Connecting to the beat.
The performer in me instantly comes to life commanding that I ball my free fist and hit my chest like I envision the warrior species we’re imitating would upon hearing the tune.
J.T. immediately follows suit.
Does his best huffing impression.
Oscillates eye contact and watching my feet that are thoughtlessly stomping to the song.
We follow along with the music with me taking the lead; after all, I’m not the one who needs the words presented to me.
I know this song – this whole fucking album – by heart.
It got me and Jer through some of our roughest days.
Played while he lifted.
Did wind sprints.
Pushed himself running ‘til he was sick.
I stretched.
Tumbled.
Trained and strained and broke bones to the beats.
The band is one that’s sacred to us, so singing it is an easy choice, yetsharing itwith the man I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen for is an even easier one.
In sync, our mouths get closer to the microphone and croon at the famous chorus, fists lifted and eyes closed. Hearing the crowd sing along inspires us both to sink deeper into character.
The experience.
Our once in a lifetime memory.
For the remainder of the session, we stomp around the stage, never breaking the Klingon mentality by adding appropriate grunts and additional marches.
At the end of our stretch, we’re given a warm reception, including unmistakable hollers from a voice I’d know anywhere.
One I’ve been trained to recognize everywhere.
Upon fleeing the stage in the direction we came, we wrap our arms around one another for a hug like no other. Being tangled in his arms instantly instills something I wanna feel again and again and again. Something I longed for post performances in the past but never had.
Which is something I wanna confess to him right now.
“That was probably the craziest shit I’ve ever done,” laughs my duet partner as he pulls back.
“Round of shots says your bestie taped it for blackmail.”
Horror immediately cuts through his face pushing him to fumble around his pockets for his phone to verify.
His checking reminds me to do the same during our stroll back to our table; however, the voicemail number abruptly stops me in my tracks.
Has me rushing to listen to the news that simultaneously fills my stomach with elation and dread alike.
“What is it?” J.T. gingerly asks. “Who called?”
“The Highland Hellcats,” I quietly inform, stare locking onto his, voicemail continuing to play, tearing my world in two. “They want me to come in for a second audition tomorrow meaning I have to be on the first flight out of here in the morning.”
