MILES
“Chug! Chug! Chug!” the people in the room chant as cold beer passes through my mouth so fast I don’t even taste it. My head feels heavy, and I cling to the metal sides of the keg. Whoever’s holding my ankles is unsteady, and I feel my grip start to slip.
One minute I’m upside down, rapidly consuming weak beer, and the next I’m on the ground, holding my throbbing face.
The room spins, and after a second, I find the culprit. “What the hell, Logan!” I bark.
“I’m sorry, man. Becky needed to tell me something.” A tan, bikini-clad woman with dark hair stands beside Logan, her hands on his chest.
“You fucking dropped me. I think I busted my face,” I grumble.
Finn chuckles. “You totally did. And you only made it like six seconds. You’re not even in contention for the record.”
“I hate you all,” I groan as I work to my feet. The room wobbles, and I steady myself, arms outstretched.
“Next!” Logan shouts.
“Don’t trust him!” I yell out to no one in particular. “He’s a dropper.”
I stumble away and try to remember where the kitchen is. It’s probably for the best that Logan dropped me. I’m normally a pro at keg stands. Even in my tipsy state, I realize I probably should be cut off—another twenty seconds of chugging would not have had a happy ending.
“Oh no! What happened, Miles?” Miranda’s concerned face appears, and she cups my cheek. “Your cheek is purple.”
I lean my hip against the kitchen island for balance. “Stupid Logan.”
“He hit you?” Beckett asks from the other side of the island.
“No—he dropped me, and my face hit the keg.”
“I’m missing the keg-stand competition?” Beckett’s voice rises an octave as he struts around the island and away from the kitchen.
“Hey,” Ari calls after him, “didn’t you tell Ma you’d be up in a couple of minutes a few hours ago?”
Beckett spins to face Ari, his daughter-in-law, who is engaged to marry our center, Bash.
“The relationships on this team are weird, huh?” I say to Miranda.
“What?” Her brows furrow.
I don’t reply. The thoughts in my head are too muddled to explain in my current state. But seriously…I’ve never seen a hockey team so relationship-focused. When I was scouting teams in college, something about the Crane organization drew me in. The fact that it is Michigan-based and close to home was a definite draw, but there was more to it than that. The team's energy and the rapport between the guys were unique—something I wanted to be part of. At the time, none of the teammates were married, and now, just a couple of short years later, over half of them are either married or on their way to thealtar. Additionally, it seems as if most of the love matches are intertwined in some way. It’s not incestuous, per se, …just odd.
Then again, I’m lusting after one of my best friend’s fiancé’s best friends, so who am I to judge? Wait. No. I take that back. Miranda is just a close friend. There’s no lusting involved. Fine—but only a tiny bit. Miranda sits safely in my friend zone just as I sit in hers. The alcohol has me feeling warm and fuzzy feelings that don’t really exist.Or maybe it is the oysters?
Beckett plasters a huge grin on his face. “Oh, don’t you worry, Ari. Nolan is sleeping through the night. They don’t even know I’m not there. And tomorrow I’ll be as chipper as a bird.”
“How is that?” Ari asks, crossing her arms.
“Loads and loads of coffee,” Beckett calls over his shoulder as he hurries away.
Miranda pulls my attention back. “What is going on in your head? You look deep in thought. What relationships are weird?”
“Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Want a cookie?” Bash holds out a cookie from the annual cookie bake-off. Another thing about the Crane hockey team is that not only do they love their ridiculous nicknames, but they also love their traditions. Out of sheer boredom, someone suggested a cookie-baking competition a couple of years ago during bye week in Barbados, and now it’s something we will forever have during bye week. As the story goes, Bash even earned his nickname, Cookie, on that Barbados trip after securing the win. He lost to Ari, who is now his fiancée, last year in Texas, but reclaimed his title this year with his brown-butter chocolate-chip recipe.
His cookies are delicious. I voted for them, but the sight of the rich, sugary treat makes my stomach sour.
I shake my head adamantly and immediately regret it. “Ow,” I mutter, pressing my palms to my temples.
