The thought ofteengirls didn’t seem to bother Mike, who continued to obsess over the ad campaign. Jett briefly thought his friend had maybe jacked off to them too, with how much time he spent on the topic, but he wasn’t about to say that.
After Mike made several comments about being hungry, Jett went to the bar to order another cocktail and put in an order for appetizers. He took a moment to breathe, watching the bartender make his cocktail, garnishing it with a cherry and sliding it over to him.
He returned before Mike made a fuss, grinning at the eager expressions at the table awaiting news about chicken wings.
“I ordered food—” Jett started to say, but Mike scoffed at his daiquiri and talked over him.
“Why’d you get that faggy drink? What’s wrong with beer?”
Jett clenched his jaw, his nerves rattling in his stomach, clawing to get out. He tamped it down and took the vacant seat across from Mike, not the one next to him. He met Mike’s glazed-eyed, alcohol-soaked face and said, “How is a drinkfaggy?”
“Dude.” Mike pointed a finger at the offending drink. “It’s pink.”
Jett made a show of looking at the drink, as if just noticing it. “This? It’s like, crimson at best. I want to know what makes itfaggybecause if you’re saying it’s homosexual, how does a daquiri have sex with other daquiris?”
Jett was on a roll now, and his irritation with Mike’s behaviour only helped fuel his ramble.
“Are they only supposed to have sex with hard liquor? Or because they don’t have sex, does that mean they’re asexual? Or is this whole conversation ridiculous because the daquiri is an inanimate object, and not something that experiences sexual desire?”
There was a silence hanging over the table for a minute before it was interrupted by the waitresses bringing two large trays filled with food. The guys cheered, and Mike—red faced—turned away to focus on fighting Carmichael over the honey garlic wings, seemingly forgetting about Jett’s outburst.
The man next to Jett, Gates maybe, elbowed him and leaned his head down. “That was awesome. You shut him uphard. Never seen anyone but Townsend do that to him before.”
“Where is Townsend?” Jett asked. “I know it’s summer and not everyone is here, but I saw him earlier at the rink.”
Gates shrugged. “He doesn’t hang out with us, and I think it’s because he and Cap clash too much. Townsend has natural talent, and he lives and breathes hockey. Cap has to work for it, and he’s—” he broke off and shrugged, his posture sour with awkwardness.
“What?” Jett prodded him.
Gates hesitated before saying, “You have to be realistic in sports. I love hockey and know I’m good, but I’m not NHL material. I’ll play my best and enjoy my career before I become a physiotherapist and work in sports medicine. But I’m aware of my limits.”
Jett heard his silentand Mike isn’twithout the man needing to say the words.
It was late when Jett paid his bar tab and pushed Mike and the others into a cab that would take them back to their rental house. He’d stopped drinking hours ago, knowing how to pace himself after spending too many nights drinking with the Sunburst players. All the afterparties of winning games, or losing and needing to blow off steam, taught him how not to end up sloppy and hung over the next day.
And drunk people were annoying.
If Mike told one more goddamn high school hockey team story…
Jett hadn’t even been there half of high school because he’d been playing in the Junior A’s.
Completely sober by this point, he went back into the bar and made sure the servers received big tips for handling their drunken asses all night. The tab alone had earned them that.
He got in his rental car and took the highway home instead of driving through New Minas. He enjoyed the cold air on his face and the darkness of the quiet highway. The peace of it helped settle his whirling mind, but it still wasn’t enough to get that damn broken look on Killinger’s face to go away.
He arrived at his dad’s house shortly after 2:00 AM and stripped down when he got to his old room and crawled into bed. His thoughts drifted to their upcoming pick-up games and whether or not Harrison Killinger would take his bait.
Harrison
“Jett seems kind of bummed out lately.”
Harrison scoffed and stretched on the lounge chair, letting out a satisfied groan. His leg was feeling good today, and the sun was shining brightly. He planned to have a relaxing day and not think about a certain blond-haired NHL player trying desperately to get under his skin.
“You two are on a first-name basis or something?”
Arlo shrugged, not bothering to open his eyes. He was lying boneless on the lounger adjacent to Harrison, looking peaceful while trying to stir up trouble. They were hanging out on the dock after eating another apology dinner from Arlo, who was still on Harrison’s shit-list. The sun, partially hidden behind tree cover, made for excellent shade as they relaxed on the water.
“I’ve been hanging out with him for three days, so I eventually had to get over the awkwardfollowing me hereshit. But I swear, he seems like a nice guy.”
