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Coach holds up his hand and eyes Shane. “Pay close attention, son. Someone took the time to put this PowerPoint together for you, so let’s not be an inattentive asshole.”
He gestures to the team doctor, who steps forward.
“Good morning, boys. Let’s talk about dopamine, shall we?” Dr. Parminder begins in his clipped, efficient voice. “Take a look at this first slide. Dopamine is a neurotransmitter, acting as a chemical messenger between neurons in the brain. It’s also part of your internal reward system, meaning when you’re doing something that makes you feel good, dopamine is released.”
Shane drops his head in both hands. I do my best not to reach over and pat him on the shoulder. I anticipate getting a fist to the face if I attempt it.
Dr. Parminder goes on. “And when you masturbate, you feel good.”
Patrick Armstrong yowls out a laugh.
There’s no way we’re getting through this entire thing without at least one person pissing their pants.
Later that night, I’ve got Gigi in my bed, and I’m recapping the events of the day, which started off hilarious and ended up depressing. We tied our game against Boston University. Better than a flat-out loss, I suppose, but they’re not the strongest team in the conference and had no right keeping it that close. It’s infuriating. Yes, there are nearly thirty games to go, so we can still turn things around, but this season feels like such a bust already.
“I cannot believe Jensen did that.” Gigi’s cheek trembles against my chest as she shakes in quiet laughter. “Was Shane pissed?”
“Furious. You should have seen the text he sent me afterward.” I grab my phone off the nightstand because this is a message that requires reading verbatim.
Curled up beside me, Gigi watches as I open the messages app.
She suddenly stiffens as if someone poked her with a cattle prod.
“What?” I say in concern.
“Nothing.”
“Gisele.” She won’t look at me, so I pry her chin up to see her face. Hurt and anger crease her pretty features. “What’s wrong?”
After a drawn-out moment, during which the hostility in her eyes only intensifies, she finally taps the screen and mutters, “If you don’t want a woman to know you’re lying to her, maybe don’t flash the lies right in her face.”
What in the actual fuck is she talking about?
I look at my phone, trying to understand what—
Then I burst out laughing.
“You think this is funny?” she snaps.
She tries to sit up, indignantly pushing my hands away when I reach for her.
“It’s not what you think. I promise.”
“That message is pretty clear. Either you sent it and you’re aching for someone who isn’t the woman you’re supposed to be exclusive with, or some girl is aching for you and you enjoyed the message enough to save it on your phone where anyone could see.”
“It’s my group chat,” I croak. I can’t stop laughing.
“Your group chat.” Her tone hasn’t given an inch. Hard as stone.
“The Eastwood group chat,” I clarify. “All the guys are on it. And that’s our standard message before a game.” I click on the thread and show it to her. “See?”
She scrolls through the dozen identical messages.
BECK:
I’m aching for you
POPE:
I’m aching for you
KANSAS KID:
I’m aching for you
NAZZY:
I’m aching for you
She quits scrolling. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s too stupid to even explain.”
“Please try.”
“Patrick—the one we call the Kansas Kid—has this pathetic habit of falling in love after knowing a chick for, like, ten seconds. And once he falls, he does this love bombing thing with romantic messages and flowers—”
“Don’t judge him. You get me flowers all the time.”
“Twice,” I growl. “That doesn’t count as all the time.”
“It’s two times more flower-giving than I would ever expect from you.”
She’s got me there.
“Anyway, last year, it was the first round of the playoffs and not a single person expected us to pull out a win. We were playing the number one team in the conference—they were on a twenty-game winning streak at that point. So an hour before the game, Patrick accidentally sends a message meant for his new true love to our team chat. Goes without saying that we all ragged him mercilessly for it.”
“But you won the game,” she guesses.
“Yup.”
“Hockey players and their superstitions.”
She scrolls through the thread again, giggling. “Do you seriously send this message before every game?”
“Unfortunately.”
She props herself on her elbow, remorseful. “I’m sorry I accused you of lying to me.”
“I don’t lie,” I say simply. “Hell, my honesty gets me in trouble with chicks almost all of the time.”
“I’m an ass for thinking it.”
“I’m always going to be honest with you. I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“I know, and I love that about you.” She sighs. “I may…have overreacted a little.”
“A little?” I smirk. “PS jealous Gigi is hot.”
“I wasn’t jealous—”
She squeaks happily when I flip her onto her back and press my lips to one bare breast. A moment later, I’m sucking on her nipple.
