Chapter 7
Blaise
“A round of shots for everyone!” I scream across the crowded bar, which has fallen silent with the realization that their quarterback — their quarterback who just won the first game of the season, officially making this their winningest season yet because this is only the second year and we lost the first game last year, thank you very much — is standing on the bar.
Misty and Frank, the bartenders stationed at opposite ends, both glare at me, but come on.
This is Camden Pizza Company. It’s the sleepy suburban town square pizza joint that usually has all of two regulars at the bar on a Sunday night after the family crowd heads home to get ready for school tomorrow.
They’re lucky Merrick Briggs bought a giant house a couple miles away and six of the Jugs live there, so this is the perfect spot for us to celebrate our wins.
They’re lucky we told them this time that they’d need to schedule for it.
I bribed Misty with season tickets last year after a crowd of fifty destroyed her grocery shopping/social media doomscrolling shift on our first winning home game.
Gabe Shaunessy also tipped her an extra thousand on top of whatever she raked in, but it was bad.
I think Kai Bodley, whose family owns a restaurant, helped clean once we got the bar cleared out two hours after she was scheduled to close.
So we do our best to give them fair warning, and even though we don’t come in for losses, so the crowd is a lot thinner on those nights, I make sure to stop by during the week and slip them both a couple hundred so they still get paid whether the crowd shows or not.
My parents made good money off of successful investments when I was little and sent Gammy a huge monthly support check to pawn me off on her once they fucked off to Eurafricasiastralia or wherever the hell they went.
I had all the best toys and newest game consoles and trendiest sneakers.
Gammy moved us two hours away before I started high school so I could be in the best football program in the region.
Getting first-string quarterback sophomore year and going all-state junior and senior years guaranteed my full ride to Iowa, and then I was swimming in sponsorship gifts that meant that I didn’t need to get paid.
What I didn’t have, I got by selling off swag I didn’t want.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize with people in these service gigs, not knowing how much they’ll be getting day to day.
I stress about it for myself even though I have a bank account I could live off forever and a whole-ass portfolio I pay someone to figure out for me because I don’t really get any of that.
I mean, yeah, some quarterbacks make it to 40, but the fact that my backup, Dom Morales, has two Super Bowl wins but is in the twilight of his career at 34 isn’t unusual.
If I get injured badly enough in my next game, my career could be over at 27.
They won’t immediately cut me off, but it won’t be long before I’m out and hopefully on LOD — Line of Duty Disability, the one for the guys who have career-ending injuries but aren’t disabled by government standards — which is decent but will still radically change my finances.
But I’m not here to stress about that. I’m here to do shots with fifty of my closest friends, minus Gabe, who’s off on a date with his new girl.
Everyone cheers for shots. Shots make everyone happy.
But I’m feeling a certain kind of way, so I make a cutting gesture with my hand, silencing them again.
With that kind of power, I scan the crowd, pick out a random guy.
I’ve never seen him before. There’s nothing special about him.
I don’t get any sort of vibe from him. Just a guy in an Adidas shirt, a brand I have no beef with but hasn’t ever sponsored me.
Which means I don’t have to worry about getting into legal trouble when I point at him and say, “Except you. No shot for you.”
The man looks absolutely devastated. Like I have crushed his world with that declaration. His friends are already ribbing him; everyone’s looking at him to see what he could have possibly done.
I did that. I am a god. Gods test the loyalty of their zealots, and every single person in this bar is a zealot.
I point at a woman who’s close enough that, from my ridiculous height, I can see right down her tiny retro bandana top. Her eyes meet mine. There’s a smokiness to them, to her gaze, that tells me I could go fuck her in the bathroom stall if I asked, not even nicely.
I’m not going to. Part of the whole be-a-good-boy thing is not fucking random women.
I haven’t been in the mood lately, either.
The last mask party was a total bust. Nothing caught my attention.
I haven’t had to jerk off this much since .
. . probably ever, but my hand’s been more appealing than anyone I’ve seen recently.
But come on, this hand is insured for eight figures. If I’m gonna get jerked off by any hand, it better be the one worth its weight in gold.
I use that hand to point to the bandana-topped woman. “No shots for you, either.”
I look away before I can see her irritation and pick out two more randos to be excluded, and then I land on a really awkward-looking guy who’s managed to hide himself in a shadow and looks like he’s scared to talk to women.
He’s wearing a ratty Elfen Lied tee-shirt, and man, I had a phase with that anime, so I grin at him. “Two shots for you, my friend.”
He lights up like this is the greatest moment of his life. I make a mental note to have a quick chat with the people I just denied shots to, sneak them some Jugs goodies, and then hook that guy up with a couple of tickets and an Uber home because seriously, I don’t know if he can handle two shots.
Maybe I’ll introduce him to Bandana Girl and really hype him up. See if I can get him laid.
I hop down off the bar and kiss both Misty’s and Frank’s cheeks in thanks. Honestly, Frank looks more appreciative of the kiss. He’s happily married, two kids and a dog and shit, but Misty’s pissed that I refuse to admit this isn’t my bar and I shouldn’t just be behind the bar pouring shots.
She snatches the bottle from my hand before I can pull it from its shelf, and she’s right, this is her job, and there’s probably a bunch of legal whatnot because it’s alcohol, but I make myself happy counting out shot glasses.
They’re the disposable ones with the waxed paper that always reminds me of the gym I had a membership to in high school.
They had these giant jugs of mouthwash with pumps on them and a dispenser that these cups popped out of.
I was a smelly teen and didn’t understand the complimentary rinse, but I liked the tingle of it enough that I always had a couple helpings of it.
I swear I still taste the cool mint in the wax as I throw back the first shot Misty pours. Everyone cheers like I’ve done something amazing, and I’m still high enough on adrenaline that I kind of want to start a bar fight. It feels good. This is the time.
If not now, when?
If not me, who?
Without bad there can be no good, which means that bad is good. Especially bar fights.
I look around for Gabe Shaunessy. He still owes me for what happened at the gala. I almost broke my hand punching his dick because he was wearing his cup like a fucking weirdo. But then I remember he’s not here. He’s on a date.
I scan the group some more, finally settling on Briggs. The server they’ve added to their Sunday night staff, Vera, is offering him a shot off her cocktail tray, but he’s a snobby son of a bitch. He wrinkles his nose and waves her off like a damn servant.
I could start a fight with him.
I hoist myself up and over the counter and get another round of cheers. And since I’m such a fucking hotshot, I don’t even need to muscle my way through. The crowd parts like the Red Sea for me.
I stomp straight through, on the path to Merrick, ready to clean his clock. The fucker doesn’t even see me. Gonna fuck him up. Everyone will think his black eye is from the game.
This is a good idea.
I cock my right arm back, only for it to get grabbed from behind. Whoever it is knows what he’s doing and is quick and seamless about tucking my fist behind my back.
Which means it’s Kai Bodley. He lives with me and Gabe and Merrick.
When they recruited us all for the expansion team, Merrick bought a giant house, figuring there’d be a bunch of single guys who didn’t want to figure out housing, and he was right.
But me and Gabe and Merrick are besties; Bodley’s just a teammate.
With one hell of a grip.
I squirm in that one-handed grip as Merrick strolls off like he has no idea how close he got to getting punched in the face. Asshole.
“Dude, what is your problem?” I snarl at Bodley.
“Seriously? You’re asking me that?”
“Yeah, I’m asking you that. I’m just trying to have a good time.”
Bodley releases my arm with a shove that has me stumbling a few steps, but I catch myself. “Bro!” I yell. “I could have fallen, asshat!”
“You were about to take a swing at Briggs, and that’s got you mad? The fuck has been your issue lately? The shit you pulled at the gala, and now this? Briggs and Shaunessy are your friends. And you’re going to get cut if you get your ass in trouble again.”
“I am a fucking god!”
Bodley looks like he’s about to breathe fire and just torch the entire bar for a few seconds, but then he hooks his arm in mine and casually drags me out of the bar.
I consider fighting back, but Bodley’s huge, one of those massive Polynesian dudes who make you think of those groupers that forgot to stop growing because they’re in the ocean, so what’s stopping them.
And I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I just walk alongside him with our arms hooked together at the elbows.
Just bro stuff.