“Not with the way you’ve been playing.” I slip into my jersey.
“Hey now.” Bosko whacks me on my shoulder. “Navarro is the best goalie we have. His head’s in the game.” He lifts his chin, his curly blond hair bobbing as he waves to get Alex’s attention.
But it’s too late. His earbuds are in, and he’s back to listening to his pre-game playlist, which I happen to know is entirely Broadway soundtracks. He made me swear I’d never tell anyone. Goalies are weird, man.
“Did you see the pics?” Noah stands and reaches for the ceiling in a tall stretch. “I’d sleep with her too if she looked like that on Halloween.”
I clothesline him. “Fuck all the way off.”
Noah doubles over, sputtering for a minute, before straightening with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Told you! He really does like her.”
Coach bursts into the locker room, striking a rolled-up piece of paper against his palm. “Enough with the shit, boys. Time to get on the ice. And if we lose tonight, I’m going to work you so hard at practice tomorrow, you’ll throw up for the rest of the afternoon.”
After the game, the team insists on taking me out. I try not to make a big deal out of turning thirty today, but they don’t care. In fact, after the game, Bosko had a walker waiting for me with balloons.
The cheeky asshole. I’ll get him back.
“Murph!”
“What?” I glance up from my spot at the corner of our long table of some new nightspot in Denver. I reach for a potato skin and wash it down with a sip of beer.
“You have company.” Fitzy flags over the tall blonde hovering nearby. “He doesn’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter. I’m fairly certain Izzy’s walking around Merritt Point with a small bruise on her hip from my teeth.
Just wanted to make sure she didn’t forget me while I was away.
Alex chuckles beside me, wrestling my fork away to grab a bite. “Let her down easy.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not doing that.” I elbow him, then snag my fork back. “Get your own plate.”
The woman stands there, oblivious that both Noah and Connor are falling all over themselves to talk to her. “I thought… I heard you were really good with fans. I’d love to have a drink…”
“Not single,” I say, and the word that follows surprises me more than it does her. “Taken.”
“I’ll get a drink with you,” Connor volunteers.
Alex leans closer, and I growl before he can touch my food. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”
“No, you just have wicked bad table manners.”
He scrunches his nose. “There it is. You’re drunk!”
I peek up, confused. First, because why hasn’t my phone pinged yet, and second, how could I be drunk when we just gothere? “Fuck off. You’re just mad Molly didn’t fly out to see you.”
“She’s busy,” he says, his voice tight.
We’ve been friends long enough for me to know to leave it. “Why am I drunk?”
He pulls the plate of chicken wings away from Bosko and Noah and slides them in front of us, grabs one, then takes a bite. Maybe I am a little drunk.
“Your accent comes out. Drop all yourR’s. Use words likewicked.”
I shake him off and eat a few wings, waiting for my phone to ping, until finally, I finish another beer and tell everyone I’m heading to the bathroom. I’m not. I walk to the bar instead, order one last drink, and call Izzy.
“It’s like you can’t stop thinking about me, Murphy,” she says when she answers.
I grin against my phone. “Yeah, almost.”
