THE STRESS MAKES ME STRESSY.
No.
Wait.
The stress makes me sloppy. Like, seriously. With just three pints of the special ale in me, I’m already slurring. Or I will be if I decide to say anything.
I just sit here drinking the special, getting blurry. But it’s not every day you tell your former hockey team you need a good dicking down.
Wait.
No, I didn’t say that.
But I do. Need one, that is.
Blergh.
Suddenly, the special special ale develops some righteous hallucinogenic powers. I look up and Rik is standing across the room, trying to make eye contact with me.
I stand up so fast the beer glasses on the table rattle.
“Whoa, there,” Jason says, steadying his glass.
Rikker’s beautiful mouth is curved into a guarded smile. He starts walking toward me, but I can’t wait. I take a couple of steps toward him and sort of launch myself in his direction.
Or rather, I try to. But drunk legs don’t always go where you’ve planned. My aim is off, and my hug is going to miss its target. Rik sort of catches me before I tumble. The hug I’ve planned becomes more like an aerial rescue.
“Wow,” he says, bracing me against his strong, delectable chest. “Easy, killer.” Gently, he sets me onto my feet then takes a step back.
I’m disappointed until I see him eyeing the table of hockey players behind me. We have an audience, damn it. And it’s me who always refuses PDA. Rikker is just watching out for me. As always.
But why is he here? I want to ask, but a giant beer belch stops my progress.
Rik’s eyes widen. And they’re kind of blurry. Someone is blurry. It might be me.
“Hey,” I say stupidly.
“Hey, yourself. You okay?”
“I’m…the special.”
Everyone laughs all at once, including Rikker.
“Uh, okay,” he says, his gaze giving everyone else a once-over. “Hi guys. Remember me?”
“Kinda,” Matty Newman says. “But we got a refresher on your life a little while ago.”
“Really,” Rikker says, his expression cautious again.
“Congrats on your division championship last year.”
“Thanks?” He looks me up and down. “You got wasted and then got confessional?”
I turn my finger in a circle. “Other way around. Not sure why I’m so…” Burp.
“It’s the special ale,” Jason says. “It’s fifteen percent alcohol.”
“Fifteen?” Rikker and I say in unison. He leans over and lifts my nearly empty glass off the table. He takes a sip. “So that’s, like, two or three times as potent as a normal beer.”
“That explains a lot,” I say slowly, careful to articulate each word. “Want one?” I ask. “Sit?” Short sentences work better right now.
The rest of the guys sort of shake off their surprise. Chairs scrape against the floor as they make room for Rikker.
Still, he hesitates. “Sure? I didn’t mean to crash.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were hanging with the parents?”
“Not so much.” His shoulders slump. “I’ll fill you in on that later.”
“Oh fuck.” And now I notice the suitcase in his hand.
“Whatever. Hey—did you eat anything?”
I shake my head.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me gently toward my empty chair. “Sit. Let me find you some food, because I think you need it. Anyone else want anything?”
Newman stands up. “Should I just make this simple and order a burger for everyone?”
“Sure,” Jason says, tossing a twenty dollar bill toward Newman.
Feeling a little more sober, I watch Rikker walk toward the food window with Newman. “So you played for Michigan State, right?” Rikker is saying. “You must know Jared Smith.”
“Sure do…”
As they move out of earshot, I’m admiring Rikker’s muscular ass in a pair of well-worn khaki pants. It’s just occurring to me that his troubles at home mean that I’ve gained two extra days in his company. And I am…wasted.
Bummer.
“So…” Jason says. “You’re, like, a couple? Really?”
“Yeah. He won’t graduate this spring, though,” I slur. “We might be long distance.”
Jason looks from Rikker to me once more and then frowns. “Still don’t quite get it.”
“S’okay.” I shrug. “Took me a while, too.”
He laughs, but I’m dead serious. “Do people give you shit sometimes? Is that why you stopped playing hockey?”
I shake my head. “It’s complicated. People can be dicks. But you figure out pretty quick who your real friends are. And everybody who doesn’t treat you like a leper, you’re grateful for those people. It makes you a better friend to them.”
“Yeah, all right. That makes sense.” He nods slowly.
Rikker and Newman come back a few minutes later, with two trays heavy with burgers and fries. Rikker uncaps a bottle of water and hands it to me. “Drink this.”
I do.
“Now eat this,” he says, passing me a plate.
Half a dozen hockey players eye us as if we’re about to start humping in public, or something.
I’m too drunk to care. I eat the burger and never take my eyes off Rikker.
