Snow Balls (Ball Games #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

guffawing at it for about ten minutes, I realise that Lindsay hasn't said a word. I turn around and she's asleep. Her head on my pillow, she's zonked out.
    While she’s napping, I head downstairs to grab one of Dad's beers. I walk into the kitchen to find my mother pressed up against the kitchen island, my father behind her. Their lower halves are thankfully obscured by the pots and pans hanging from the island on my side.
    'Seriously.' I roll my eyes. 'I have my door open, dudes. Not cool. So not cool.'
    I get a beer from the fridge, then think of my Dad's current predicament and get two.
    'I'll be in my room suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with the door firmly closed. Lindsay's fallen asleep. I'll wake her up in thirty minutes if she hasn't stirred by then.'
    I walk out and back to my room. How fucking gross is that? In the kitchen, for God’s sake. If oldies have to do it at all, it should be behind closed doors. Walking back to my room I look at Lindsey sprawled out. I have a real female on my bed and I'm too grossed out over the visual currently burned in my brain to even perve over her.
    'Lindsay. Lindsay.'
    'Errrrwwwhaaatt, eeehhhh, whheerramI?' Lindsay looks up at me with a frown on her face. Then she sits up quickly.
    'Why am I in your bedroom?’ She puts a hand up. ‘Oh. Oh. It's okay. I remember.'
    She lies back down and looks at me with one open eye.
    'Sorry 'bout that. I didn't sleep well last night.'
    'You missed seeing Jack.'
    'No, I really didn't. I saw about three minutes and that's when I laid back and nodded off. Is that what you spend your time doing? Watching other people playing games?'
    'Yeah, he's so funny.'
    'So you play games and you watch people playing games?'
    'Yeah.'
    'Oh-kay. How many nights a week do you actually leave the house?'
    'Friday night is beer and pool night with my mates. Sometimes I do the same Saturday night, but I don’t have a lot of spare cash, so I’m in a lot.’
    'So the rest of the time you're on your own playing games?'
    'Pretty much.'
    'Have you got a piece of paper and a pen?'
    'Why?'
    She makes a shooing motion with her hand. 'Just get me some paper and a pen.'
    I scramble around finding a felt-tip and the back of a flyer.
    'Will that do?'
    'Yup.'
    She tears the flyer in half and scribbles something on both. She passes me the first piece of paper.
    GET A FUCKING LIFE YOU SAD BASTARD is scrawled across it.
    'Lindsay. That's rude. I'm not sure I want the other piece of paper.'
    'Tough.' She hands me the other one.
    IOU. One night out to help you not be such a sad bastard. Expires in three months, like your current tenancy.
    'Funny, aren't you?'
    'Better than tragic. Right.' She moves. 'Thanks for the pizza, eventually.'
    I bristle and she winks.
    'Joking. Was alright for a first attempt. Just a shame the fire brigade didn't have to come out. I quite like a man in uniform.'
    As she heads for the bedroom door, I jump in front of her, stick my head out and shout, 'Lindsay's going now.'
    I hear movement from downstairs.
    Lindsay pushes me out of her way. 'Personal space. You heard of it? Flipping deafened me, weirdo.'
    'They'll want to say goodbye.'
    'I could have popped my head round the door.'
    Yeah but you might have seen something else popping its head out.
    'Night, Mr and Mrs Turner. Thanks for letting me come and visit.'
    My parents emerge. My mother's hair looks mussed.
    'It was lovely to see you again, Lindsay,' says my mum. 'You see, I didn't realise Tyler knew any real people. I thought they were all virtual.'
    I roll my eyes and open the door.
    'How did you get here, Lindsay?' asks my mum.
    'The Number sixty-nine bus.'
    I snort.
    'For goodness sake Tyler. That's been the main Rotherham bus number for all these years and you're still sniggering like you're twelve? Walk Lindsay to the bus stop. It's cold and dark. I can't believe you were letting her go home on her own.'
    'I'm fine, really, Mrs Turner.'
    ‘Call me Dora, Lindsay. I’m not actually