Stolen Jerseys / ✓

1.03: chapter twelve

S C O T T

"Get up," Connor said. I felt my bed dip to the side and I groaned, kicking out blindly in an attempt to get him off my bed, "c'mon cutie, up and at 'em."

I groaned again, eyelashes fluttering against my pillow, "Did you just call me cutie?"

"Fine," Connor said, and I sighed when he stood up, the bed going back to normal. I hadn't gone to bed until almost two in the morning, and I just wanted to sleep, "if being nice doesn't work, then I'll have to resort to being mean. Get up, douchebag."

I snorted and wrapped my comforter tighter around me, "That doesn't work either, Con. Get out and make breakfast or something."

"Offensive. I apologize in advance, but you drove me to this, Scott."

Before I could question Connor - or demand that he let me sleep - I felt the bed dip again. I moaned and lifted my head up, only to see Connor sitting right next to me. He grinned and ran a hand through his light hair. I quirked an eyebrow at him, and he just wiggled his eyebrows before launching himself at me.

I shouted and rolled on the other side of my bed, but Con grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I lifted my elbow and clocked him in the chest. Connor just laughed and attempted to pin me down in an attempt to wake me up.

When Connor and I were younger, we always used to wrestle as a way to wake each other up. And as we got older, the tradition stayed with us because it really did work. Any bit of noise woke Con up, and after wrestling (and usually beating Connor), I was up and couldn't go back to bed.

I sat up and easily pinned Connor's arm behind his back. I smirked and pushed him off my bed, laughing when he flailed his arms for a few seconds before yelping and falling back onto his bed. I swung my legs off and ran a hand through my wavy hair, lightly kicking Connor in the ribs and grinning down at my best friend.

"By the way," Connor mumbled, rolling over on the floor. He put his hands behind his back and looked up at me, "it's twelve-thirty and I'm pretty sure you have practice with Elle at one, right?"

"Shit!" I yelled, because if I was late, Elle would have my head on a silver platter. I couldn't afford to be late.

I cursed and stumbled across my bedroom. I threw my drawers open and pulled out a black shirt and a pair of sweatpants. I quickly got dressed, rolling my eyes when Connor grabbed a pillow to cover his eyes. I bit my lip and shoved my feet into a pair of sneakers, trying to figure out how badly I would have to speed to make it on time.

I grabbed my hockey bag and dragged it across the floor, attempting to make my hair look like I hadn't just rolled out of bed. I sighed and pushed my bag across the floor with my feet, stopping next to the kitchen. I grimaced and dropped into one of the bar-stools, grabbing a banana off the counter.

"You're a mess," Con leaned against the counter and grinned at me, "no wonder you need Elle to whip you into shape."

"She's not whipping me into shape," I muttered, grabbing my bag and keys. I huffed and made my way over to the door, "I'm not having this conversation! I have to go, I'm late as is."

"Have fun!" Connor sang, and I slammed the door behind me.

The whole drive to the park, I was at least five miles over the speed-limit. Elle took practice extremely serious, and if she thought I was anything but serious about it, she wouldn't hesitate to cancel them. So I drove quickly, cursing under my breath and attempting to not get behind all the bad drivers. (Though it seemed every bad driver was on the road).

I quickly pulled into the parking lot; just as the clock said one. I frowned and grabbed my bag, sprinting across the pavement towards the track, where I figured Elle would be again. I stumbled over every loose pebble and I almost face-planted a good amount of times.