The first swig is unbeatable. Cold and foamy, the brew slides down my throat and immediately kisses all my sore edges and raw nerves, soothing them, I swear. Another drink, followed by four inconspicuous belches, and we’re finally ready to converse.
Hey, don’t be too quick to judge. When you spend your days around high school kids—predominantly high school boys who are obsessed with spitting, jerking off and fighting each other—the evening requires a certain quiet period. A handful of minutes with zero stimulation, nobody repeating your name over and over, and without anyone needing you—that’s the walk to my truck after practice, the drive to the bar, and the first few drinks.
West rolls his neck, making it crack. He lets out a sigh. “Fuuuck.”
Jake arches a brow. “That a general fuck or does it have a name?”
West takes another drink. “Paperwork. Each year that goes by, there is more and more fucking paperwork.” He takes a long drink, nearly finishing his beer. “I’m so sick of seeing my own signature, if I never saw it again I’d be happy.”
Hudson takes another drink too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before pointing out the obvious. “Yeah but West, you must be good at paperwork. The schools have gotten more funding for sports in the last few years than ever before.”
He’s got a good point. West has done an exceptional job getting funding for our athletic programs. See, getting money for your school isn’t much different than how the rest of the world works; the schools that produce more collegiate level athletes get the money. Period. But somehow, West has made strides without Bluebell High being a champion of all sports.
West scratches the back of his head. “Well, good at it or not, I kinda miss teaching. Being holed up in that office all day, signing things, arguing with people over email, it’s just…every day just rolls into the next.”
I arch a brow. “That good, eh?”
He shrugs. “You know what I mean.” At the same time, his phone vibrates and he moves quickly to unlock the screen. His lips curve into a mischievous grin as he begins texting with one hand, and finishing his beer with the other. I’ve popped by Leah’s office a few times and caught sight of West texting with that same grin on his face.
I nudge him, but respect his privacy and don’t eye his screen. “Who’s that?”
His cheeks flare with color, which pulls an “uh oh” from Jake and a “he’s in trouble now” from Hudson. I nudge him again.
“No one. Just…a friend.” He flags down the waitress for another beer, and she brings us all another round without question.
“Yep, that’s exactly what I look like when I’m texting Hudson.” I lean back in the stool, and scratch at my forehead beneath the sweatband bow.
Hudson drapes a hand over his chest. “Oh my god,” he feigns, “I look like that when I’m textin’ you too!”
Jake snorts but finishes his beer, moving onto the next. As he pushes his empty out of the way, his face twists up in a wince, and he reaches behind himself, pressing one hand to his lower back. “Fuck,” he groans, cautiously settling into the chair again.
“Back still hurtin’ ya?” Hudson asks, taking his hat off to reveal a bandaid smack dab in the middle of his forehead.
I look between the two of them. “What happened to you two?”
Jake’s cheeks flush, and I got my answer.
Hudson doesn’t get all red and shy away from it. He used to, but that was before we all got to know his wife Dolly really well. He couldn’t lie about his injuries these days even if he wanted to. Jake, however, is still getting used to the fact we all know about his kinky sex life. Women talk. And I happen to eat lunch with his wife a few days a week. I don’t care to know it, but Riley doesn’t care that I don’t care to know.
Jake clears his throat. “I was workin’ out back and?—”
“Liar.” I sip my beer. “Riley got bucked off your kinkylittle bedroom saddle rack and you threw your back out catchin’ her.”
Jake morphs into the hue of a vine-ripe tomato. “Yep, that’s about the size of it.”
I look at Hudson, who is finding Jake’s situation far too funny, considering.
I point the neck of my beer at him. “What’re you laughing at? I know you didn’t get that bandage on your head from ringing the bell at Salvation Army.”
He smiles, and as much as I love giving him a hard time, I’m happy for the guy. He’s got a great goddamn life, but it ain’t always been that way. Still, I gotta stick it to him.
“Dolly is going through her… contortionist phase,” he starts, but I raise my palm to order him to stop right the fuck there.
“I like her too much to have to see it in my mind, Hud,” I tell him.
He nods. “Well, anyway, her position didn’t hold and I took a foot to the head two nights ago.”
At his admission, and Jake’s too, I can’t help but let out a sigh that is far heavier sounding than I intended. “I hope she’s okay,” I tell him, trying like hell to bypass the sudden knot of… I don’t even know what it is. Jealousy? Longing? Loneliness?
