Page 12 of Seein’ Red

Sylvie lifts her eyebrows at me, silently communicating that I need to take a page from her book. On any other night, I would claim it was a cop-out, and try and force an answer out of her. Tonight, however, I think I’ll take it.

Cracking the beer open, I put it to my lips, tip my head back, and chug. The cold, hoppy brew slides down my throat easy enough. It also hits my head at lightning speed. This might have been a mistake.

“Chugging’s not allowed!” Nash complains.

“It is too!” Sylvie jumps in, having my back as I finish off the beer. “It’s always been allowed.”

Nash looks to Noel, who simply shrugs. “Them’s the rules. You made ’em.”

Cursing under his breath, Nash kicks at a branch next to his feet. I start to laugh, but the beer hits me again, making me dizzy. My stomach churns—too much intake, way too quickly.

It’s going to be a long night.

4

NASH

“OMG, can I get a selfie?”

I try my best to hold back my snicker, taking a long sip of my beer, but it’s no use. We’ve been in our seats for less than two minutes and Dustin already has a line forming. So much for just being able to enjoy the game.

Ever the pro, Dustin poses with the dolled-up blonde and her group of friends, politely dismissing them with the excuse of getting back to the game. It’s a beautiful, sunny, spring afternoon, not a cloud in the sky, and the Atlanta Braves currently have a winning record—you know, based on the entire week of a season they’ve played so far. Still, basically perfection.

“Well handled, rock star,” I snark, still snickering. “Rethinking that luxury suite yet?”

Dustin shrugs, ignoring my jab. “Hopefully that will be the last of them.”

I smile, taking another swig of my beer. My free beer. Because it turns out, when your best friend throws out the first pitch at the home opener, food and drink is on the team.

As are the seats. The premium, ultra-fancy seats.

Front row, center. Right behind home plate.

Like I said, basically perfection.

We were seven years old the first time my dad and grandfather took Dustin, Noel, and me to an Atlanta Braves game. The five of us made the long trek up to the city, three overly excited little boys crammed into the backseat of mom’s hatchback.

For the life of me I don’t remember who we played—only that the Braves won—but it’s a day that I’ll never forget. Our seats were way out in the outfield, but we were allowed all the junk food and soda we wanted, and we spent the afternoon stuffing our faces with hot dogs, nachos, and cotton candy, washing it down with a Coke. It was a miracle none of us puked on the ride home.

Ironically, none of us puking on the ride home is the same goal today.

“Not a bad way to kick off a bachelor party, throwing out the first pitch,” Camden says. None of us are over-the-top sports guys—casual fans at best—but there’s no denying the incredible honor. Holding up his beer, he looks down the row at us, a goofy grin on his face. “To Dustin and Kenzie.”

We all echo the sentiment, holding up our drinks in a toast.

“Just glad I could help y’all come up with a plan for a bachelor party,” Dustin jokes.

“We were well on our way to coming up with ideas,” Noel mutters, leaning forward, eyes trained on the game.

It’s a lie—we were not well on our way to anything. In fact, the three of us were fresh out of ideas of what the hell to do for this event. How exactly do you plan a guy’s last weekend of freedom when one, he has no interest in anything all that wild and crazy, and two, he’s a country star who owns his own honky-tonk?

Truth be told, Dustin probably would have been plenty happy had we said we were going camping—which was about to be the plan. But a phone call from the Atlanta Braves offering up the honor of the first pitch, plus our choice of a luxury suite or premium seats, was something that couldn’t be passed over.

It also worked out perfectly since the girls had their own ordeal planned with Kenzie up here.

“Sure you were, buddy.” Dustin slaps my brother on his back, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

I look down at my phone, the Keller landscaping logo staring back at me. The lack of notifications feels like I’m being given the finger. Which, in a way I am.