We check the surrounding area for any signs of wildlife that could be related to the one that invaded my duffel bag.
“Here, ducky, ducky.” I call out. “Quack, quack.”
Nothing. If the little fluffy baby chick got separated from its family, they aren’t around anymore.
“No sign of a flock of ducks. Is a group of ducks called a flock, by the way?” I wonder as we return to the pool.
“According to Google,” Col says from near the pool where he and Mack have been observing the show from. “It depends onwhat the ducks are doing. Flock works in general, but since your duck is on land, it’s a flock or a waddling.”
I glare at him and Mack. “Thanks. Glad you know how to use Google. Since you got out of the pool, you could have come out and helped me and Nash look for the rest of the waddling or whatever.”
“And miss out on you quacking all over the place?” Mack lifts his phone with a shit-eating grin on his face. “This one is gonna go down in history.”
I swear, if I didn’t love Mack like a little brother, I would throttle him. He can be such a little shit. “Well, the problem remains.” I say, kneeling to look inside the duffle bag. “What are we gonna do with it?”
The duckling has made itself at home and it’s asleep among my dirty clothes. “Oh, hell no. You can’t sleep in my lucky boxers.” I grab one end of the worn fabric, but the deranged tiny creature wakes up and bites me.”
Quack!
“Holy shit!” I favor my hand, checking the finger the thing has nipped at. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I wail.
The next time I attempt to grab the fabric of my underwear, I’m prepared for the attack and take my hand back before I get bitten again.
The duck starts arranging the soft cotton around itself. “Seriously. You’re cute, but those are my lucky pants. You can’t have them.”
“Your lucky pants?” Nash asks.
Colsen is the one who explains. “Don’t even, dude. In his freshman year, Tucker was second string to our starting goalie, Cash Hanbury. One night, early in the season, Cash pulled his groin during warm up and Coach Harrison sent Tucker into the crease for the entire game. He had these unwashed boxers on.We won the game five-zero. Tucker was incredible. He credits those boxers for the W and refuses to wash them.”
Nash’s nose twitches. “Why the fuck did you have unwashed underwear?”
I rub the back of my neck, still glaring at the duckling that’s napping, wrapped in my lucky underpants. “It was an unfortunate series of events. I might have gone to a party hosted by the swim team and gone home with this hot girl. She was a Zeta, a senior. We were up all night having fun, if you know what I mean. Vodka was flowing, and we went through an entire box of condoms. I wasn’t worried because the game was in the afternoon. For some reason, my alarm didn’t work the day after, and I woke up one hour before the game, naked and in someone else’s bed. I couldn’t find my underwear and decided, fuck it and went commando to the locker room. It was better to do that than to risk Coach’s wrath if I were late on game day. When I got there, I was told that Cash was hurt, and I was starting. I hate playing without underwear, so I found this pair in my locker. I had forgotten them there after practice and they hadn’t been washed. Like Col said, I absolutely slayed that night. A shutout in my first ever NCAA game. So I kept the pants in my locker for the next time.”
Nash looks even more disgusted than before. “So you kept wearing that pair of unwashed underwear the entire season?”
“You can bet your ass I did. And we went on an epic winning streak. We didn’t lose one game.”
“Hold on a second.” Nash doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I’m not arguing with good luck rituals; I have my own. But I don’t think those pants are as lucky as you think they are. If my calculations are correct, you’re one year older than me and Col, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. What does that have to do with anything?”
“That was my senior year of high school. I was following the NCAA tournament, of course. I had already committed to playing for Hemlock Beach. That year the Cove Knights went all the way to the Frozen Four finals, but you lost to Yale. So your pants aren’t as lucky as you claim.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you know why we lost to Yale?” I tut at my miscreant teammate.
“No.” Nash gasps. “Don’t tell me.”
“Yup,” I gloat. “I had forgotten my pants in my locker when we packed to go to New Haven for the final game. I tested my theory a few other times over the years. If I don’t have my lucky pants on, we lose.”
The look on Nash’s face begins to change. No hockey player worthy of that name would ever mess with juju. It’s not an exact science, but we all live by it.
“But do they have to be unwashed? I’ve been wondering what the atrocious smell that wafted out of your locker and out of your bag was, and now I know. Four years of sweaty, unwashed boxers you have been wearing during games is consistent with that ungodly smell. It’s worse than ten locker rooms full of unwashed gear. Maybe try to wash them and see what happens.”
It’s my turn to gasp. “No fucking way. Have you not heard anything I just said? What if I wash them and they lose their magic? No can do.”
Mack chuckles. “Well, fuck, it looks like you’re gonna have to fight for them. That duckling seems to love your stinky pants, Tuck.”
My teammate is right. The fluffy little creature is nestled in my boxers and is sleeping peacefully.
