1
SHEPHERD
Please be patient with the bartender…even a toilet can only serve one asshole at a time.
That’s what the sign says that hangs inside our favorite hideaway bar a few blocks from the stadium. There are very few places left where my brothers and I can go for a good cold beer and food that will have us regretting every decision we make for the next twelve hours.
The Alley Tap is one of those places.
The customers who frequent this bar usually know who we are, but they understand why we’re here. Just like them, we want to be left alone so we can enjoy a little down time.
At least, that’s how it used to be.
I shoulder the door open with Killian on my heels and Bishop right behind him, Sebastian lagging a step back like he’s still mentally at work. The bar smells the same, fried food, beer, and wood that’s soaked up decades of bad decisions and more spilled drinks than anyone can count. But it’s comfortable, familiar, and our favorite place to go after a hard day’s work.
We haven’t been here in a while though.
It’s been a long season for me and we’re less than halfway through. Of course, baseball off-season means Killian and Bishop are irritatingly well-rested and enjoying their time off.
Lucky bastards.
“God,” Killian says, stretching his arms overhead and inhaling deeply. “I missed this place.”
“How can you have missed this place?” Bishop asks, gesturing around the room. “There’s nobody here screaming your name.”
Bro’s not wrong. If any of the four of us crave attention, it’s Killian, especially from the female population.
Killian chuckles. “So, I know how to schmooze the ladies from time to time. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
“Dude.” Bishop nudges Killian in his side. “If you’re beautiful, then so am I. And so is Shep.”
“Negative.” Kill shakes his head with a smirk. “The three of us might have come out of mom’s shiny womb looking alike, but there are enough differences now to set us apart.”
Bishop crosses his arms over his chest as I slide into a booth along the far wall. “Name three.”
Killian freezes beside the table and holds up one finger. “My tats for one, bro.” He raises finger number two. “My dick for another…or did you get yourself a Jacob’s ladder since the last time we were in the locker room together?”
I snort in laughter because I know for a fact, Bishop Haynes would never pierce his dick the way Killian has.
“Shall I go on?” Killian teases, much to my amusement.
Bishop slides into the booth next to me so he doesn’t have to sit by Killian. “Fuck you, bro. Let’s drink.”
I grin and tug the hood of my sweatshirt down. Practice wrecked me today. It was one of those days that leaves my brainbuzzing even after my body’s done. I just want a beer and some wings and downtime with my brothers with zero expectations, but a voice near the bar grabs our attention.
“I don’t care how much they get paid,” a woman states loudly from behind the bar as she speaks to the patrons she serves, “professional athletes are just grown men playing tag in expensive pants.” Her voice rings out, sharp and unapologetic, and for a second I wonder what spawned the comment, but the television overhead’s got a football game on. Carolina Sharks versus the Boston Pirates.
Sharks will win in a landslide.
I’d bet my next paycheck on it.
“Did that woman just say something about us wearing expensive pants?” Bishop asks, head tilted in confusion.
I nod, trying to listen in. The woman gestures to the television.
“They’re paid millions to play a stupid game,” she tells them. “For the entertainment of rich people who can afford two-hundred-dollar tickets while everyone else is working three jobs to survive.”
Killian freezes. “Ouch.”
