If management thinks I’m getting up on a stage and doing anything remotely close to performing, they’ve got another thing coming.
Why do they think we need team-building exercises to begin with?
I see these assholes on a daily basis—there is no escaping them. Between practice, the locker room, conditioning, and the occasional party, I’d say we’re pretty goddamn bonded,fuck you very much.
Apparently, some genius in the business office decided we needed a “retreat.”
I twiddle around with my phone a bit longer, the service bars suddenly disappearing, and swing my gaze to the lake.
It glistens under the setting afternoon sun, calm and still, like a scene straight out of one of those cheesy brochures they use to convince people this kind of place is relaxing.
Hefting myself up, I sigh. “Maybe if I go out to the end of my pier, I’ll get my signal back.”
I’ve sat around long enough.
Clutching my phone in my hand like a lifeline, I head out the back door, trudging down the small path to the dock. The boards creak under my feet as I walk, the lake lapping softly against the posts, all peaceful and serene—exactly the opposite of how I feel right now.
When I reach the end, I hold my phone up, as if added elevation were going to magically bring those bars back.
It does not.
I check again, praying for at least one measly bar, but nope—nada. As I’m about to give up and accept my fate, I glance around and notice some familiar faces on the piers nearby.
A few of my buddies are scattered along the shoreline, talking so loudly I can hear them planning something that will surely end with someone in the water—or covered in mud.
It’s like they’re already in some survival mode.
“Hey, nut sack, you made it!” Two docks over, Quinton Wallace throws his middle finger up in greeting, grinning like the asshole he is. “Was hoping you wouldn’t!”
“Fuck off.” My voice echoes across the lake, bouncing back at me with perfect comedic timing.
Fuck off . . . off . . . off . . .
I can hear Quinton laughing and see his head thrown back as if my echo is the funniest thing he’s heard all day. His laugh roars back at us, too, ricocheting from tree to tree, the water an acoustic portal.
“Careful, dude—the lake is listening!” I shout.
“The lake is the least of my problems.” Quinton was busted for possession of marijuana before his rookie year began. I’m no saint, but I know not to do shit like that.
I’m about to turn back to my cottage when I hear footsteps on another pier. One of my teammates—Elijah—is strolling barefoot, his always-present grin on his face because nothing bothers this dickhead.
He stops at the edge of his pier, clutching a coffee mug in his hand as if it weren’t too late in the day for caffeine. If I was drinking coffee right now, I would be wide awake until two in the morning.
“Sup, bro.” He yawns.
I point in the direction of his mug. “It’s almost dinnertime. You trying to pull an all-nighter?”
He shrugs, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “Helps me wind down.”
Wind down?Coffee?
I resist the urge to laugh.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I gesture toward the lake. Mostly because I have no idea what else to say. I suck at conversation.
Elijah looks out over the water, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. Makes you appreciate the little things, you know?”
He sounds so profound. Like Yoda.
