3
Ollie
My head is fucking pounding. Or maybe someone’s got a jackhammer and they’re testing it out right next to my bed. Summoning more coordination than I should have to, I open one eyelid and peer around the room. Nope. No jackhammers.
I start to tug the covers over my head, but the second I close my eyes, the jackhammer starts up again. Maybe it’s a wrecking ball? Or a drumline?
Whatever the fuck it is, it won’t shut the hell up, which means I gotta go deal with it if I ever want to get back to sleep. My one open eye lands on my phone screen. It’s six a.m.Holy fuck. I’m about to fight with a jackhammer and then fall into bed for a few more hours.
I don’t bother putting clothes on. This shouldn’t take long. I’ll just punch it. Or pull the plug. Solid plan.
We never made it to Wolfie’s last night, which is a damn good thing because we definitely would have gotten kicked out.
The general consensus of the team is that adding Dutton Wagner and Blue Halliday to the team is fuckingbullshit, so we did the only thing we could do. We drank ourselves stupid.
Looking back, we probably had other options, but I can’t remember them right now. My feet carry me down the steps and it’s a testament to my athleticism that I don’t fall on my ass. I only got to bed about two hours ago, and I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk.
JT hung out for an hour or so, but he only drank water. He’s a family man now, so he listened to our bitchfest for a while then headed home to his girls.
That meant the rest of us were left to our own devices, like kids whose parents go on vacation.
I started mixing drinks, Mickey started preaching about the evils of Tits (the Woodcock mascot, not actual tits. We love those.), and Deano, Hainesy, and Jenksy cheered us on. We whined and ranted until the wee hours, and I just hope Liza doesn’t plan on moving in until late afternoon. We’ll have to scramble to get this place in order so she doesn’t quit on her first day as house manager. That was one of the conditions Booker insisted on. He was adamant about not gifting us a house only for us to turn around and destroy it.
And really, that’s fair.
What’s not fair is the motherfucking jackhammer. Christ. It’s gotta be right outside our door. But that makes no sense. Our front steps are made of brick and they’re in good shape. Who the hell’s starting unnecessary home renovations at six in the freaking morning?
I shuffle over to the door and the noise just gets louder. It takes a second for my pickled brain to remember the alarm code, but when I go to punch it in, I realize we never locked up last night.
Fuck. Me.
I pull open the door quickly before jumping back. Ifsome asshat’s operating heavy machinery out there, I’ll be damned if I’m getting nailed in the face with flying bits of concrete.
What happens next will surely go down in Bainbridge Hockey legend. If we all survive that long.
As I step out of the way of shrapnel, I get a good enough look at the front door to realize there’s no jackhammer. It’s only Liza. And she’s been knocking furiously, trying like hell to get our attention.
Her eyes are narrowed. Her lips are pursed. Her fist is poised like the door is still in front of her. And her face is bright red.
Until it isn’t.
In slow-fucking-motion, a metric fuck ton of glitter rains down on us. I’m far back enough that I dodge most of it, though I’m sure I’ll find a damn handful of the stuffin the shower later today.
Liza isn’t so lucky. She’s fucking drenched in it. Her dark brown hair looks like one of those Halloween wigs. It’s a shiny, unnatural shade of purple. Same with her skin. And her clothes. She blinks rapidly, her eyes a bright blue that seems electric with the purple background. On second thought, maybe that’s not electricity or excitement. Maybe it’s pure, unfiltered anger.
I hear a bark of laughter behind me, but when I turn toward the noise, it stops suddenly.
“Oh, fuck.My bad.”
Before I can tell Blue Halliday where to shove his warehouse-sized box of glitter, Liza lays into him.
“Your bad?Your bad?” she shrieks. Liza’s been working in the equipment department for a couple years now. She’s friendly and helpful, sweet and kind. But right now, dripping in glitter? She’s a damn rage monster.
Blue’s got his palms up in the universal gesture ofsurrender, but he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice when he opens his mouth to apologize. “Shit. I’m sorry. The glitter was meant for these guys,” he says, pointing in my direction.
From the look on her shiny purple face, she’s not buying it. “Are you a child? An overgrown toddler? Who the hell covers his teammates in glitter?”
“Uh, I do,” he admits.
