"See, that's the problem." Pickle stepped between me and my car door. "You're gonna go home, sit in your perfectly organized apartment, and brood like some kind of hockey Batman until you drive yourself completely insane."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. You brood like it's an Olympic sport and you're going for the gold." He crossed his arms, trying to look stern. "Which is why we're going to The Drop tonight."
"I'm exhausted."
"So?"
"I'm hurt."
"So?" Pickle's expression softened slightly. "Look, I know you took a shot from a Neanderthal. I saw you moving like a rusty robot for the last period. But sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself isn't gonna fix your ribs or our record."
The kid had a point, which was irritating.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
Pickle's grin could've powered the entire downtown core. "Beer. Bad decisions. Karaoke if we're feeling especially self-destructive." He paused, studying my face. "When's the last time you did something just because it was fun?"
I opened my mouth to answer and realized I couldn't. When was the last time I'd done something purely for enjoyment?
"That's what I thought. I'll pick you up at eight. It's gonna be a shitshow, but it's gonna be our shitshow."
"I don't really do shitshows."
"Maybe that's the problem."
I slept most of the day, and by evening, I could move a few inches without sending pain radiating through my side. The Drop was packed when I arrived with Pickle at my side. I surveyed the sticky floors and neon beer signs with half the letters burned out.
My teammates clustered around a table near the back. Hog dominated one end of the table, gesturing wildly with a beer bottle. Murphy was slumped in his chair, nodding like Hog was delivering the secrets of the universe.
Juno Park held court near the bar, her blue hair catching the colored lights from the ancient disco ball someone had installedironically. She'd traded her usual combat boots for sneakers. Did that mean she planned to dance later? God help us all.
"There they are!" Kowalczyk spotted us first, raising his beer in a salute that sloshed foam onto the table. "The wounded warrior and his loyal squire!"
"I'm nobody's squire," Pickle protested, a grin spreading across his face.
Hog's massive head turned toward us. "Spreadsheet! How you feeling, kid?"
"Like I got hit by a freight train driven by an angry moose."
"That's the spirit!" Murphy raised his beer in salute. "To getting our asses kicked with dignity!"
Someone had already ordered me a beer—Molson Canadian, perfectly adequate for washing away the taste of defeat. I sipped, and some of the tension left my shoulders. The pain in my ribs was still there, but it was more manageable when surrounded by my teammates' cheerful profanity.
Juno appeared at my elbow. "How's the brooding going? Scale of one to Edgar Allan Poe."
"I don't brood."
"Everyone broods. It's whether you're good at it that matters." She drank a pale blue mixed drink through a straw. "Though I must say, sitting alone in your apartment organizing spice racks isn't classy brooding. It's only advanced sadness."
I stared at her. Across the table, Pickle was deep in conversation with Murphy about something that involved a lot of hand gestures and intermittent laughter. He caught my eye and winked, and I realized they'd set me up.
"This whole thing was Pickle's idea, wasn't it? Getting me here."
"Kid's worried about you." Juno's voice was matter-of-fact. "We all are. You've been playing like you're carrying the world's weight on your shoulders."
"Someone has to."
