One
MAINE
“Boys, it’s time to skull-fuck sobriety!”
And the Maine Show.
My calves scream from fighting this wobbly piece of shit, but the show must go on, and this is my stage—warped floorboards baptized in beer, neon signs hemorrhaging light through vape smoke, and two dozen teammates hell-bent on cirrhosis before tomorrow’s practice.
“Degenerates!” My bottle slashes air. “We’re through two rounds, and there are six of us left.”
The resulting roar slams into my chest—pure kinetic validation feeding that bottomless pit deep in my gut that never stops gnawing. And I suck up every drop of it, along with the bar’s signature cologne of fryer grease, Bud Light, and enough Axe to choke a horse.
“It’s time for round three!” I stab my bottle at Mike with soap opera flair. “First up, Altman versus his liver!”
Mike hoists his shot and downs it in one smooth motion, throat barely moving, down the hatch. Show-off. But that’s why he’s my boy—he keeps pace on ice and off, and he still answers my texts, which makes him either ride-or-die or brain-damaged.
Both, probably.
“And Rook!” I pivot to our goalie, who’s listing hard to starboard. “Who’s wearing more alcohol than he’s swallowed.”
“Eat my ass, Maine!” Rook slurs, attempting the finger but achieving interpretive dance.
As Rook downs the shot and almost brings it back up again, laughter detonates around me. I ride it like the attention slut I am, conducting this glorious orchestra and transforming another forgettable Thursday into tomorrow’s legend.
I’m about to launch into the next contestant when my thigh buzzes twice.
I consider ignoring it, but my sister is getting treatment today, so I hold up a hand to the guys and pull out my phone.
I see it’s a text from my mom, and my gut clenches, the hair-trigger response to the last hundred nightmare texts from her.
I tap the message and the photo appears on my screen, and seeing Chloe’s face is a kidney punch. She’s in a hospital bed, a nebulizer mask turning her into Earth’s frailest astronaut. Her eyes are shut, sockets bruised purple-black, and she looks as thin as kindling.
The bar noise flatlines to white static as my throat seizes at the sight.
I’ll never get used to seeing my little sister like this.
I read the message:
Rough one tonight. Send something funny?
That’s it. No details about what triggered this admission. Just another Thursday emergency in Hamilton-land, where I’m the court jester dispatching jokes via text, because I’m the one who can always be relied on to lift the mood and take on the load… the healthy kid, miles away, “living his life.”
“Yo, Hamilton, are you stroking out?” Mike’s voice cuts through my self-loathing. “We’re through this round!”
I blink and look down at him. His face shows he’s shifted from drinking buddy to concerned friend, the same expression from when he found me slumped in the locker room after pulling triple shifts to make rent last month.
It’s clear he can see through my performance, but he won’t blow my cover publicly.
Words jam behind my teeth.
My little sister is drowning in her own lungs.
My parents haven’t asked about me since August.
Pizza Plus slashed my hours and I’m one month from dropping out.
I’m so fucking exhausted from having to be okay all the time.
But none of those words come out. Instead, I lock my jaw so hard it aches.
It’s clear that Mike is worried, but Maine Hamilton doesn’t have pain, he’s everyone else’s morphine drip.
Nobody ordered the buzzkill special for this little drinking game, so I do what I do: bury everything under jazz hands and a giant grin.
“Good?” My volume spikes to eleven. “Brother, I’m SPECTACULAR. Just got a text from this pony who offered me a ride later.”
“Horseshit!” Rook bellows, even louder than usual because he’s hammered. “Nobody’s that desperate!”
“Weird, your mom’s review said different!” The comeback fires before my brain engages, pure muscle memory.
The moment dissolves as the guys roar.
Mike shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
Turning back to my phone, I rapid-scroll for the dumbest possible meme—kitten dangling from a branch, Comic Sans “Hang in there!”, the oldest clichéd “get well” offering in the book—and then add the special sauce that will get a smile out of her:
Stop faking for attention, loser (hope you feel better!).
There.
Good Brother duties complete.
Time to crank this show.
“LISTEN UP!” My voice splinters slightly from the strain. The stool lurches and for one beautiful second I’m sure I’ll faceplant, but pure spite and core strength save me. “The kiddie pool is closed, so it’s time for the championship round with Rook, me, the Skipper, and our other three survivors.”
I survey the remaining contestants like Patton before D-Day.
“Kellerman!” I thrust my bottle at him, making him twitch. “Look at this infant! Thinks he’s ready for varsity!” His green eyes are dinner plates—a cocktail of panic and misplaced confidence. “Ben, is your fake ID solid enough for this level of self-destruction?”
His head jerks like a dashboard hula girl.
I turn my focus to Schmidt next—meticulously blotting his fourth spill with his sixth napkin. “Schmidt, the human incarnation of a disappointed sigh.” His gray eyes could frost vodka. “Erik, admit it, you’re addicted to us as much as your trust fund. It’s beautiful, really.”
He flips me the bird, which I’m happy with, as long as he doesn’t sue me for defamation.
My attention slides to Cooper, who’s sitting with textbook posture, hazel eyes cataloging everything with electron-microscope intensity. “Cooper! Blink if you’re a government drone researching human intoxication patterns for our AI overlords!”
Cooper waits, then does it—one deliberate blink—and it’s so perfect I actually bark out authentic laughter.
“Holy shit, it’s learning!” I smirk. “By graduation we might even upload ‘enjoyment.exe’!”
The guys—those still in the contest and those smart enough to opt out at an earlier round—all roar. And, in this moment, I feel on top of the world after a semester break that has been filled with far too much work and not nearly enough money.
“Final showdown!” I barrel through the words. “Speed round, gentlemen! We’ll have pitchers of Bud all around, the fastest time wins, and the slowest motherfucker pays for the pitchers and buys eight pizzas for the team to soak up all this mayhem!”
“Eight pizzas?” Kellerman’s voice cracks like he’s going through puberty again.
“Premium toppings too, Benjamin!”
As Kellerman, noted tightwad, complains about the stakes, I vault the bar. Or try to. Instead, my knee clips the edge and I stumble, recovering and rolling with it like I meant to parkour my way to glory. The bartender’s just finishing up the pitchers, probably hoping we’ll drink ourselves quiet.
As I distribute the pitchers with game-show-host flair, Mike steps up beside me, all casual confidence, while Rook wobbles into position, already listing forty-five degrees from vertical and the guy my money would be on to be the ultimate loser.
And, when the others join us, I kick it off. “Standard rules! First gulp to last drop, and make sure to show your commitment to liver failure! READY?”
I lock eyes with Mike. He gives me a tiny smirk.
“SET!”
The bar goes church-quiet. Someone kills the music. Perfect.
“DRINK!”
Cold beer floods my throat. The carbonation fights back immediately, trying to escape through my nose, my eyes, and possibly my soul. But I lean into it, opening my throat like I’m trying to unhinge my jaw, slamming it down because I literally cannot afford to lose.
And because I’ve got a reputation to maintain.
Peripherally, I catch Mike matching me gulp for gulp, smooth as a machine. Rook’s already sputtering, and I’m sure he won’t make it. Kellerman’s making sounds whales use to communicate distress. Schmidt drinks like he’s following a YouTube tutorial.
My eyes water. My stomach screams. But slowing down means losing aura and money, and I can’t afford either.
So I drink harder, beer escaping down my chin and soaking my shirt.
Three-quarters down, Mike’s still right there, and Cooper’s gaining like a fucking Terminator, but I think I’ve got the others covered.
“DONE!”
I slam the empty pitcher on the bar, victory roaring through me. Mike finishes half a second later, then Cooper. Schmidt sets his down with laboratory precision. Kellerman’s still fighting his way through the halfway mark, looking like he’s drinking pure piss.
And Rook?
He’s on the floor, but his pitcher is empty.
“FIVE MINUTES, EIGHTEEN SECONDS!” Someone shouts. “TWO SECONDS OFF THE HOUSE RECORD!”
“And Kellerman!” I point at our sophomore, still struggling. “Currently entering minute seven of his spiritual journey!”
He flips me off without breaking concentration. Good man.
“Pizza’s on Baby Ben!” I throw my arms wide, almost taking out a passing waitress. “Eight larges, boys! Make him suffer!”
The team erupts. Money changes hands on side bets.
Someone’s already listing topping combinations, and there’s an argument about whether breadsticks were included in the stakes.
Mike claps my shoulder—that specific weight that says good show and you okay?
in the same gesture—and I just give him a nod.
“Fuck your mother very much,” Kellerman gasps, finally finishing, looking like he’s been waterboarded.
“That’s the spirit!” I drag him into a headlock-hug hybrid. “Keep practicing, and you’ll be a real boy one day!”
“Keep practicing and I’ll be dead,” he croaks.
My phone buzzes against my leg. I know without looking it’s either Mom with an update or my manager cutting my weekend shift. Either way, the night’s young and these idiots still need their ringleader, so I decide to ignore the phone for now and give myself one moment of respite.
“Victory lap!” I bellow. “Shots for the conquered and water for the winners—we’re sportsmen, not savages!”