Okay, then. I would.
Changing on the fly: the substitution of players between the ice and the bench while the clock is running.
—Graham
We were sitting at Capri’s with the first pitchers of the season in front of us. Most of the team was crammed into four or five of the little old booths. And the first pizza order of the year had gone in about half an hour ago.
This was my favorite spot in the world, and with all my favorite people. I should have been relaxed.
I wasn’t. Not even a little.
My first glass of beer lasted about twenty seconds. Bella noticed, and promptly refilled it.
“You know, you’re a natural at this manager thing,” I said, looping my arm over her shoulders. “I can see that now.”
“Of course I am,” she said, lifting her own glass. “What do you have going on for the weekend?”
It was still that glorious early part of the semester, when nobody had any studying to do yet. “The usual. Tonight I really need to get wasted. And laid.”
“For you, it should really just be all one word. Because that’s how you roll.” She tipped her head toward mine, her eyes smiling. “You’re going to get… laisted. Because that sounds better than waid.”
“If you say so.” I pulled her closer to me, and tried to relax. But I felt as if a concrete block had been parked on my chest.
More beer to the rescue. I tipped my glass back and drank deep.
“We need a new win song for this year,” Hartley was saying. “What do you got?”
“‘After Midnight,’” I said quickly, just to get a rise out of Bella.
“No fuckingway,” she said immediately. “Clapton may be a living legend, but the man did not write win songs. I think we should use ‘What the Hell.’” Bella wiggled her hips to try to get a little more room on the bench. The booth was a tight fit. But that was okay. Because we were tight, Bella and I. It was fair to say that she was my best friend.
“That’s a good song,” Hartley said, because he was like that — always so fucking diplomatic. “But I’m thinking the win song should probably be by an artist who has a dick.”
Bella snorted. “You know how much I enjoy dicks, Captain. But ‘What the Hell’ is a great song. Even if it is by a girl.”
“‘Can’t Hold Us,’” somebody threw in.
“We’ve worn out Macklemore,” Bella argued. “But I’ll take it under advisement.”
“What, like you’re picking?” Hartley asked, refilling her beer.
“I have keys to the AV system in the locker room. I’m really just pretending to consider your suggestions here.”
Like I said before, the power was going to her head.
“How about ‘“Timber?’” Hartley nudged Bella. “Pitbull and Kesha. Something for everyone.”
“Not bad, Captain. Not bad.”
The loudspeaker cracked. “Forty-two! Forty-two, your pies are ready.”
“That’s us!” Bella cheered. She grabbed the ticket off the table and wiggled away from me. I gave her ass a pinch as she went. “Don’t just fondle me, chump,” she said, standing beside the table with a hand on her hip. “Do I look like I could carry two pies by myself?”
“You do, actually,” I said, sliding out to follow her. “But I’ll help. Save our seats,” I called over my shoulder. We wove through the crowd toward the ratty old counter in back. The Capri brothers, in their trademark sweat-stained white T-shirts, were slamming pizza trays down and collecting tickets.
Bella flashed her killer smile, and one of them found our order right away. “Ooh!” she said, grabbing one of the pies, her chin lifting toward the door. “Here comes the tasty new guy. Rikker.”
My stomach dropped right into my shoes. Because I thought I’d have at least tonight to get used to the idea that the worst moments of my life had come back to haunt me. But I wasn’t even going to get that. He was striding toward us, wearing a faded Vermont sweatshirt and shorts that showed off his muscular…
