Bergeron flips him off, but presses on. “But I said it’s a natural advantage. Like being born with good vision or quick hands. You can’t penalize a man for his God-given tal—”
“Tentacles,” Jones supplies, cutting him off. “His God-given tentacles.”
Jesus Christ. How is this my life?
“So, just to be clear,”—my gaze swings from Bergeron to Jones—“you’re arguing over whether a fake-ass octopus has a competitive advantage in a non-existent competition between a bunch of furries? Have I got that right?”
“Yes,” they say in unison.
Luke cackles, the asshole. “So, what’s the verdict?”
I take a long pull on my beer and consider. “I’d say it’s time for the new team captain to step up.”
Hayes, who’s sitting in the outer ring of the group, groans. “I’m too sober for this shit. Who’s got next round?”
“Drinks are on me.” I stand and clap him on the shoulder. “It’s the least I can do. I wouldn’t have a championship ring if it weren’t for the guys on this team.”
Besides, my first NHL paycheck is due to hit at the end of the month. I can afford to be generous.
“Does that mean you’ll hook us up with tickets next year?” Jones asks, a note of hope in his voice.
The kid is 90 percent audacity, but it’s impossible to fight the grin spreading over my face. “No matter where I’m playing, there will always be tickets for former Wildcats.”
“My man!” he howls, extending his fist. “You don’t know jack about fried dough, but you’re good people.”
“Right back at you.” I bump his knuckles. “I appreciate you all making me look good out there.”
For the past four years, this team has been my family, and though the faces have changed, the camaraderie has not. I wouldn’t be half the player I am—hell, half the man I am—if it weren’t for these guys. My chest tightens at the realization that this is the last time we’ll all be together.
“Come on.” Luke jerks his chin toward the bar. “I’ll help you carry the drinks.”
The bartender pulls out a hot pink megaphone as we approach. Luke shoots me a WTF look, but I’ve got nothing, so I just shrug.
“Buenas tardes, señoras y señores!” the bartender calls out. “How is everyone doing today? Are you having fun?” He pauses, and a round of cheers goes up from the crowd. “If you’ve stayed with us before, then you know what’s coming, but if this is your first time, let me be the first to welcome you to Friday afternoon Beach Olympics!”
There’s a round of applause and a few whistles from the crowd as I try to processBeach Olympics.
“The Beach Olympics here at the Grand Oasis are a longstanding tradition, but the rules are simple. Teams of two or more may sign up to compete in a series of three challenges,which will be explained and officiated by the lovely Camila,” he says, gesturing to a curvy brunette in a white polo shirt.
“What do we get if we win?” Bergeron yells enthusiastically.
“Eh, I’m glad you asked, mi amigo. Not only does the winner get bragging rights for the duration of their stay here at the Grand Oasis, but each member of the team will receive a golden medal to commemorate the victory!”
“Count me in, mon capitaine!” Bergeron jumps to his feet and studies the rest of the team. “Who’s with us?”
I groan inwardly. I have no interest in Beach Olympics, but it’s not like I can leave my teammate hanging.
“Should we tell him it’s not a real medal?” Luke stage-whispers, cupping his hand to his mouth.
“It wouldn’t make a difference.” I fish my credit card out of my pocket and hand it to him. “Do you mind ordering? I have a feeling I’m going to need a beer when this is over.”
“On it.” Luke slides onto an empty barstool looking like the cat who ate the damn canary. “Try not to have too much fun, mon capitaine. And a word of advice? Watch out for projectile vomit. Bergeron looks like he could blow at any minute.”
3
AVA
“Is it me,or is this a really terrible idea?” I whisper as Camila lines us up in the sand for Beach Olympics. “I’m pretty sure alcohol and sports are like milk and pickles. And real talk, I don’t have insurance, so if I break my ankle, I’m screwed.”
