I’m out with the whole team at a local video arcade-slash-karaoke bar after we clinched our division with tonight’s win, guaranteeing us a spot in the play-offs.
Step one to the World Series is complete.
So we’re singing and drinking and throwing down at the Skee-Ball lanes and darts and any video game we can find. No spouses. No partners. Just us guys, celebrating one step while still being exceedingly aware that we are not there yet.
We still have work to do.
“Coop! Coop, check it out!” Diego bustles to my side, all grins, and shoves a video in my face showing him and Max karaoke-ing together to one of Waverly’s early hits. “He likes me.”
I pause in schooling Frankie in Skee-Ball to fist-bump Diego. “You won him over, D. Told you it’d happen.”
“Phone away, rookie.” Robinson loops around and gets Diego in a headlock. “No cheating.”
“I turned off cellular data!” Diego’s still grinning as he fights the headlock.
I love that kid.
Waverly’s right.
He needs a song written about him.
Jesus.
I miss her.
“Nuh-uh, Romeo,” Francisco says. “Quit making moon-eyes. You can see your girlfriend after we go all the way.”
“Who’s moon-eyeing?” I grin a grin I don’t feel at all. “And who’s winking at the ladies across the bar? Yeah, I saw you too. C’mon. You’re up.”
Luca and Brooks race through behind us.
“You lost!” Luca yells. “Hand it over!”
“Never!” Brooks yells back, clutching the meatball porn hat.
Darren’s crowing over something Emilio’s saying, both of them at the bar having drinks. Max is back on the karaoke stage.
Dude has a voice.
If being the mayor’s husband doesn’t work out for him once Tillie Jean’s running Shipwreck after Max retires, he could go on tour as one of Waverly’s backup singers.
Francisco gives me a light punch in the arm. “Dude. Cooper. You hit two home runs and saved Baby Ash from Spike and totally made that one kid’s day when you signed his shirt.Quit mooning.”
I haven’t seen my girlfriend in two monthsis not the right answer here.
Nor isI’m fucking tired of phone sex and I don’t know if that’ll get me through the play-offs and I’m starting to get afraid she’s tired of it too and she doesn’t want to be with me anymore because I’m a high-maintenance asshole who keeps making the news for old shit that makes her look bad.
“Sorry, Frankie. Past my bedtime.”
It’s the lamest excuse in the history of lame and also in the history of excuses.
He slings an arm around me. “Aww, you miss your boo. Dude, if I was dating someone who made me smile like she makes you smile, I’d miss her too.”
Fuck.
Now I’m getting choked up.
“Elliott! Greene! D! The Coop-meister needs you!”
