Chapter 32 Lincoln
LINCOLN
“You have got to be joking,” I balk when Monroe upends the bag he carried into my apartment.
“What? It’ll be fun. Or are you too much of a pussy to give it a go?”
A fire burns through me. I have never once in my life turned down a challenge, and tonight is no different.
The elevator dings behind us, announcing the arrival of a few more victims to Monroe’s torture evening.
“What the fuck is—” Fletch starts, but he quickly gets interrupted by Handsy, who barks, “There is no way in hell I’m doing that.”
“Aw, come on. It’s great for balance and coordination.”
“I think we can all agree that I’m fine with both of those. Any of you fuckers counting how many shutouts I’ve had this season?”
“You’re killing it, man,” Fletch says, clapping our goalie on the shoulder.
But despite his praise, Handsy marches past us, grabs a bottle of water from my fridge, and flops onto my couch.
“Who pissed on his fries?” I mutter.
“He just needs to feel the rhythm. It’ll fix him right now,” Monroe says confidently.
“Have you met Handsy before?” Fletch asks. “That man doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Fletch’s words don’t deter Monroe. Our lovable puppy just smiles and states, “You mark my words, by the end of the night, he’ll be up battling with us.”
“You say that like any of us want to be a part of this,” Fletch mutters.
“Storm’s in, aren’t you?” Monroe says, looking directly at me.
“Uh…”
“See. He’s excited.”
Fletch snorts a laugh as Killer and Brit emerge from the elevator.
“Oh, fuck, yeah,” Killer shouts. “I used to fucking love doing this at the arcade when I was a kid.”
We all gawk at him.
“What?” he asks as he begins dragging my coffee table aside to leave us with a big space in front of the TV.
“My little sisters will tell you that they were the best, but little do they know, I used to let them win.”
“Dude, we’ve seen you in a club. You can’t dance for shit.”
“You wanna fucking bet, motherfucker?” Killer challenges as I set the TV on and give the remote to Monroe, assuming he knows where to find the game we need to get this disaster started.
He finds it and syncs the mats to it, making them light up and play an annoying tune.
“Marilyn, you in?” Killer asks, his eyes glittering with the same kind of excitement as when he scores a goal.
“Hell, yeah. I promised Harper that I’d film it so she can watch,” he says, referring to his sister.
“Pulling out the big guns tonight, huh, Marilyn?” Fletch mocks. “Handsy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Our goalie glares at Fletch, but we already know he’s lost this round. Give it thirty minutes and he’s going to be on his feet and showing us his moves.
"I hate you all,” Handsy sulks.
“Okay, I need to get in the zone,” Killer says, dragging his hoodie off and tossing it to the end of the couch before ripping his shoes and socks off.
“Whoa…you can put them the fuck away,” I bark. “They smell like rotting animals.”
“I’ve showered since practice.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“We can’t do it in socks; we’ll all be on our asses. You’re just gonna have to get over your aversion to feet.”
“We don’t have to do this,” Handsy mutters, but everyone ignores him.
“If you leave any trace of rotting corpse behind, you’re paying to have this place deep-cleaned.”
Killer rolls his eyes before he begins a series of warm-ups.
“Fuck me, he’s taking this seriously,” Brit mutters as he takes a seat beside me to watch the show.
“And to think, you nearly bailed on tonight,” I mock.
“This is way better than having an early night.”
Fletch takes a seat on the couch with Handsy, and we all wait for Marilyn to set up his cell to capture the action before they both take their places.
“I can’t believe we’re about to watch this,” Fletch muses.
“I can’t believe we’re expected to join in.”
“Take your position, Monroe. Everyone else, watch and learn.”
“Christ, he isn’t this serious before a game,” Brit points out.
“Maybe ice hockey wasn’t his calling in life after all. Maybe he was always meant to be USA’s dance mat champion.”
“There aren’t actually championships. There are competitive events, though.”
“Which you’ve been to?” Handsy asks, getting a little more invested in this whole thing.
“Nah, we used to watch footage, though.”
“Of course you did,” Fletch mutters with a laugh.
“Are you done chirping? Can we get this competition underway?”
“You got it. Although I think we already know who’s going to win,” Brit points out.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Monroe states with a determined look on his face.
“Linc, you’ve got a little sister; you must have experience, too.”
“Hell no. Nova wasn’t really a gamer. Thankfully, I escaped this torture.”
I think back to the things she used to get me to do as kids and an ache settles in my chest.
I’m not the only one who’s suffering with Dad’s loss. My little sister is too.
Nova was such a happy-go-lucky child. But I haven’t seen that version of her in a long time. She’s…she’s changed and her behavior is getting wilder and wilder.
Mom pulled her out of her high school and put her into a prep school in the hope it would help rein her in, but I’m not sure it’s really helping.
She may have pulled the wool over Mom’s eyes, but everything is not okay in Nova’s world.
I just can’t put my finger on what’s really going on.
I just have to hope that, one day, she’ll feel like she trusts me enough to confide in me.
But I understand that despite my job and celebrity status, Nova is just as embarrassed by me as every little sister is of their big brother.
“Until now,” Handsy points out dragging me back to the present.
“I’ve put the setting on medium,” Monroe tells Killer, who scoffs. “Call it a warm-up round.”
“Whatever. Just hit play.”
Monroe does as he’s told, and a countdown appears on screen.
Brit, Fletch, Handsy and I all wait with bated breath for the car crash that’s about to play out before us.
The music starts, and Killer and Monroe start jumping around. Their eyes are locked on the screen, watching the instructions, but their legs…fuck. It’s like they’ve got a lift of their own.
“Holy shit, they weren’t lying,” Fletch barks, pulling his cell from his pocket. “Reese has to see this.”
The four of us sit there watching in awe as both Killer and Monroe hit move after move. Their scores rise on either side of the TV screen, but neither takes the lead.
They’re neck and neck, and neither shows any sign of slowing down as the timer begins to run out.
“Holy shit, this is tense,” Handsy says, now fully invested in the proceedings.
Neither Monroe nor Killer says anything; they’re too focused.
And then it’s over.
“Yes, yes, motherfucking yes,” Monroe cheers, his hands in the air as if he’s expecting to accept praise from the crowd. “That was for you, Harps,” he says, blowing a kiss toward his cell before he slugs Killer in the arm and then walks over to stop the recording.
“Nah, fuck that. I did not just lose to a rookie.”
“The scores don’t lie, loser,” Monroe mocks.
“We need a rematch,” Killer insists.
“Oh, don’t worry, we will,” Monroe says smugly. “But I think we need to see the others in action first.”
They look at each of us, waiting for volunteers.
“Fine, if you’re gonna be pussies, we’ll pick.”
“Linc and Fletch, let’s go,” Killer says, clapping his hands to build up the excitement.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I shift to the edge of the couch.
I look at Fletch on the opposite couch, and his eyes narrow.
Oh, it’s on.
“What level do you want?” Monroe asks.
“Is there anything lower than beginner?” Fletch asks.
“Nope. But if little girls can do it, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.” Monroe laughs.
Monroe lowers the setting before he and Killer take a seat and press start.
“Ready for this?” Fletch asks as the countdown appears.
“Absolutely fucking not. You?”
“Nope. Go,” he cries.
The first step lights up on the screen before us, but despite it being in front of me, I don’t know where it is, and I have to look. But by the time my eyes drop and my head tells my leg to move, the light has already gone out, and it’s time for the next move.
“Holy fuck, this is hard.”
“We always knew you were uncoordinated, Storm, but come on, at least try.” Killer laughs.
“Fuck you. I’ve got this.”
Taking a moment to gather myself, I look at all the points I need to hit around me before focusing on the screen.
My next attempt is better; I actually manage to score a few points. I even get into some kind of flow, but it all comes crashing down—literally—when Fletch loses his footing and collides with me, sending me tumbling toward Handsy on the couch.
“Ugh, you assholes,” he grunts, shoving us both from his lap, letting us fall to the floor.
Laughter bounces off my walls, and as I roll onto my back, I can’t help but join in.
Fuck, this feels good.
This past week has been awful. The only relief I’ve had from regretting what I did in my bedroom that night has been when I’m on the ice and focused on the task at hand. The second I’ve stepped off, it all comes flooding back.
Parker is ignoring me, and in turn, I’ve been giving her as much space as possible.
I was the one who fucked up.
She was just trying to help me.
I was the one who took it a step too far.
I wish she’d at least give me a chance to apologize, but other than spending time together at work, where we can’t talk about it, she hasn’t given me the opportunity.
She’s either out or hiding in her bedroom.
“This was the best idea ever,” Killer announces a beat before he holds his hand out for me so he can haul me up.
“Handsy and Brit, you’re next.”
“Fuck off. I’m not doing that,” Handsy barks as Brit gets to his feet and pulls his socks off.
He rolls his shoulders back and does a couple of hamstring curls to loosen up his muscles.
“Oh, but you are,” Killer muses.
The two of them glare at each other until Handsy finally relents and gets to his feet to a round of applause from us.
“I’m requesting a transfer. This is fucking bullshit,” he sulks as he takes the center spot on the mat.
“Ready?” Monroe asks.
“No.”
“Shame, because we’re going in…three…two…one…”
Brit is fucking awful. If it’s possible, I think he might be worse than me. But the biggest surprise of the duel is that Handsy can move.
Obviously, we all know his hand-eye coordination is insane, but apparently it extends to dancing.
“How the fuck are you doing that?” Brit shouts as he glances at Handsy's score and balks.
He’s getting slaughtered by our grumpy goalie.
This could be the best thing I’ve ever seen.
“Come on, Handsy. Move those hips,” Killer shouts, cheering him on. “Oh yeah, left, right. Left, left, right. And two feet.”
“Man, I fucking love you guys,” Monroe says. When I glance over, he’s got a soft smile playing on his lips and I swear a little moisture in his eyes. “I’m so fucking glad I ended up here with you. You’re the brothers I never had.”
“Aw, we love you too, Rookie,” Fletch says, roughing up his hair like he’s a little kid.
Handsy is easily declared the winner, but seeing as Fletch and I both crashed out, they insist we go again so the winners from each round can dance off against each other.
“Okay,” I say, shaking out my body as I take my position.
“We’ve got this, man,” Fletch says, holding his fist out for me to bump.
“May the best man win,” I say, flashing him a grin before the timer runs out and we jump into action.
Now I’ve got a feel for it, it comes a little easier, and I smile when I see my score slowly increasing.
We’re almost at the end of our song, and I’m about to claim victory, when a voice cuts through the room.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like, Doc? We’re dancing,” Monroe replies proudly.