Two hours later, Chris was kneeling in front of the kitchen door, still trying to convince Cody to come out. "Listen, I'm sure all great chefs have bad days. This is something you're just going to have to bounce back from, it's part of the career-"

"HE SAID MY TEA WAS LIKE PISS WATER MIXED WITH DIRT!"

"Accurate description." I mumbled. Arnold gave me a look from over the top of his newspaper, titled Air Force Times. I know it was mean to be that blunt about Cody's tea, but I was hungry. Cody hadn't packed my lunch, and after tasting his food, I had vowed to never eat school cafeteria slop again.

Chris sighed, walking back into the living room. "I don't think he's coming out tonight."

"Do we break the door down and make our own dinner?" I asked.

Chris shook his head, pulling out his cell phone. "Cody's been with us so long, I hardly remember how to cook for myself."

Arnold grunted. "Pity too. Your waffles were better than his are."

"Shh!" Chris glared at Arnold as he walked back towards the kitchen. "Let me try one last thing."

He leaned against the door frame, trying to look nonchalant, but it was ruined by his smirk. "Cody, I'm gonna order from Dominos, do you want a sandwich, or a pasta bread bowl?"

I perked up, the idea of a piece of bread stuffed with cheese, chicken, and pasta making me forget about being pissed off at Cody. "Can I get a pasta bread bowl with triple cheese?"

Suddenly, the kitchen door flung open, and Chris' phone was slapped out of his hand, "Don't you dare!"

Cody retreated back into the kitchen with Chris' phone, slamming the door shut. I was about to go barrel through it, but Chris pressed his ear to the door, and grinned. "I heard pots moving! What's on the menu tonight, Chef Cody?"

"Pork chops sautéed in onions and mushrooms, hopping jack rice, and southern style sweet tea!" Came his reply, bursting with enthusiasm.

"So… the only way to get him over a bad grade is to remind him that at least he makes better food than dominos?" I asked.

Arnold nodded, "Sometimes we have to stoop to McDonalds, but it's been months since it was that bad."

"What was so bad he needed McDonalds?" I asked, nearly afraid of the answer.

"His teacher, Chef Alejandro, tasted his chicken curry, promptly picked up the pot, and dumped it all onto the floor, then proclaimed it wasn't fit for the worms in his grandmothers grave."

I groaned, "Why is he being taught by Chef fucking Ramsey?"

I didn't even see him move, but I felt him slap the back of my head.

I whirled around, "Hey!"

My protest withered on the spot. The look he was giving me was unlike anything I had ever seen. Eyes narrowed, chin out, mouth drawn into a taut line as he looked down on me. "Watch. Your. Language."

"Yes, sir." He nodded, and his gaze did a complete 180, turning back to his Air Force Times.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell… look, I'm not some kid who goes around rebelling for the hell of it because he hated authority in every form, but I don't say 'Yes, sir' like a little bitch when I get smacked.

I leaned back against the couch, stewing over how fast he had gotten me to say that, without even asking me to. How had he done it? I don't think I've said 'Yes, sir' once in my life. Arnold isn't exactly intimidating… for the love of god he owned a night club, and wore Khaki shorts.

I was so caught up in my own thoughts, I didn't hear the doorbell ring, but I did hear Chris open the front door and shout, "Mikey!"

The name immediately brought images of hockey skates, trophies, and fire trucks. Arnold perked up in his seat, folding his paper up. "Mikey?"

Harvey woke up from napping in my lap, ears at attention. In through the door walked Mikey. Spiky blonde hair, fire department tshirt, baggy cargo pants and worn out sneakers. "Hey Dads. Harvey!"

Harvey jumped up off my lap and dove down at Mikey's feet, rolling over to expose his stomach. Mikey kneeled down, obliging his request for a belly rub. "Missed ya too boy!"

Cody called out from the kitchen, "Mikey, do you want green peppers or red?"

"Green!" He responded, standing up and turning to face me. "So, you're the guy who tried to fight the whole football team?"

"No, I'm the guy who got his ass kicked by the whole football team. Literally. They were wearing cleats."

He grinned, "Sounds like an ass kicking. Collin had fun pulling you out of there, but let's make sure he doesn't have to rally the whole team to save your ass again."

He extends a hand to pull me up, and I accept it. Once I'm on my feet, he steers me towards the basement door. "Let's go dig out my stuff."

ONE HOUR LATER:

Chris, Arnold, and Cody were sitting on the front porch, dining on patio furniture. Mikey and me were both strapped up in padding, helmets, skates, and sticks with a puck going back and forth between us at varying speeds.

"Try not to look when you pass." He encouraged. "Don't let the other team know who you're sending the puck to. Even better, you look at a different team mate while passing to your partner."

I forced myself to look away from Mikey while I awkwardly passed the puck to him. He was barely able to capture the puck himself before hitting it into the rickety goal he had set up in the street. "That's it, just keep moving."

I had skated plenty of times before, when I was bored. I had yet to try ice skating, and I wasn't dumb enough to think that it would be the same. Mikey squared off against me, "Remember, when you get hit, your top priority is staying on your feet."

He rushed me, and I slid to the side real quick, ducking under the fist he flailed out. "Nice! Try this one."

He came at me faster this time, and I couldn't miss his fist this time. I fell back flat on my ass, cursing under my breath as he circled me. "Back up!"

He kept doing it, charging me and knocking me down a ridiculous number of times. "Is it really in the rules that you can punch someone?"

"Not if you have gloves on." He said. "And it's called a check. You can flail your arm out, but if the ref sees you punching, he'll put you in the box. You can't use your stick to hit them if you have both hands on it, and absolutely no checking them from behind. Only check the guy who has the puck, and try to throw him into the walls, not the ground. If he falls the ref might call a time out to check on him, and if he does, it slows down the game."

I sighed, "This is more complicated than it looks on TV."

He chuckled, passing the puck to me. "Who's your team?"

"Gotham Blades." I said confidently. "Chicago Black Hawks are a close second."

"I would have accepted any team other than the Metropolis Mammoths." I shot the puck into the goals, and Mikey grunted. "Needs to make it faster. The swing is less about force and more about form. Keep your arms in the right position, use a little muscle and let gravity do the rest."

I fished the puck out from the met, nearly tangling my stick up in the process, and them clumsily skated backwards, lining up for the shot. Following Mikey's instructions, I tried to just give a little push as my arms fell down in a curve. I barely saw the puck move across the road, but I definitely heard it crash into the back of the goal.

Mikey punched me in the shoulder, grinning. "That a boy!"

Chris called out from the front porch, "That's enough practice for tonight! You both need to eat… and shower. You probably smell really bad by now."

Mikey slung his arm over my shoulder, rubbing his armpit on top of my head, "Smell that? Smells like hard work!"

I shoved him off of me, "What the piss man!?"

He shoved me back, "Get used to it, locker room smells worse."

His tone was joking, and that was the only thing that kept me from jumping him.

Hockey tryouts were Friday, which meant I only had tomorrow to get the football team in check. After that, I needed to get right back on the straight and narrow. It sounded corny, but I had tasted the 'good life' so to speak. A brownstone, a family that was far from normal, but very nice to me, and I was close to stepping into the white boy jock stereotype. I had a bed, a white picket fence, food every day, and even a dog.

I was not going to fuck it up and go back to the streets. While they had their appeal of freedom, they had their promise of poverty for the short term, and everyone with half a brain knew that the streets only retirement program either came with cuffs or a coffin.

They want me in advanced classes? Done. They want to have another star hockey player? Done. If they wanna cut the mop top I call my hair, it's done.

They at least accepted me for the gender I am. That's unheard of in a foster home. There was nothing I'd risk messing this up for.

For those who don't yet know, my lengthy absence is due to enlisting in the Air Force. I am now in Tech School, and I finally have free time and internet access, so count on more updates. :)

Hey Joe, this is your Christmas present!