Page 8 of The Has-Been

He might think the old me is back, just because I agreed to go out. But I am far from the man I once was.

That man died a year ago, no matter how much CPR Reid performed.

As I enter my lecture hall and find my seat, I can’t help but think that one night out will be good for me.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

I let out a curse as I watch with bated breath.

Just as the pong ball drops into the last cup.

Shit.

All around, onlookers celebrate, slapping Brennan and Cohen on the back in congratulations. Several voices call, eager to claim the next game with the winning team.

My ears are ringing from the pounding of music around us. Sad to think there was a day it wouldn’t have bothered me, a day when it was me who ruled the pong table.

Nowadays, I’m just the life of the party’s best friend. The has-been.

I shut down the thoughts quickly. I can’t let myself spiral. Not tonight, and especially not here at the bar—at the very place that stirs enough emotion as is.

Delleth is an old campus, boasting stone buildings and an aesthetic more fitting for the prestigious schools of England. Melbourne’s is modeled after an English pub—the founders of both Melbourne’s and Delleth originally hailed from Derbyshire. From the carpets and fireplaces to the imported ales on draft, Melbourne’s feels like it belongs across the pond rather than on a college campus. But given how overcrowded it usually is, especially with the hockey crowd, who like to frequent the bar for its ongoing reruns of games, I’d say whatever they’re doing is working.

Running my fingers through the lengths of my hair, I hand the last cup over to Reid. I only agreed to play if he would drink for me. Thankfully, no one around has asked any questions. Even with the commotion I caused when I walked in and saw so many familiar faces—everyone knows me here, which means they also know what happened. Therefore, no one has mentioned the incident or brought up hockey.

I really hope it stays that way.

Maybe Jasmine, my therapist, was right about confronting my past. I can be who I once was, without the drinking, without hockey—without her. For the first time in a year, I feel a sliver of my old self returning.

“Do you have to be good at every god-damn thing you do?” I yell across the overcrowded room. “It’s fucking irritating!”

Brennan’s wide smile stretches as he reaches up and flexes a bicep, pressing a kiss to his muscle.

“What can I say?” he shrugs. “I’m a God.” That earns him a middle finger from both Reid and me.

Cocky bastard.

“You know, I didn’t think his head could get any bigger,” I joke. “Seems like I was wrong.”

Reid’s eyebrows shoot up. “That captain title went straight to his head. I’m surprised he can fit through the door nowadays.”

I laugh. But at the same time, two girls approach Reid, one smiling and running her fingers down his arm, stopping to grip his elbow.

“Can—” he clears his throat, correcting himself, “may I help you?” Reid grumbles.

I snort, covering my hand over my mouth, to conceal my laughter because when did he become the fucking grammar police? I mean, sure, he’s wicked smart, but he’s never been a stuck-up prude about proper English…and at a bar nonetheless.

I try to act casual, like I’m not listening in on their conversation, especially as Reid grumbles something and then scatters from them like leaves in the wind.

Suddenly, something else snags my attention, a voice off in the distance—one that sets every nerve ending in my body alight all at once.

The commotion of the bar becomes a mute background noise. My eyes narrow in on the flatscreen TV situated in the corner of the room as I slowly follow the sound, like a moth being drawn to a flame.

My feet move without my consent, cutting the distance with ease. I know I need to stop myself, to force my body to stay planted, to steady my erratic heart—but it’s too late, though, as I’m standing in front of the screen, my eyes flickering over the rerun game.

I flinch, my eyelashes tickling my skin as I blink.

I know this game.