“I should,” Blue bitches.
“Wait,” JT says, propping Calla up on his shoulder and rubbing her back. “That’swhy your name is Blue?”
“Yep,” our teammate answers. “And to add salt to my fucking wounds, Wagner scoffs at the nickname I bestowed on him even though it’s genius.”
“Sparky is genius?” Dean asks, his eyebrow raised.
“Again, we were five,” Blue explains. “But allow me to explain. His last name is Wagner, and a dog wags its tail and dogs are named Sparky. See? Brilliant.”
I laugh. “One hundred percent agree. Sparky is perfect. But the Masons still need actual nicknames.”
“True,” Blue says, and I can’t help but think we’re wearing twin expressions as we size each of the guys up. They’re pretty nondescript looking. They’re both around six feet tall, and neither has facial hair or any distinguishing marks that are visible. They’ve both got brown hair, but one’s is short and straight while the other’s hangs past his shoulders in waves.
“What’s your last name again?” Blue asks Mason number two of the straight hair.
“Tenerovich,” he answers.
Without missing a beat, I christen the freshman with the perfect name. “Dime,” I say at the exact same time that Blue says it.
We look at each other, totally aware that the whole team is staring at us.
“How the fuck do the two of you get Dime?” Wagner asks, looking at the spread of food on the table. “Is there a bag of weed I’m missing?”
Before Blue can answer, I shake my head. “It’s easy. Tenerovich is Ten?—”
“And Ten is a dime,” Blue finishes.
“This is some freaky twin shit. Maybe you two were separated at birth,” Wagner quips. “All right, Mason number one with the curly hair, what’s your last name?”
“Bergeron,” he answers, looking a little like he’s about to piss himself.
“Relax,” I say. “This will be painless.”
Blue looks at me to see if we’re on the same page. We are.
“Flow,” we announce in chorus.
“The hell? That’s an old lady’s name,” Mickey protests.
“My high school teammates call me Burger,” the kid adds, but we pay no attention because those guys clearly suck at the nickname game.
“Yeah, Flo makes no sense,” Deano adds.
I nod at Blue so he can offer the reasoning because no one else in the room understands the complexity of nicknaming people.
“Look at his hair,” Blue says, pointing to the kid’s shoulder length curls because that’s all the explanation necessary. “That’s some high-quality flow.”
The guys at the table just stare at us, but they all know we’re right and the Masons seem happy with their monikers.
“Who else needs a nickname?” I ask.
No one volunteers until Dime hoists Leo’s arm up in the air.
“He’s got a nickname already,” Deano says. “That’s Baby Santos.”
To be fair, Leo looks less than thrilled with the name, but I think it’s a good one.
“Hmm…” Blue’s squinting at Leo as though the perfect name is going to leap off young Santos’s face and right into Grover Halliday’s mind. “I’m thinking Chimney.”
