4. You know deep down you love hanging out with us.
4
"You know deep down you love hanging out with us."
Aaron Miles
Once we’ve flushed all the lactic acid from our bodies with some biking and a cool-down routine, some of the guys and I head over to our favorite hangout spot on Warlington Lane—Deacon’s Bar.
There are only seven of us tonight, the single guys, mostly. The others are way too eager to get home to their families. We’re dragging Wilcott with us, too. He doesn’t have a significant other, and the guy might be allergic to people. Goalies are weird. Still, we gave him no choice. After the outstanding saves he made for us tonight, we have to celebrate.
“You guys are a pain in my—”
“Language,” Adler says, draping an arm around Wilcott’s shoulders. “You’re coming with us, and that’s the end of it. You know deep down you love hanging out with us.”
“Besides, you need it.” I give a firm nod as we’re approaching the bar. “Or else you’ll turn into a hermit.”
He grunts, his broody face activated. Well, to be fair, that’s the only setting his face has.
We file into the bar, and it’s packed. Word has gotten around that we like to hang out here, and more and more fans are joining the fun. Thankfully, Deacon, the owner and our good friend, has set up a private room in the back for us with couches, a jukebox, and even a foosball table.
“Hey, guys,” he calls from behind the bar. “Good game.”
“Thanks, man.” I shake his hand before following my teammates to the back.
On our way there, we get stopped by a few fans, so we pause to sign autographs, take selfies, and—in the case of Adler—give some hugs. James “The Hug” Adler is notorious for his bear hugs, and chicks line up to get one.
Wilcott is the first one out of t he main room, and I’m right behind him. There’s only one girl I want a hug from.
“Hey, Hotshot!” Marissa greets me as soon as I enter. She’s leaning on the wall chatting with Alice, who’s both Maxime Beaumont’s sister and Deacon’s girlfriend. Just like every other game day, Marissa is wearing my jersey, and seeing her in it never gets old. “Great game.”
I draw her into a hug, her amber perfume wrapping over me. “Hey. Thanks for the commentary. Loved it.”
“You’re welcome,” she beams. “Trying to up my game. Sportscasting would have been a great career for me. We need more women in sports.”
“Definitely,” Alice says with a nod. “You’d be great.”
That would make the ratings climb, for sure. And Alice is right, she’d be amazing. Like she is at everything she does.
We all order a drink and raise a toast to our incredible goalie.
“To Noah ‘Wally’ Wilcott,” Hawthorne says with his captain’s voice, “who defended our Raptor cage fiercely tonight.”
“To Wally,” everybody echoes, holding their drinks aloft.
Wilcott just grumbles in his beard, staying firmly seated in the corner of the room.
I sit down with Marissa and the g uys, and we spend the night talking, laughing, and debriefing the game.
Adler leans back against the couch, flashing a grin at Beth. “Admit it—you’d look amazing in my jersey next game. Front-row good luck charm for Number 8. How about it?”
Beth doesn’t even glance up from her drink. “You don’t need luck, Adler. You already think you’re the best.”
Adler smirks, tipping his bottle toward her. "Not think. Know."
Marissa glances at me, her expression saying what we’re both thinking. Classic Adler . I bite back a laugh, raising my eyebrows in agreement. We’re experts at this. Throughout our fifteen years of friendship, we’ve had plenty of time to develop our silent language, and with one look, we know what the other is thinking.
“Here we go,” Beaumont groans. “The Adler highlight reel. Don’t make me bring up the turnover in the second period.”
Adler straightens, acting mock-offended. “Turnover? That was strategy, Frenchie Boy. You’ve got to let the puck breathe sometimes. Can’t just smother it.”
Marissa raises an eyebrow, barely containing her grin. “I’m pretty sure the only thing that was breathing was the opposing winger who almost scored on Aaron.”
“Hey,” I say, holding up my h ands. “Don’t drag me into this. I covered it.”
“Yeah,” Adler says, jumping to my defense. “Miles saved the play because he knows my moves. That’s synergy. You wouldn’t get it.”
Hawthorne leans forward slightly. “Giving up possession is not synergy.”
“Who saved the game with two goals?” Adler asks, wearing a full grin as he cups a hand around his ear.
Hayley and Marissa chuckle, and most of the guys just roll their eyes. Gotta love Adler and his antics. That, and he’s an annoyingly good player.
“No one?” he prods.
Finally, we all mumble, “You did.”
“Exactly.” He nods, clearly proud of himself, and we all laugh. “You’re welcome.”
Hayley laughs out loud, throwing her head back. She’s firmly secured on Beaumont’s lap, and he’s laughing too, nuzzling his face into her neck.
It’s such an innocent scene, and one I should be used to by now—those two are big on PDA—but I’ve never been so envious of Frenchie Boy.
Having a wife, a family, was never a priority for me. I consider myself lucky to have found a family already. Not an easy task given how I started life. But lately, I’ve been thinking about it more and more , and I find myself dreaming of having what Beaumont has. Only problem? Every time I think about it, it’s Marissa I see laughing on my lap .