Page 62 of King of the Crease

Hank is my bodyguard tonight. He’s big, burly, and is welcome to lay his body over me.

That’ll come later.

Later I’ll be in Hank’s house. With him. Preferably in his bed.

And it will be infinitely better than with Vincent from boarding school or a sex worker because I can gaze into Hank’s eyes and feel him gazing back at me. Even though this can’t last, we can have one magical night together.

“Beer?” Hank asks me when we stroll into the first bar, Stone’s Throw Tavern. Coming here for beers after our game already makes me feel like a regular.

“Isn’t that the protocol?” I ask.

“You’re so cute.”

I’m grateful that this is our first stop. It’s safe, familiar ground. The bar is packed with people dressed up, taking selfies, yelling over the music to each other. I feel like I’m in the center of the universe. Mitch and Charlie mill about, replenishing glasses behind the bar, hooking up new kegs, checking on patrons who’ve gone too hard too fast and need a drink of water. Christmas music blares and the old Frosty the Snowman cartoon plays on the TVs. It smells like beer and pine-scented candles trying their best.

We crowd around a pair of high-top tables. Charlie brings us our first round.

“I can’t believe you guys actually came out,” he says. “I owe Mitch five bucks. Enjoy, fellas!”

“It’s hoppier than I expected,” I say after taking a sip.

Hank snorts. “That’s Sourwood, baby. We like our beer like we like our winters. Aggressive.”

He laughs, and my stomach does a thing I do not approve of. In a few hours, I’m going to see this man stark naked.

We enjoy our drinks, doing our best to ignore the chaos swirling around us. Derek regales us with putting out a house fire today where the owner tried to use his firepit in his living room. It’s wild how many people are so close to accidentally setting themselves on fire. Hank and I brush our knees against each other under the table. I feel myself blush; Hank’s touch making me ache for later. I catch Des looking at me, a curious twist of his lips, but he glances at the TVs before we can make eye contact.

Jack finds us in the thick of people and brings with him a tray of shots.

“Shots!” he yells.

“We’re supposed to be drinking beer,” Hank says.

“If you guys can’t handle it…” Jack says.

“We can.” Bill grabs his shot and downs it. The only thing Bill hates more than getting drunk is backing down from a dare and not winning.

We all take a shot. It burns my throat, and I’m unable to hide my wincing.

“You doing all right?” Hank asks, hand on my lower back.

“I’m not a big drinker.”

“I can tell.”

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve gotten drunk. An errant party in boarding school and university. Never as an adult, unless I wanted to wake up to my face on the front page of newspapers.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need something sweet to wash down the taste of this shot,” Hank says.

“I saw they have holiday-themed drinks at the bar. I’ll get us something.”

I fight through throngs of younger people to reach the bar. Charlie pours another row of shots for a group of ladies.

“Round two already? Pace yourself,” he says when I flag him down.

“I’m looking at your holiday specials.” In a picture frame with lit up red-and-green lights around the border are specialty cocktails. “Son of a Nutcracker” is an amaretto and cranberry juice. I’m intrigued.

“I’ll take two Son of a Nutcrackers,” I tell him. Charlie skitters off, delivering shots to the ladies, and taking more orders while mixing drinks. I’m impressed by his dexterity.