“Reserved, Hootie,” Rutledge as usual comes to the word rescue. “He’s reserved.”
“Who needs a reservation?!” Stratton enthusiastically questions.
“I’ve got a reservation somewhere,” Gillette juvenilely states and tosses his girlfriend a mischievous look. “Right between the thighs of u moan.”
“It’s I moan, Scooby.”
“No yeah, you will be moaning Scooby and G in about three minutes. Guaranteed.”
Instead of being disgusted, she steals a bite out of her bottom lip. “Bet?”
“Bet.”
He leans down and she immediately hops onto his back for a piggyback ride. Without more than an arrogant chortle, he whisks her away to begin what will, undoubtedly, be a very fucking noisy night.
I hope Peck brought earplugs.
I sure fucking did.
I also brought an extra pair in case Crash needs them.
“Come to think about it,” Stratton slyly starts, grabbing his girl by the hand, “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a reservation somewhere very special, too.”
Redness instantly floods her cheeks.
“Gonna have at least four helpings of Tater-Tot,” he proclaims prior to pulling her past me.
Rutledge shoots his girlfriend a heated stare. The look alone is enough to turn her complexion a dark crimson, and the command he gives her afterwards to stand up simply deepens it further.
Crash and I aren’t given a good night by anyone other than Peck who snags a bag of chips and cold soda on the way to his room, which is the furthest from everyone else’s but closest to the kitchen.
I let him have it.
He seemed like he would need it more than me since I got to bring someone along.
It doesn’t matter that my someone is for talking and hanging out purposes only.
It’s still an extra person to keep my attention while my teammates give their girls all of theirs.
Once it’s just the two of us, our eyes meet again and I damn near forget how to speak.
“You ready to call it a night?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I-I-I can stay up with you.”
“Good!” He enthusiastically springs to his feet. “Because it’s hot tub time!”
My brow crinkles in obvious objection.
“Put away your Franken Forehead and follow me to the fun!”
“You’re yelling.”
“I’m not yelling,” Crash swiftly sasses as he starts to walk backwards towards the patio doors. “I’m just not whispering.”
“You’re not using your inside voice.”
“That’s because I have to warm up my outside one.”
I don’t stop the smile or the rolling of my eyes that occurs.
“Gotta prepare myself to talk over the bubbles.”
He continues moving in reverse while I cautiously pursue, eyes sweeping the situation around him, ready to intervene if necessary, to stop him from getting hurt.
Thank fuck the guys aren’t around.
They think Rutledge is bad when it comes to fussing over Poppy, but it doesn’t even start to compare to what I look like in action when it comes to Crash.
I’ve literally swept him off his high heel-covered feet too many times to count, including when they hurt because he decided to wear a pair of burgundy bow tie pumps to a Fall Out Boy concert – knowing damn well we parked way too far for that shit.
Damsel.
Diva.
Dickhead.
It always depends on the day.
Crash’s body finally reaches the door right around the time he gasps, “I wonder if it’s got jets!”
“You really shouldn’t get into the hot tub this drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just having fun.”
A glower immediately appears on my face in response.
“I’m like…in fourth position. Practically fifth.”
His ballerina code for how fucked up he is was actually created to provide me with comfort. While he isn’t always aware of the extent that I worry about him, especially once he’s drinking and the small good judgement filter he has is completely erased, he does know that it stresses me out wondering whether or not he needs me or my help, so the system was born. He tipsily explained to me the more inebriated he gets the less of his perfected ballet positions he can complete. Dance is life for him. Day in and day out. Ballet has been part of that foundation since before we were friends, and he’s always claimed it’s ingrained in the fiber of his very being. If he can put himself into fifth position, he’s practically fucking sober. If he can only put himself in first position, he’s almost too wasted to keep standing.
I can’t seem to get my oversized frame to fold into anything past second position.
The only times I even let myself contort into those is after hours of begging and a sworn promise that he won’t tell anyone about it or, more specifically, how stupid I look attempting it.
I’m graceful as fuck on skates – thanks to Dad’s odd obsession with curling. Learning to be agile in shoes transferred over quite easily for me in a pair of 3Ps.
I’m graceful as fuck when bowling – though that’s due to tagging along to my mom’s bowling league and being taught by professionals on proper form.
However, no matter how many times I try, I am not anywhere near graceful when it comes to any type of dancing.
I don’t even fucking try anymore.
Everyone, aside from Crash, knows not to even bother asking me to.
He knows better.
He just doesn’t fucking care.
My best friend takes my silence as an opportunity to demonstrate the move he’s comparing his intoxication to. “See?”
His thin, toned legs that are covered by a pair of skintight black jeans flawlessly showcase the position I’m well acquainted with seeing him in. This causes me to reconnect our gazes and somewhat concede, “Fine. Maybe you’re not as drunk as I think you are-”
“You mean worry.”
I do worry.
I fucking constantly worry.
I can never seem to turn off that defenseman reflex to worry about a vulnerable teammate.
“Maybe you’re not as drunk as I think you are,” I firmly repeat prior to my voice increasing in volume to emphasize my seriousness, “but,” the change in tone makes him gag, “the high heat of the tub will increase your body temperature, which can result in extreme dehydration, exhaustion, nausea, dizziness, and even unconsciousness. The latter exponentially increases your chances of drowning.”