Here's hoping this one pays off.
“You need help with anything?”
I turn to see Leo Santos, Pete’s middle brother, walking into the kitchen. He’s a little shorter than Pete, not quite as hairy, and a whole lot quieter. But the kid’s a hell of a hockey player, and I want him to feel like he’s part of a team, not part of a war.
“Yeah, you want to slice some of that bread?” I ask, gesturing to a couple loaves I picked up at the bakery downtown. I didn’t even think about getting them sliced. Now I’ll know for next time, if there is a next time.
Leo slices the crusty Italian bread, and by the time we’ve got the counter covered in trays and dishes, everybody else has arrived. The guys go through four pans of lasagna like they’ve never eaten before, and I’m glad I made plates for Fallon and Liza and stuck them in the fridge. If I waited until dinner was over, there’d be nothing left.
Once everybody’s gone through the line, I fill my dish and take my seat at the table. It’s too quiet and that’s either because everyone’s busy eating or because the tension is still so thick you could cut it with that serrated knife Leo was using earlier.
I’ve got a mouthful of food, but I’m trying to swallow it without choking so I can get the conversation started.
“Is there more sausage? Mason, can you hand me thatplate?” Wagner reaches for the platter, but Blue smacks his arm.
“That’s not Mason,” he corrects. “That’s Mason—the one with the curly hair.”
Two of the freshmen look at each other and then at Blue and Wagner. “We’re both named Mason,” they say in unison.
“Well, that makes it easy,” Wagner says, shrugging as he hands the platter back to Mason with the straight hair.
“The fuck it does, Sparky.” Blue ignores the bird Wagner’s flashing in his direction. “We can’t have two guys named Mason, especially if they’re both freshmen. They need nicknames.”
“Fine,” Wagner grumbles. “When’s your birthday?” he asks Mason with straight hair.
“I turn nineteen in March,” the kid answers in between bites of pasta.
“What about you?” he asks, turning his attention to the curly haired Mason.
“I’ll be nineteen in January.”
“Perfect,” Wagner says in a monotone voice. “You’re Mason Number One and Mr. March, you’re Mason Number Two.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Blue mutters as he walks to the fridge for another drink. “Where did I go wrong? We’ve been best friends our entire lives and you think Mason Number One and Mason Number Two are acceptable nicknames?”
Wagner just laughs. “Yeah, they’re acceptable.”
“False,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. All eyes turn toward me, but I’m not staying quiet. “Nicknames are part of hockey, and I can’t believe someone else on the team finally sees the light like I do. I also can’t believe it’s you, honestly,” I say, only half joking.
Blue shakes his head. “I know the importance of nicknames all too fucking well, don’t I, Sparky?”
“You call me that one more time and I’ll knock that stupid smirk off your face.” Wagner’s voice is cold as steel.
“You can try,” Blue laughs.
Shit just got interesting. “Wait, did I hear you right? Wagner, should we have all been calling you Sparky this whole time?”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “If you all want to die.”
Blue rolls his eyes. “He’s all talk,” he assures us. “Well, you should probably sleep with one eye open, Mickey, but the rest of you are safe from Wagner’s wrath, I promise. He’s just pissy because he gave me the most predictable nickname in the world, and I gave him the best one.”
Wagner rubs his temples. “Dude, we were five. You need to get over that shit.”
These two fight like an old married couple, and if they didn’t annoy me so much, it’d be funny.
“How am I supposed to get over it? Literally everyone except my father calls me Blue because you have the creative capacity of an ice skate.”
Wagner sighs. “You kept buggin me for a nickname, so I gave you one. Your name’s Grover, so the first thing I thought of was Blue. Fucking sue me.”
