></h2><h3 ss="h">SEPTEMBER
“T<small ss="calibre6">HIS IS WHAT</small>I’<small ss="calibre6">VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF</small>.”
“What?” Diana says suspiciously from the driver’s seat. I have benevolently allowed her to drive to Oak Ridges, but that’s only because I need to read through a bunch of the emails Coach Jensen sent regarding the uing season. Practice starts next week.
“Meeting my fake girlfriend’s real family,” I exin with a grin.
Ironically, she didn’t even ask me toe to this end-of-summer potluck at her dad’s ce. I invited<em ss="calibre2">myself</em>. But what else was I going to do once I heard it’s not just any old potluck—it’s a bring-your-own-meat event. And yes, there are a million jokes I could be making about the kind of meat I can bring Diana, but who has time to make jokes when they can be thinking about all the sausage they picked up from Gustav’s.
“I mean, I already spent the weekend with yours,” she says. “At this point, we should be announcing our engagement.”
“I’m not announcing our fake engagement to your SWAT leader father. He’ll kick my ass when I leave you at the altar.”
<span id="page_300" title="300" role="doc-pagebreak">Diana snorts. “We both know I’m the one who’s not showing up for our wedding.”
“Hey, is your mom going to be there today?”
She starts tough. “Absolutely not. Even if she and my dad were on great terms—and they’re on cordial terms at best—she’s not a fan of my stepmother. Larissa is toomon for her.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, my mom is a pretentious academia snob, and Larissa is a hairdresser, so put two and two together.”
“I don’t know, if I had to pick, I’d rather get a haircut than a lecture about philosophy or whatever. More practical.”
“You should tell that to my mom if you ever meet her. Which hopefully you won’t because she’d probably hate you.”
I tense slightly. “Why? Because I’m half ck?”
“No, because you y hockey, and she thinks jocks are dumb. My mom isn’t a racist. She’s a snob.”
Now I chuckle. “I guess I’ll take it.”
Diana’s tone grows troubled. “It must be really hard going into certain situations wondering if someone is going to be racist or not.”
“It’s not fun,” I admit. “And it’s weird, because part of me is so fucking lucky for growing up with the privilege I’ve had, and the parents I have. But it’s like sometimes none of that matters when I’m walking in the electronics section of a store and I get security guards following me.”
“Fucking assholes.” Diana growls on my behalf, which is cute.
“Yup. It sucks. But I try to remind myself that I’m more privileged than most, and hold on to that, I guess.” I look over curiously. “Is your mom really going to think I’m dumb?”
“Probably. She doesn’t take athletes seriously. I dated a football yer in high school, and every time he came over, sheined she was losing brain cells just being around him. Meanwhile, he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. He’s majoring in mathematics at Notre Dame.”
<span id="page_301" title="301" role="doc-pagebreak">“She sounds kind of insufferable.”
“She can be.”
Diana hits a pothole, making the Mercedes bounce.
“Hey,” I growl. “Be careful.”
“Sorry—”
“We’ve got a cooler full of sausage in the back.”
“Oh. You’re worried about the sausage. I thought you were concerned about the tires.” She shakes her head at me. “I can’t believe you spent that much money on meat.”
“You said your father was a meat fan.”
“You’re<em ss="calibre2">such</em>a suck-up.”
“I mean, he’s your dad<em ss="calibre2">and</em>he’s a cop. I’m not an idiot. I don’t really want to get on his bad side. And trust me, once you taste these veal bratwursts, you’ll understand why they cost so much.”
She shrugs and slows down when she notices another pothole. “Eh. You know I don’t care about food.”
Yeah, I’ve noticed. Diana eats whatever’s avable. “I don’t get you. Food is awesome.”
“Food is fuel. I don’t care what it tastes like. And I can eat anything because my gag reflex is nonexistent.”
“Damn right it is.” I wink at her.
She rolls her eyes.
Truth is, though, she takes my cock so good. Fuck. I shiver just thinking about it.
“Don’t get horny,” she warns. “We’re not stopping for car sex.”
“Or we could stop for car sex.”
“We are not stopping.” She’sughing again.
“We should’ve driven upst night instead of early this morning,” I grumble. “Then we’d be having morning sex right now.”
“I had to work,” she reminds me.
“You could’ve called in sick.”
“Shane. Not everybody is ady of leisure like you.”
I snicker.
<span id="page_302" title="302" role="doc-pagebreak">“Seriously.” She gives me a sidelong look. “You have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Telling everyone to blow off work. You do it all the time. With me, with your friends. Some people can’t do that.”
“I’m joking. I know they’re not actually going to do it.”
“Yeah, but it’s your cavalier attitude toward this stuff. Like, yes. We’re all aware that<em ss="calibre2">you</em>can blow off work. It’s a bit insulting sometimes, the way you act like having a job is beneath you.”
Well, damn. I’ve been put in my ce.
And suddenly my mind is running through every conversation I’ve ever had with everyone I’ve ever known.
Do I really do that?
“I guess I have been making fun of Willtely,” I say pensively, difort roiling inside me. “About how he’s cheaping out on his backpacking trip. But he’s rich too! Why would he travel on a shoestring budget when his dad’s a congressman?”
“Maybe he wants to pay his own way.” She lifts a brow at me. “Unlike some people.”
I re at her. But we both know she’s not wrong, and now I feel like a total asshole.
“Stop making me self-reflect,” I grumble.
She justughs.
Oak Ridges is eerily simr to my own hometown. I didn’t expect to have so much inmon with Diana Dixon, but it turns out we do. We both grew up in small towns. We both have younger siblings. And we’re so sexuallypatible, it’s not even funny.
Diana parks the car in the driveway of a modest house with white siding and a tidywn. We’re greeted at the front door by Diana’s father, who is not at all what I expected. The square jaw and blond buzz cut make sense, but I was picturing a big, hulking guy wearing camouge gear and at least seven feet tall. Tom Dixon is shorter than I am, maybe around five nine. But what hecks in<span id="page_303" title="303" role="doc-pagebreak">height, he makes up for in build. He’s got beefy shoulders, a barrel chest, and biceps the size of my thighs.
“This is the new boyfriend?” he says after Diana introduces us.
“Yeah.”
“Wee.” He eyes the cooler in my hands. “What you brought today, son, is really going to determine whether I like you or not.”
I snicker. “Trust me, you’re going to love this.”
“Shane is the sausage king,” Diana sighs.
“I’ve got a guy in Boston,” I reveal to Mr. Dixon. “Nobody knows about him. He operates a tiny little butcher shop in Back Bay between aundromat and—”
“A Korean karaoke ce,” he finishes.
My mouth falls open. “You know Gustav?”
“Kid, I’ve been going to Gustav since before you were born. I know Gustav Senior!”
“No shit!”
He all but snatches the cooler from me. “Ah, I gotta see what Gustav gave you.”
We race into the kitchen like a pair of schoolboys. Tom opens the cooler, his entire face scrunched in concentration as he examines the selection of sausages I brought.
“Well?” I say, holding my breath.
He lifts his head. “We’re best friends now. Diana, please excuse us.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna go find Thomas. You weirdos entertain yourselves.”
Once she’s gone, Diana’s dad gives me a once-over. After an unnervingly long silence, he asks, “Do you treat my daughter with respect?”
The question startles me. “Of course,” I say sincerely.
He nods. “You seem all right.”
And that, other than the barbecue variety, is the only grilling I encounter for the rest of the day.
<span id="page_304" title="304" role="doc-pagebreak">We exit through the sliding doors and emerge into a sprawling backyard where the tantalizing aroma of sizzling meat hangs in the air. An enormous, weathered barbecue stands on the stone patio at the base of the wooden deck, sending billowing plumes of smoke into the clear, blue sky.
“Wow, this is sort of a big deal,” I remark.
Colorful pic tables are scattered across thewn, covered with checkered tablecloths. Children y on the grass, theirughter mingling with the sounds of dozens of conversations going on at once and the asional clink of utensils against tes.
The grill is being manned by two men who turn out to be the snipers on Mr. Dixon’s SWAT team, only instead of rifles, they’re armed with long spats and basting brushes. I peek at the barbecue. mes are dancing beneath a gridironden with various cuts of meat. Racks of ribs, marinated chicken skewers, and thick, juicy burgers sizzle and crackle as they cook to perfection. The tantalizing scent of barbecue sauce and seasonings wafts through the air, making my mouth water in anticipation.
“I’m in heaven,” I tell Diana when she joins us. “You’ve literally redeemed yourself in my eyes.”
That gets me a punch on the arm.
We dodge a group of kids darting around the yard in a game of tag and approach a row of tables that offers an impressive array of side dishes, from creamy mashed potatoes to bowls of fresh sds.
Diana introduces me to her stepmother, Larissa, a dark-haired woman with yful eyes. She’s standing with a young man with blond hair parted to the right and a smooth baby face. It’s Diana’s younger brother, Thomas, who flew back from South America to attend this shindig and is flying back early tomorrow morning.
I gape at him. “Isn’t that a lot of travel for a few hours of barbecue?”
He grins ruefully. “I would literally be disowned if I didn’t make it home for the potluck. Like you’ve got to be dead or dying.”
<span id="page_305" title="305" role="doc-pagebreak">“It’s true,” Larissa confirms.
Despite his boyish appearance, Thomas is super mature and more sarcastic than I expect. He’s on the premed path but took a gap year to volunteer with an aid organization.
As we chat, I sling my arm around Diana’s bare shoulder, absently stroking her warm flesh. Despite the fact that there is an unsettling number of cops here, I’m having a good time. The food is amazing, and we gorge ourselves all afternoon, to the point where I force myself to stop eating before I get a stomachache. We y a game of cornhole with two men from the Boston PD. One of them pulls me aside afterward to talk hockey, and the next thing I know, he’s calling his friends over.
“Hey, Johnny! This kid’s ying in the NHL next season.”
“What!”
Several men wander toward us, all of them massive hockey fans. Their favorite cop bar in Boston doubles as a Bruins bar, and they proceed to give me some shit for going to Chicago.
“Hey, it’s not like I had a choice in who drafted me,” I protest.
“I’ll allow it,” one says, slugging back the rest of hisger.
I discover one of them almost went pro. And he would have been at UConn around the same time as my dad.
“Do you know Ryan Lindley?” I ask him.
“Sure do. Why?”
“That’s my dad.”
“No shit! You’re his kid?”
I brace myself for the next question—<em ss="calibre2">then why aren’t you pasty white like him</em>? Dad and I have gotten that question a couple times when we’ve run into old acquaintances of his, who weren’t aware he was in an interracial marriage. Although my parents have been greeted with almost unteral tolerance in Heartsong, I know not everyone is so open-minded.
But this man seems unfazed by my skin tone. “How’s Ry doing?” he asks me.
<span id="page_306" title="306" role="doc-pagebreak">“He’s great. Owns a bunch of properties in Vermont and runs a property managementpany.”
“Good for him. That was a real shame what happened in that game.”
“You saw it?”
“Yeah, of course. I was a couple of years behind him, but we were teammates. The whole team and I were over the fucking moon to see him go pro. It was a real sobering thing, you know? Watching him go down like that. I’m d he picked himself up and made something of himself.”
“That’s what hockey yers do.”
He ps me on the shoulder. “That’s what we do, kid.”
I head back to the grill to check if Diana’s dad needs help. The sun is dipping lower, casting long shadows across thewn. People are starting to leave,ing up to hug Tom and Larissa. They shake Tom’s hand and tell him he outdid himself this year.
I search the yard for Diana, wondering where she’s disappeared to, and finally spot her chatting with a bulky young man in shorts and a Boston PD tank top.
Thomas joins us at the grill. “So my sister roped you into her dance stuff, huh?”Content held by N?velDrama.Org.
“Yup,” I say glumly.
The kid smirks. “She sent me your audition video. That was a pretty good tango, dude.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Tom asks in amusement.
Thomas fills his dad in. “Shane’s partnering with Di for her ballroompetition. Kenji ditched her.”
Larissa gives me a nod of approval. “Good for you. Takes some real confidence.”
“I am nothing if not confident.” My tone is absent-minded as my gaze once again drifts toward Diana and Mr. Boston PD.
A small firestorm brews in my chest. I don’t know why seeing herughing with this guy makes me burn, but it does.
<span id="page_307" title="307" role="doc-pagebreak">Thomas notices my distraction. “They’re just talking,” he says with another smirk.
I glower at him. “I don’t care.”
“Right. That’s why you keep looking over there. Watching them almost as vigntly as Dad.”
My head swings toward Tom Senior. “You don’t like that guy either, huh?”
“Ha,” Thomas says gleefully. “I knew you didn’t like him.”
“He’s my sergeant’s boy. Just passed the academy. A damned beat cop and already thinks he deserves a spot on SWAT. That kind of arrogance bothers me.” Tom shrugs. “But Di can handle herself. She’s tough as nails.”
“She is,” I agree.
Thomas grins. “Did she ever tell you about the time she beat up a kid twice her size on the yground because he tried to make her eat ants?”
Diana’s dad lets out a howl ofughter. “Aw man, I forgot about that. She was eleven, I think. Maybe twelve. The school called me at work, and I had to leave a weapons training seminar to pick her up because her mom was out of town. Got to the school and found her sitting in the principal’s office, not a mark on her. Meanwhile, this boy has a bloody nose and there’s all these ants caked into the blood because she shoved his face in the dirt after she hit him. Said only one of them would be eating bugs that day and it sure wasn’t gonna be her.”
Diana arrives in time for the end of story, sighing when she sees my face. “It’s not as psychotic as it sounds.”
“My God. I knew you were feral,” I use.
“Stop scaring him with stories about me beating people up, Dad.” She seems embarrassed, but something else flickers through her expression too. Anxiety, maybe? “We don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I’m actually a huge wimp.”
Tom Senior slings his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and<span id="page_308" title="308" role="doc-pagebreak">nts a kiss on her temple. “Nothing wimpy about you.” He nces at me with a smile. “This is the toughest girl you’ll ever meet.”
Diana smiles too, but I notice it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.