Lawson: Who? Me? Never!
Locke: Keep it up, Lawsy. It’ll just be you, Keller, and that knuckle sandwich tonight.
Lawson: Rory will be there too, so I’m cool with that.
Me: Jesus fuck. Please don’t start with all that lovey-dovey shit. My stomach can’t handle that and tequila shots tonight.
Lawson: Then we’ll hold the shots.
Lawson: And also, that means you’re coming. NO TAKEBACKS!
Lawson: See you all at 10! Don’t be late or I’ll cry.
Hutch: What is with you and crying today?
Lawson: Just don’t be late, Hutchy. Okay? Okay. I love you guys. Bye.
Me: Does anyone else wish Lawson was never traded to the Seattle Serpents?
Hayes: Bro, we’re number two in the Pacific right now. Absolutely not.
Hutch: He’s annoying as hell, but no.
Fox: Do you really want me to answer that?
Locke: He’s a fucking champ on the faceoff dot AND he’s on pace to score 50 goals this year. Think it’s safe to say he’s an asset.
Lawson: OMG I knew you guys loved me. I KNEW IT.
Me: Whoa. Calm down. Nobody ever said that.
Lawson: You didn’t have to. I can FEEL it.
Me: Like you’re going to FEEL my fist in your face later, right?
Lawson: I’m gonna kiss those knuckles, Kells. Right at midnight.
Me: Touch me and die.
Lawson: Then I welcome death.
“Fuck me,” I grumble, tossing my phone onto the cushion next to me as it continues to vibrate with incoming texts, most likely from Lawson. I swear, that guy never knows when to shut up, which would explain the yellow-green bruise I’m rocking after sticking up for him in our win over Vegas last week.
I don’t mind it. I love fighting. It makes me feel like I’m actually useful and not just a body keeping the bench warm.Because let’s face it—I am not a superstar. I’m that guy they send out when they need to get some energy into the team. I’m the one with grit, the guy who sacrifices his body to block shots and get the more skilled players in a better shooting position. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted my role. I love it.
What I don’t love? Filing into a crowded-as-hell bar on New Year’s Eve and throwing back shots of tequila when we’re in the middle of the season. Is it better than staying home and falling asleep before midnight? No, absolutely not, and I refuse to pretend otherwise. But am I going to go anyway? Un-fucking-fortunately.
I wish I could say it’s solely because Lawson will annoy me to death if I don’t, but that’s not true. Lucas Lawson is going to do that no matter what. That’s just who he is, which I’ve come to accept over the last few years we’ve been teammates on the Seattle Serpents, and even more so since he forced me to join his ridiculous “Serpents Singles Club.” The name is comical now, really. It began as a promise for all of us to stay single until we hoisted the Cup, but since that’s all been blown to shit with everyone being in committed relationships, we’re just a bunch of guys who like hanging out together. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud, of course.
Just like I’d never admit the real reason I’m going out to join my teammates is I don’t want to sit on the couch and let the onslaught of horrible memories do a fucking jig in my head all night long. New Year’s Eve is the worst day of the year—hands down, no questions asked. It’s the day everything changed. The dayIchanged. The daywechanged.
I fucking hate today.
I grab the controller I abandoned when my phone started blowing up the first time and focus my mind on taking out demons with my chainsaw shield. While it’s not the best use of my time, it’s better than letting the memories of what once wasseep into my head. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let them plant themselves, and I definitely can’t water them with my attention. It only leads to more of the same shit I’ve been living with for the last three years—heartbreak.
Eventually, my phone calms down, and so does my mind. For the next two hours, I think of nothing but taking out this demon king and being the scariest thing in all of hell. It’s not until Percy yells at me from across my apartment that I realize how long has passed.
“What’s up, little man?” I ask as the three-legged cat jumps onto the couch, his tail smacking me right in the face. If it weren’t for the two asymmetrical patches of black around his eyes, he would be all-white.
