Read Wings Over Poppies (Over #2) for Free Online

complain about anything?
    As Lucy’s spindly fingers peck small turquoise dots onto my hot pink fingernails, I notice that my hands look like catcher’s mitts in comparison. Lucy is tiny and fragile for her ten years, partly due to being born prematurely and partly from years of decreased oxygen intake. I see the signs of her disease in her thin frame, dark eye circles, and pale complexion, but she’s still the most beautiful little girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her alabaster skin and jet-black hair make her look like a living porcelain doll.
    “How about your toes?” she asks expectantly. Her eyes light up with mischief, and I chuckle under my breath.
    “Sure, sweetheart, I guess I can hide those well enough. Are they going to get polka dots, too?”
    “No, I think you need a tiny rhinestone on each toe—West, get back here!”
    I pull my hands and feet away from the little torturer and make my way into the kitchen. I’m all for making my baby sister happy, but even I have my limits.
    “You’ve crossed the line, Lucy Lou. You are not bedazzling me,” I call out over my shoulder with a laugh.
    I join my mom at the kitchen sink and watch as she scrubs the dinner dishes. Her shoulders shake in laughter, and her lips curve into a grin.
    “Come on now, West. You know it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been bedazzled. That little girl has got you wrapped around her finger.”
    I don’t even attempt to argue, because she’s absolutely right. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Lucy … for my family.
    I look over at my mom’s sweet smile and tired, but content, eyes and feel the familiar squeeze deep in my chest. It’s good to see the smile on her face—it hasn’t always been there. I watched her fall apart when that bastard sperm donor walked out on us, and I made a promise to myself to never let her go through something like that again.
    She carefully sets each mismatched plate in the drying rack and then begins washing the glasses. The countertops are slightly warped in places from wear and tear, and the linoleum floors crack at the edges, but the kitchen is spotless. The surfaces are free of clutter, and the bubbled countertops shine. We may not live in a mansion, but we do the best we can with what we have.
    “Did you get the mail today, baby? Any bills?”
    “Nope,” I answer quickly. “Just junk mail.”
    I avoid her eyes and focus on drying the dishes with mock enthusiasm. I think I have enough saved from my pro shop paychecks to cover what came through the mail this week. If any more bills show up, I’ll have to hand them over, though. If I could find another way, I would. I feel like I’m constantly searching for another way.
    I’m so fucking tired of running to stand still.
    “Whew! I’m so glad to hear it. We might actually be in the black this month. Ever since Oakbourne sponsored you for the semester, things have been turning around. Mr. Fontaine is a godsend, isn’t he?” She’s downright cheerful as she bumps my shoulder.
    “Yeah, he is. He’s a really good man.” My voice sounds bitter and monotone even to my own ears. I’m telling her the truth—I have the utmost respect for Mr. Fontaine. Every time I think of the check he wrote me, it reminds me of what I can’t have. That check took away any chance of having what I so desperately want. I won’t disrespect him that way.
    He could have sponsored anyone. Hell, there are a lot of my teammates who are consistently beating my numbers and were safer bets for Mr. Fontaine. But when he handed me the check, he told me skill isn’t the only determining factor in his decision. He takes into account grades, work ethic, and need, in addition to talent. Need.
    I know it’s a handout, but I’m not in the position to refuse it.
    Mr. Fontaine asked me to keep quiet about the sponsorship. Evidently, he always chooses a player to groom and finance while in college, but it’s always a private arrangement.
    So I keep quiet. And his