Chill Factor

Wes left the door open, signaling that there would be no going back to sleep for Scott. With a curse, he fell back onto the pillow. He wasn’t even allowed a snow day. Every other person in town would get to blow off today, but no, not him, not the coach’s son.

He wanted to pull the covers over his head. He could probably sleep away the whole day if he was left alone. But if he wasn’t in the kitchen in three minutes, there would be hell to pay. A few extra z’s weren’t worth the hassle.

With a scorching shit! he threw off the covers.

His old man had actually been timing him. When he entered the kitchen, Wes glanced at the wall clock, then gave him a look that let him know he hadn’t made it under the deadline. His mom came to his rescue.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Bacon and eggs or waffles?”

“Whichever’s easier.” He sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of orange juice, yawning widely.

“What time did you turn in last night?” his dad asked.

“I’m not sure. You weren’t home yet.”

“I was with Dutch.”

“All that time?”

“Hours.”

“Did you make it up the mountain?”

By the time Wes had finished giving them an account of the previous night’s events, Dora had served Scott a plate with bacon, two fried eggs, and two waffles. He thanked her with a smile.

“We had a real adventure,” Wes said. “Especially driving out to that dive where we picked up Cal Hawkins. We were lucky to escape without being shot or buttfucked by a trio of hillbillies.”

“Wes!”

He laughed at his wife’s horror. “Relax, Dora. Scott knows such things go on, don’t you, son?”

Embarrassed for his mother, Scott kept his head down and continued eating. His dad thought it was cute to use vulgar language around him, like he was including him in the society of men who were allowed such privileges. It was bogus, of course, because in every other respect, he was treated like a two-year-old. He was only a few months away from his nineteenth birthday, but he was told what to eat, when to go to bed, and when to get up.

He was the oldest student in the senior class. His dad had made him repeat sixth grade, not because he’d failed any courses, not because he was socially immature or in any way maladjusted, but because Wes had wanted to give him an extra year to grow and develop before he went into middle school sports.

Being detained had been humiliating, but Wes had made the decision before discussing it with either Scott or his mom, and he’d stuck to his decision despite their protests.

“College scouts start looking at players as early as seventh or eighth grade,” he’d said. “Another year of growth will give you an advantage. Coming from a small school like ours, you’ll need every leg up you can get.”

Wes was still making all his decisions for him. Legally, Scott was a man. He could go to war and die for his country, but he couldn’t stand up to his father.

As though reading his mind, Wes said, “Finish filling out those application forms today. You’ve got no excuse not to.”

“Everybody’s invited to Gary’s house to hang out.” Gary was one of his classmates. Scott didn’t particularly like him, but he had a rec room with a pool table. Spending a snow day shooting stick had more appeal than filling out college application forms.

“Finish the forms first,” his dad said. “This time I’ll be checking to see if they’re done. After lunch, I’ll drive you over to the gym so you won’t miss a workout.”

“I can drive myself.”

Wes shook his head. “You spin out on the ice, hit something, have your leg broken. No, I’ll drive you.”

His mom said, “I don’t think it would hurt to miss one workout.”

“Then that shows just how little you know about it, doesn’t it, Dora?”

The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Scott said.