"The bar. Where we go to pretend the coaches aren't watching our caloric intake." He grinned wide, showing off a busted lip that would double in size within the hour. "First round’s on you, new guy. Don't worry, we'll find a glass to drop your dentures into when we get there."
I stood up, the ache in my lower back reminding me exactly how long I'd been doing this. "Lead the way. I’d hate to get lost on my way to a well-timed soak for my fake teeth."
The nylon straps on my bag zipped through the sudden quiet of the room as I swung it over my shoulder. Something had changed in an instant, but I wasn’t sure what. Most of the guys were already half-dressed, the air heavy with the scent of tape, sweat, and victory.
"The Faucet?" Tucker didn't look up from his phone, his voice carrying over the sound of the showers. The defender with a reach that spanned two zip codes, and a mouth that usually moved faster than his feet. "Didn't know we were hosting senior members tonight."
Cash and Hunter chuckled, the sound low and rhythmic. Cash leaned back against his locker, tossing a roll of stick tapebetween his hands. "Seriously. If we show up with Landry, every girl in there is gonna think we’re out with our uncle. It kills the curve, man. Hard to look like a dynasty when you’ve got a guy in the group who remembers the invention of the wheel."
It was the kind of jab that came wrapped in a grin, the "just kidding" defense already loaded in the chamber. But the edge was there. I was a variable they hadn't accounted for, a break in the momentum of a team that had spent the past few years feeling invincible.
"I've got tons of film to watch at home anyway," I said, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. My voice was flat, devoid of the irritation tightening my jaw. "Enjoy the drinks."
"Sit down, Michael." Grayson didn't raise his voice. He just stood in the center of the room, his presence enough to pull the air out of the lame jokes. He looked at Tucker and Cash, his eyes unblinking. "Post-game is open to the roster. All of it. You got a problem with that, my door is open. Otherwise, keep it to yourself."
The tape in Cash’s hands stopped moving. The tension morphed, thickening until it felt like a physical weight on my shoulders.
"The curve's fine," Aiden chimed in from the end of the bench. He’d spent most of last season watching from the press box before clawing his way onto the second line, and the memory of the cold shoulder seemed fresh in his eyes. He stood up, grabbing his hoodie. "Actually, having Landry there might help. Some of us could use a little maturity by association. Maybe then you’ll stop getting ghosted by every waitress in the city."
Tucker rolled his eyes, but didn't push back. The hierarchy was clear, and I was currently the uncomfortable beneficiary of it.
Aiden looked over at me, ignoring the lingering stares from the others. "The Faucet is fine, Michael. Better than a quiet apartment and a microwave dinner. Come on. I'll buy that first round Landon was talking about."
I hesitated, my hand resting on my bag. I didn't need a babysitter, and I certainly didn't need a bodyguard. But the alternative was staring at the four walls of a rental that still felt like a crappy hotel.
"One drink," I said, finally pulling the bag onto my shoulder. "I’m a nightmare when I miss my bedtime."
*
The double doors of The Leaky Faucet swung open to a wall of sound that had nothing to do with the jukebox. It was a roar of recognition. The regulars didn't just cheer us; they surged forward, a sea of blue jerseys and weathered ball caps. This was their church, and the apostles had just arrived.
"Landry, get in here!" Shawn shouted over the noise, already swallowed by a group of fans near the pool tables.
I stayed at the back of the pack, the collar of my jacket turned up. In Seattle, we had fans, but they were polite. In Canada, they were clinical. Here, it was a fever. People reached out to clap shoulders, their faces flushed with the reflected glow of a three-peat in the making. I moved through the press of bodies like a ghost, feeling the weight of the "fresh meat" label more than ever. I hadn't earned this noise.
A flash of movement behind the long mahogany bar caught my eye. A woman with dark, wavy hair moved with lethal efficiency, pulling taps and snapping caps without looking down. She didn't seem impressed by the chaos, but looked as though she were managing a minor riot with practiced boredom.
I bypassed the booths where Grayson and the others were already settling into the role of local heroes, and found a stool at the very end of the bar. It was tucked into a pocket of shadows where the light from the neon Shiner Bock sign didn't quite reach. In other words… Perfect. I dropped my bag at my feet and looked at the scarred wood of the counter, waiting for the noise to become background static.
A fan, already three beers deep and wearing a jersey two sizes too small, stumbled toward my corner. He started to reach for my shoulder, his mouth opening to bark out a stat or a question I didn't want to answer.
"Back it up, Jerry."
The voice was dry, cutting through the bar’s roar with ease. I looked up, and the bartender stood there, a damp rag in one hand and a look of appraised curiosity in her brown eyes. She hadn’t raised her voice, but Jerry stopped like he'd hit a brick wall.
"He's just a guy in a jersey," she said, her gaze fixed on the fan until he muttered an apology and drifted back toward the jukebox. Then her electric gaze was on me. "And I don't allow people to loiter in the dark unless they're paying for the privilege of being miserable. What’s your poison?"
Up close, she had the kind of face that didn't demand attention because it already held it. Intense. Grounded.
"Whatever you serve backups, I guess." My voice sounded rough even to my own ears. “Probably something lukewarm and invisible.”
"You're a Surge player in San Antonio on a Saturday night. There’s no such thing as invisible." She didn't look away, her eyes lingering on the haunted space around mine before she glanced at the logo on my chest.
"Trust me. I'm just the guy they brought in to make sure the bench doesn't float away." I reached for my wallet, but she was already turning toward the taps.
She intercepted a pint meant for a server and slid it toward me instead, the glass stopping exactly an inch from my hand.
"In that case, this one's on me," she said, her weight centered as she looked at me over the counter. "And judging by that look on your face, you’ve got a much longer night ahead of you than the guys who actually lost."
