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All I needed to do was return to the table after taking a piss, but Mariah is the third girl who’s stopped me on the way back from the bathroom.
Each interaction, my annoyance has ticked a little bit higher.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. Neither does Mariah, by the looks of it. Ordinarily, this is attention I eat up.
It should be the exact distraction I’m looking for after talking to my dad. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to walk away.
“You’ve been playing so well this season,” she tells me, smiling.
So wellis a stretch to describe my performance.
I was better at practice today than I’ve been skating, but it’s a low fucking bar. I’ve played fine in games lately, but nothing spectacular. The last game I scored in was before break began. If you ask my sore muscles from practice earlier, I forgot what doing more than the bare minimum feels like.
“You okay?” Mariah asks me, and I realize I’ve just been standing and staring at her, totally spaced out.
“I’m not feeling great, actually.”
“Oh, no.” Her confusion instantly transforms into sympathy.
“Just a headache. From practice. I should go get some water.”
I take off before Mariah can say anything else—or offer to act as my nurse. Normally, it’s a hot fantasy I’d be all over. But all I feel like right now is downing a pint, eating some wings, and then heading home to ice the bruise on my ribs. It’s been bothering me all day.
The food has already arrived when I finally get back to the table. A perk of being on a championship-chasing team, I guess. The people seated nearby who were here before us and still haven’t been served don’t even look annoyed.
“Thought you fell in,” Hunter teases as I take the seat next to him.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my email. Sure enough, there’s a new email from my father’s secretary. I shut off the phone and set it on the table before replying to Hunter. “Nah. I was just talking to Thomas.”
Hunter glances toward where Conor is sitting down the table, aware of the hole in Hart’s bedroom wall just like I am. “He start shit?”
I shake my head before grabbing my pint glass and taking a long sip of beer. “We were just talking about the end of his season. They only have two games left.”
“Two games? Really?”
“Uh-huh. Unless they make it past first round.”
“You mean if Edgewood doesn’t show?”
I snort, demolishing a wing in two bites. “Yeah.”
“That’s gotta be a rough way to end things.”
I shrug before picking up another piece of chicken. “He seemed fine with it. Looking forward to the off-season.”
Hunter scoffs. He’s as competitive as Hart is.
“Tuesdays are the best,” Robby says from his spot across the table, reaching for a wing.
“Hell yeah they—fuck.” I freeze. “It’s Tuesday.”
Robby laughs. “How many drinks have you had, Phillips? That’s what I just said—shit!”
I almost upend his beer—and mine—hastily reaching for my phone. I open my school email and scroll through the messages, ignoring Hunter as he asks me what’s wrong. Finally find Professor Carrigan’s email and confirm I fucked up.
I was supposed to meet my tutor a minute ago.
All day, I’ve had the niggling suspicion I was forgetting something, and I was.
