It burns going down, familiar and good. I order another immediately.
“Easy, man,” Jake says, eyeing me. “We have practice tomorrow.”
“It's one night.” I flag down the waitress. “Another round for the table.”
The alcohol hits fast. I haven't been drinking like this in months, and my tolerance is shot. But I welcome the buzz. It dulls the constant noise in my head. The worries about Avery, about my reputation, about whether I'm losing myself trying to be someone else.
Here, in this club, with drinks flowing and music pounding, I don't have to think about any of it.
I can just be.
“This place is dead,” Logan announces after our third round. “I know somewhere better.”
“Where?” Ryan asks.
“Trust me.” Ethan grins. “Way better atmosphere.”
We pile into hired cars and end up at a different club. It takes me a minute to realize where we are.
A strip club.
“Dude,” Jake says, looking uncertain.
“Relax.” I'm already heading inside, something reckless rising in my chest. “It's just a club.”
We get another VIP section, this one with a better view of the stage. More drinks appear. And then the strippers start circulating, drawn to our table by the promise of money.
This is familiar territory. This is where the old Nova thrived. Throwing money around and being the center of chaos.
I order a bottle of champagne, pop it with dramatic flair, and pour it for everyone. The strippers laugh and pose for photos.
Someone hands me a stack of bills. Without thinking, I stand up and start throwing them in the air, watching them flutter down like confetti.
Making it rain money. Just like the old days.
The club erupts in cheers. For the first time in months, I feel free.
The strippers are over us. Sitting on laps, posing for photos, and laughing at jokes that aren't funny. It's shallow and exactly what I need right now.
I'm vaguely aware that this is a bad idea. That Avery wouldn't want me here. That the photos will go up online.
But the alcohol has done its job. I don't care about consequences anymore.
I just want to feel like myself again. Like Nova. Like the guy who didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone because everyone already expected him to fuck up.
“Nova,” someone shouts. “Do it again!”
So I do. I throw more money.
The old Nova is back.
And it feels fucking great.
I wakeup to sunlight stabbing through the hotel curtains and a headache that feels like an ice pick through my skull.
For a moment, I have no idea where I am. Then reality crashes in. We’re in Tampa. The game last night and then…
Oh fuck.
