“We can always count on you, Mick,” I say, dropping a hundred on the bar. “For the other night when we didn’t show up.”
Mick lifts his chin, “Rough games lately.”
“Everyone wants to see what you look like when you fall from the top.” I hold up my shot. “To disappointing the haters.”
Aleks tapes my glass, and we shoot them back, and Mick slides our pints of Paulaner to us.
Aleks glances at the beer and raises it up. “To German and Russian diplomacy.”
“Exactly.” Mick chuckles, moving down the bar to grab another order.
We take the first pull of beer right as the door behind us swings open again.
Stone, Smith, Giulietti, Koa, Dash, Hank, and Deacon, but the rest of the team.
“Look at these two,” Stone calls out, “Already started without us.”
“Tradition,” Aleks replies calmly, and we follow them back to our section.
Before we get there, a woman approaches. Tall. Blonde. Confident. “You were incredible tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Her hand slides lightly onto my arm. “You celebrating?”
“With my team.”
She leans closer. “I could help with that.”
I gently remove her hand. “I met my future wife and am very much in love.”
She blinks and then laughs, “Oh yeah?”
“I’m serious.”
She studies my face for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“I mind.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“Thank you.”
She walks away, and Aleks bursts out laughing as we sit.
Dash sits, “You just rejected your first fan in the middle of Icehouse with the words future wife.”
I shrug, “When you know, you know.”
Koa points his glass toward me. “I respect it.”
Stone lifts his beer and stands, turning toward the fans who have already begun drifting closer to our section.
This is the part they come for.
“Alright,” he says, voice carrying easily over the music. “You all know the tradition.”
A cheer goes up immediately.
