My phone buzzes again, and I glance down at the latest message from Sabrina with a grimace that could contort statues.
Sabrina: Are you being lame or are we going to the party at Theta Friday?
I groan and slide the phone to rest on my chest, staring at the ceiling like maybe gravity will help me think. The answer is obvious and terrible: I can’t go.
Exhibition game Saturday morning. I refuse to be a hungover mess at an actualgame,which is literally the one thing that defines my life right now. But she won’t get that. No, instead she’ll interpret my refusal as a personal rejection or as an emotional failing,and I already feel that blowout brewing like bad weather on cue.
“What’s up?” Terry finally asks from the loveseat where he is aggressively shoveling pizza into his mouth.
I roll my head to the side and deliver my best deadpan look, “Sab wants to go to the party on Friday.”
Mack snorts without looking away from the TV, perfectly content to let the universe deal with itself, but Terry actually gives me this sympathetic, captain of the ship look.
“Well… you could go for like an hour,” he suggests with a grimace because he already knows my goddamn answer.
I shake my head and exhale like someone just stuck a balloon needle in my chest. “It’s never one hour.”
Mack doesn’t miss a beat as he lets out a derisive chuckle.
“You could tell her no,” he says, eyes glued to the screen. “What’s she gonna do? Freak out?”
Um,yes.
That’s literally exactly what she is going to do. I take a few seconds to think of a response and I’m about to give in and tell her know when…
The front door opens.
Cue Sam fucking Connelly, strolling in sporting a textbook black eye and a scowl that could curdle milk, but still somehow giving us a half smile that dissolves like cotton candy in a thunderstorm the moment Mack calls out to him.
“Get in here, man.”
And just like that, that half-smile vanishes.
“I’m just gonna go do some homework,” Sam says in this slow, clipped tone.
I shake my head, because yes, that’s exactly the vibe I expect from Sam: defensive, prickly, allergic to responsibility, and absolutely determined to avoid any sort of confrontation.
“NO,” Terry cuts in, his tone full of authority. “We need to talk.”
Sam sighs and shuffles into the room, leaning against the far wall like he’s ready to disappear through it if anyone gets too loud.
“Well, what? Get it over with,” he snaps.
This is peak Sam Connelly energy and I’m so fucking tired of it. I can’t possibly describe how much I dislike the guy but still…this attitude he has been sporting this year is fucking exhausting.
“We need to talk about the fight with Hughie,” Terry says, voice steady and serious with his hands raised in that classic peacekeeper gesture. And before Sam can so much as shift into defense mode or start running his mouth, Terry keeps going in a firm tone, “You can’t be fighting our goalie. And it’s even worse because you’re supposed to be a leader.”
Sam scoffs. His jaw is clenched as he straightens to his full height, like he’s ready to throw down again right here in the living room.
“Is that a joke?” he hisses. “You wanna talk leadership? You’re the one who got us all in trouble before the fucking season even started!”
Terry doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, and I owned it. But I’m not out here throwing punches at my own teammates.”
Sam rolls his eyes, scoffing again, but before he can keep spiraling, Mack jumps in. “Listen, man, we’re worried-”
“You’re worried?” Sam cuts him off, voice sharp and bitter. “You guys are so far up each other’s asses you wouldn’t notice if the house was on fire. Don’t stand there and pretend you give a shit.”
“We do,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm even though he’s seriously pushing it now. He’s being a dick when all we’re trying to do is figure out what the hell’s going on and stop this whole team from imploding.
