Read Online The Winner's Game by Kevin Alan Milne - Free Book Online Page A

here enough times to know the layout of the place. The master and one guest room are on the main floor, with a much smaller third bedroom upstairs near the door to the attic. The master is obviously the biggest of the three, but the other two rooms have the best views of the beach.
    â€œThen I call upstairs!” I yell a split second later.
    As the obvious loser in the bedroom race, Cade throws his hands up in frustration. “Where am I sleeping, then? On the floor.”
    â€œNo,” Mom reassures him, “you’ll have a bed.” She looks at Dad, then adds, “Most nights, anyway. The master bedroom still has all of Grandma’s stuff in it, so we want to leave that alone for the time being. Which means your father and I will be in the other downstairs bedroom. There are two twin beds in there, so when your father is away during the week, you can share that room with me. On weekends, you get the couch. But Ann and Bree, you’ll both be upstairs on the bunk bed.”
    â€œI have to share ?” Ann blurts out.
    â€œWith her ?” I ask. “Totes lame.”
    â€œTotes fine ,” Mom corrects. “You’ll survive, ladies. You’re sisters, for Pete’s sake. There’s nothing wrong with sharing.”
    Dad is already walking toward the house. “C’mon, gang,” he calls, “let’s get settled. Cade, you carry Ann’s suitcase, please.”
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œJust do it, son. Be a pal.”
    The house looks big from the outside, but I’m always surprised how small it feels on the inside.
    â€œWhere the heck am I supposed to play?” asks Cade as we walk through the front door.
    Dad wraps an arm around him and whispers, “Please don’t be negative. Remember, we’re really here for Ann. And your great-grandma. You may have to play outside, but that’s what the beach is for, right?”
    Cade nods, then runs over to look at the beach through the rear window.
    I glance at Ann, who is investigating a halibut mounted like a picture on the wall. It never ceases to amaze me how fishy this place is. After decades of living here, Grandma—and Grandpa, too, when he was alive—collected more sea-junk than anyone should be allowed. Above the halibut-art, hanging by its mouth on an oversized hook, is a stuffed puffer fish, blown up to its fullest and wired with a bulb to make a creepy overhead lamp. It fits right in, though, because every room in the place is decked out in a gag-worthy assortment of coastal crap—seagull-print wallpaper in the living room, mini-lighthouses in the kitchen, seashells in both bathrooms, fishing nets in the master bedroom, anchors in the guest room, and starfish in the bunk-bed room upstairs. The half bath upstairs even has a hand-tooled sign on the door that reads, FOR BUOYS AND GULLS . High-traffic areas are floored with sand-colored tiles, while the living room, bedrooms, and stairs are covered by a thick, sea-blue shag carpet.
    â€œIt’s perfect,” declares Mom after we’ve all taken a quick tour to reacquaint ourselves with the place.
    Perfect? More like a Little Mermaid horror film. “It smells salty,” I point out.
    â€œI like the smell,” Cade says. “It covers up your perfume.”
    â€œI like it too,” remarks Ann before I can fire back at Cade. “It’s like we’re breathing the ocean with every breath. Mom’s right, it’s perfect for the summer.” She pauses and looks directly at me. “Except for sharing a room.”
    â€œBelieve me,” I sigh, “the feeling is mutual.”
    Dad is standing in the kitchen, examining the floor in every direction. Now that he technically owns the place, he has a more critical eye than in past visits. “I feel a little… off . Does anyone else feel seasick?”
    â€œI do,” I tell him, raising my hand. “I think it’s the carpet.”
    We all