Surely she wasn't standing there looking like the sky had just fallen on her head. Surely I'd misread the slump of her shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on that phone.
"I dunno, Coach. Maybe just got a reason to fight," I shrug, looking away from the pointed gaze he's burning into the side of my head.
Coach grunts, and across the bar, Beck has commandeered the entire pool table area and is apparently now demanding the attention of the entire bar.
He's climbed onto a chair, an actual chair, and is holding his beer over his head like a championship trophy. It's enough to distract Coach from his deep dive into my sudden form, which to be honest, I'm thankful for.
"AND THEN," Beck bellows to a crowd of at least fifteen people who absolutely did not ask, "I look up, right? And the lane isopen.And I think to myself, Beck, my man, this is your moment. So I thread the needle—tape to tape—right onto Finn's stick. That tip-in? That goal that won us the game?"
"You touched it for half a second," Mason says from a stool, calm as ever. "And we also scored two more after that."
"That goal," Beck continues, undeterred, "was eighty percent assist, twenty percent Finn not screwing it up."
Finn, sitting two stools down, raises his pint without turning around. "Ya thieving prick."
"You'rewelcome,Finn."
I shake my head, but I'm grinning into my beer as Beck continues his dramatic re-telling of his heroics like we're in the back yard of our house all over again.
Then, just as he's wrapping up his speech to an almighty applause, my eyes drift to the corner near the dartboard, and I nearly choke.
Because Corbin Cole is standing about three feet from Brooke Kessler, holding a glass of what is very clearlysoda water,sweating like he's facing a penalty shot in overtime.
"You good, rookie?" I call across.
Corbin jolts like I've fired a gun. "Yes! Sir! Great! I just… I don't really drink during the season. Hydration and recovery. You know."
"Cole," Beck calls, hopping down from the chair, "it's one beer. Live a little."
"My mom says—"
He doesn't get to finish what his mom says.
Because Brooke Kessler bumps his hip with her own, her blonde ponytail swinging. We all watch as she throws her arm around his shoulders like they've been friends for years.
"You played well tonight, Rookie."
Corbin Cole stops functioning.
I'm not exaggerating. The kid's eyes go wide, his throat bobs, and I genuinely think he might pass out. The lights are on, but no one's home.
"I — thank — you — yes," he manages, in roughly that order. "You watched? The game? You saw it?"
"I sell the merch, sweetie. Of course I watched." She pats his cheek and disappears back into the crowd, ponytail swinging as she slides into the booth alongside some of the other girls.
She smiles at me, and winks back at Corbin who's still standing there like someone super-glued his sneakers to the floor.
The funny part? Brooke and I dated for four months.
It's ancient history and absolutely a dead candle. It was never going anywhere, but we both knew that.
But the rookie doesn't know that.
So every time she touches him, his eyes find mine like he's waiting for me to drag him outside by his collar andruinhim.
I don't care, kid. I don't fucking care.
I guess that's what makes watching him sweatinfinitelybetter.
