Zeke chuckled. “You want the whole story or theReader’s Digestcondensed version? You never wanted to do anything fun, man. While the rest of us were having a blast, hitting the bars and having real fun with all the women who are just dying to bang football players . . . you were sitting alone at home, being boring.” He wagged his head. “This was before you got hurt, dude. This was when you still had two good legs. It’s only gotten worse since you found out you can’t play anymore.”
I drained my drink. “Thanks for that reminder, pal. I really needed it.” I raised one hand, gesturing to the bartender that I needed another. “I might’ve forgotten.”
“Aw, c’mon, Noah.” August, one of the best wide receivers in the entire league, grinned at me. “Zeke’s telling the truth. The whole team, man, we all respected you. We all know that it must have been hell to lose your wife. We felt for you.” He paused. “But then after, you never got over it. You just mope around. We tried to include you. But you always said no.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly, thanking the bartender for my new bourbon. “Just a stupid son of a bitch, I guess.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” Zeke pounded my back. “We’re making up for lost time now, right? We’re doing manly things. We’re out drinking. If you want, later on we can hit this strip club I know over on Fourth.”
I shrugged. “Not sure that’s my thing. Why do I want to look at women I can’t even touch? If I did, I’d just watch porn.”
Both Zeke and August laughed. “Noah, your education in this area is really pathetically limited. If you want to find women we can touch, that’s not going to be a problem.”
I grimaced. “I don’t think I’ve sunk low enough that I need a hooker, thanks. No offense.”
August gripped my shoulder. “None taken. We’re not talking women for hire, buddy. All we gotta do is hit up any of the bars closer up by the city, and we’ll be fighting off the chicks. Do you know how many women look at us—at any of the dudes on our team—like we’re their own personal sex squad? These women will do anything for us.” He nodded sagely. “I mean,anything. And they don’t expect shit in return, either. No call, no, uh, ‘relationship’—” He made the air quotes with his fingers. “Just free and easy.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well . . . I’m not looking for women tonight. Maybe some other time.”Maybe someone will shoot me dead before I’m so desperate I need to hook up with locker room Lolitas. “Let’s do something else.”
“Yeah, come to think of it, with you still on crutches, it might be tough to get the really premium chicks anyway.” Zeke rubbed his jaw, then his eyes lit up. “I know. Let’s go to Yondu’s.”
August sipped his beer and cocked his head, considering. “You think?”
“What’s Yondu’s?” I asked. “Isn’t that the name of the blue guy inGuardians of the Galaxy?”
“Yeah, the place is named for that character,” Zeke confirmed. “The owner is a big Marvel fan. It’s the best spot to get ink on the Beach.”
“Ink? You mean, like tattoos?” I had to admit, I was slightly intrigued. Unlike many of my teammates, I didn’t have any ink on my body. Angela hadn’t liked tattoos, and my mother had thrown a fit when I’d talked about getting one back in college. It had just been easier to keep the womenfolk happy in those days.
But now . . . hell, why not?
“Yeah, tattoos.” Zeke grinned, glancing at August. “You know, Noah’s an ink virgin.”
“No better time or place to pop your cherry,” August chuckled.
“Is this place decent?” I questioned. “I mean, I won’t end up with hepatitis or some weird infection? Because I have enough crap going on in my body just now.”
“Nope, it’s clean and very professional,” Zeke promised. “C’mon. Let’s settle up here and head over.”
* * *
Zeke and Augusthad hired a car service to drive us down to St. Pete Beach, but once we’d arrived at the bar, they’d sent the driver off with a hefty tip, explaining to me that it would be easier to just call a YouRideIt to get us around once we were there. I got the feeling that normally, they would have walked, but having me around complicated everything, it seemed.
So we were all smooshed into the backseat of a Hyundai, on our way to the tattoo parlor. My crutches lay over all of our laps, and I struggled not to squirm; I didn’t have much legroom, and my knee ached from being bent.
“What’re you going to get?” Zeke asked August. “You got any ideas?”
“I’m thinking of that Japanese symbol they had hanging at the bar we went to in St. Louis last month. You remember? I asked the waitress, and she said it meant strength. I like it. Maybe I’d get eight stars around it, for my jersey number. And I’ll get it on my catching arm.”
“Are you sure it really means strength and not, like, something else?” I joked. “Remember when Hadden got a tat, and he thought it meant courage, but it really translated to rice cakes?”
We all laughed, recalling our friend’s outrage.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” August assured me. “I looked it up after. I mean, I trusted the waitress, but who knows if someone had bullshitted her about it, right? I got a picture of it on my phone.”
I turned my head. “How about you, Zeke? Gonna get a heart with your mom’s name in it? Maybe on your ass?”
He flipped me the bird. “Bite me, Spencer. I’ve been thinking about getting a lightning bolt on my leg. You know, ‘cause I’m like lightning on the field.”
