"Better than playing 'who can get alcohol poisoning first.'" He heads for the door, then pauses. "You good, Tuck? For real?"
I force a smile. "Never better. Go play with poop.”
After he leaves, I stare at my phone, debating. The last thing Ineed is more alcohol, but the alternative is sitting here alone with my thoughts, which feels even less appealing.
I'm in. But someone else has to pedal. My thighs are wrecked.
The Pittsburgh Party Pedaler is precisely what it sounds like—a floating tiki bar powered by bicycle pedals, drifting down the Allegheny River on a perfect June afternoon. Howie, a self-appointed captain, wears a plastic pirate hat as he steers us around a small motorboat.
"Hard to starboard!" he shouts, clearly having no idea what the terms mean.
"That's right, dumbass," Spinner corrects from his pedaling station, already three beers in. "We're going left."
"Whatever. Just go faster. We’re professional fucking athletes.” Howie adjusts his sunglasses, scanning the shoreline for women to heckle. So far, we've received three middle fingers and one phone number written on a napkin, thrown from another boat.
I'm stationed between Rookie and Mayhem, pedaling halfheartedly while nursing my second beer. The hangover has mellowed into a dull throb, but I'm not eager to replace it with a fresh one.
"T-Stag, you're slacking," Mayhem says, his massive quads powering his cranks with twice the effort of anyone else. Despite his intimidating appearance—six-foot-five with tattoos crawling up his neck—Mayhem is the most thoughtful guy on the team. He reads philosophy books on road trips and sends his mother flowers every Sunday.
"Just pacing myself," I reply, taking another sip of beer that's growing warm in the afternoon sun.
"Since when?" Rookie laughs. "You're usually halfway to blackout by now."
"Maybe I'm evolving."
Spinner snorts. "Yeah, and I'm joining a monastery."
"You have been pretty quiet," Howie observes, leaning closer. "Still bummed about missing Monaco? Because I've got to say, those yacht models were something else."
I shake my head. "Nah, just tired. Didn't sleep great."
The conversation shifts to Rookie's alleged conquest from the flight home, a tale that grows more implausible with each adjustment. I let my mind wander as we drift past Point State Park, where the rivers converge at the heart of downtown Pittsburgh.
That's when I see her.
Sloane is jogging along the riverside trail, her honey-colored curls pulled back in a pouf, her athletic figure showcased in running shorts and a fitted tank top. She's even more beautiful in daylight, her skin glowing with exertion.
Before I can think, I'm on my feet, nearly capsizing our floating bar.
"Sloane!" I call out, waving my arms like an idiot. "Hey! Sloane!"
She turns her head in our direction, shading her eyes against the sun. For a moment, I think she sees me—her pace falters slightly. Then she adjusts her earbuds and continues running, disappearing around a bend in the trail.
"Did she just ignore you?" Howie asks, incredulous.
I sink back onto my seat, deflated. "Guess so."
"Who the hell is Sloane?" Spinner demands.
"No one," I mutter, but it's too late.
"Holy shit," Rookie crows. "Did T-Stag just get rejected? In public?"
"She probably couldn't hear me," I say, but the excuse sounds weak even to me. I don’t know what I was thinking anyway, calling our goalie’s ex-wife, surrounded by Fury players. That’s low even for me.
"The great Tucker Stag, shot down like a duck in hunting season." Howie clutches his chest dramatically. "I never thought I'd see the day."
"Maybe you're losing your touch," Spinner suggests. "When's the last time you even hooked up with someone?"
