Maybe after our last season together I’ll grant permission to the other side of myself to be shown the way my teammates have begun to let the other sides of them.
Maybe.
“Rowlf? Really? I figured Hoots would’ve been your favorite,” Rutledge deviously chuckles. “I mean you have so much in fucking common.”
“Keep that shit up and see if you’ll be hearing me hoot tonight.”
Her sassy response receives laughs from all of us and red cheeks from her.
Sex stuff still makes her blush but significantly less than it used to.
Which is good, considering how often we end up on the subject.
By we, of course, I mean her boyfriend, Stratton, Gillette, and Mo, who is basically like having an extra dude teammate around most of the time.
“Good idea!” Tatum unexpectedly croaks calling everyone’s attention over to where she’s studying Peck’s movements. “Ingenuity!”
Peck merely smirks and moves the pillow from underneath his arm to make the next part of his bridge. The alternating usage of the object will allow him to cross the space at a slow but safe pace. Sadly, his method could not be more a testament to his personality if he tried.
I mean I’m right there with him when it comes to being sensible, but I prefer to work smarter not harder.
“Boat, bitches!” Crash enthusiastically proclaims, scooting himself across the living room space by using his foot to propel him the direction he needs to go by pushing off the nearest sturdy object.
“Oh!” Rutledge yells as an idea clearly hits him. “Roll over here, Hootie! I’ll get in the chair, put you in my lap, and we can scoot across to the stairs!”
“That just sounds like you want me to hump you in a chair.”
“We can use the chairs to build a bridge, Tater-Tot,” Stratton says, spinning around on the surface to face her. “It’ll go faster than Peck’s plan.”
She looks at him, looks at Peck’s pillows, and looks unconvincedly back at him. “Mmm…will it?”
Stratton uses the nearest chair to swing one of Peck’s pillows out of reach.
“What the hell!?”
“Now, it will,” Stratton assures on a devious smirk.
“Bet I could reach that pillow if I just got a little…” Mo begins to scoot across the counter space, something made infinitely more difficult by the booze in her way, “closer.”
“No-huh,” Rutledge discourages and tosses an empty plastic cup at her feet.
She manages to catch it on her foot, impressively enough, and chuck it back at him.
His effortless blocking reflex that he maintains even when drunk proves why he’s our starting goalie and should always be.
Squabbling continues around the room, everyone getting unconsciously louder in volume. Trash talk bounces between friends and couples alike. For most of the idiotic game, I merely do what I always do in large social situations.
I warily watch.
Observe.
I keep a vigilant stare on all the moving parts to ensure everyone’s safety remains intact.
Eventually, I put my beer down, grab two of the nearby plastic bags we brought the groceries in with earlier, tie them on my feet like makeshift socks, and casually stroll out of the kitchen over to the staircase.
The shockwave of silence pushes a smirk onto my face and causes me to cockily lean against the banister.
Stratton is the first to vocally express his displeasure. “Sonofabitch!”
“Brilliant bastard!” Gillette shouts from his still unmoved status.
“Huh,” Poppy drunkenly grunts, head tilted all the way to one side.
“But…” Rutledge’s eyes narrow at me in perplexity. “How?”
“Helps to be one of the most sober people in the room.”
Peck instantly nods in agreement at the same time everyone else boos like a shitty moment in a sitcom special.
“But you have been drinking?” Tatum questions after a hiccup, body flopping back down on the window seat she barely made it more than three feet away from.
“Have you ever been drunk?” Mo politely interrogates as she hops down to finally help her boyfriend out of his situation.
“I’ve never fucking seen him drunk,” Gillette instantly retorts. “Fucking never.”
“I have!” Crash gleefully sings and sits straight up on the stool he’s occupying.
My eyes swiftly swing to his smirking face, loving the sight of his smile despite the fact I should be hating that it’s one of my shameful moments that’s causing it.
Feelings of unrequited love aside, we don’t have a shit ton of secrets between us.
He’s really open with me.
I’m really open with him.
He knows shit like I sometimes cry when I read Shel Silverstein poems.
I know shit like he sometimes cries when singing “Somebody to Love” and “I Want to Break Free” by Queen.
We know the bigger shit, too, like how we both lost our virginities to older people, him at ballet camp when he was fourteen to one of his instructors that was ten years older than him and me at sixteen to one of my mom’s colleague’s daughters on a random Tuesday night after dinner while they sipped pinot downstairs.
I can count the number of things I’ve kept from him on one hand and still have fingers left over.
The ugly side of the night he’s about to bring up is one of them.
“You have to tell us about that shit,” Stratton drunkenly demands. “Right now.” He dramatically points to the space in front of him almost falling over in the process. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
“Manners, pretty boy,” Crash playfully tisks.
I try to ignore the pang of jealousy that comes from the offhanded compliment.
“You are so pretty,” Mo echoes. “Almost like too pretty.”
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Hollywood smile.
Yes.
Adrian Stratton is almost painfully pretty. He looks like an actor pretending to be a hockey player instead of actually being one.
“Whoa whoa whoa, you think he’s pretty, but Janelle Monáe is just dog shit?” Gillette immediately gripes.
“Ohmygod, she’s so pretty!” Poppy joyfully interjects making Mo sneer.
“For Cripes Sake, there’s nothing wrong with having a flawless skin game brought to you by a strict regime,” Stratton swiftly defends himself.