Page 75 of Puck Wild


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"Says who?" She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Look, I know things are different without Jake. We all know it, but trying to be two players at once is just gonna burn you out faster."

There it was—Jake's name, spoken aloud at last.

"He's not coming back," I said quietly.

"Probably not." Juno's honesty was brutal and necessary. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Before I could answer, the opening notes of "Don't Stop Believin'" blasted from a karaoke setup in the corner.

"Oh no," I muttered. "Might be time for me to leave."

"Oh yes," Juno grinned. "This is about to get very interesting."

Pickle stepped up to the microphone and started belting out the tune. His voice cracked on the high notes, but he powered through.

The entire bar sang along on the chorus. It was ridiculous. It was loud. It was the freewheeling mayhem I usually avoided.

And yet, for the first time in nearly a week, I wasn't persistently angry and hurt over missing someone who'd probably already forgotten Thunder Bay existed.

I was still home.

Three beers in, the world's rough edges began to soften.

Not drunk—I wasn't drunk. I was strategically relaxed, a completely different thing. The pain in my ribs was manageable as long as I didn't move too quickly or laugh too hard.

Unfortunately, Pickle's karaoke performance made the "don't laugh too hard" part increasingly difficult.

He'd moved on from Journey to "Eye of the Tiger," complete with air guitar. Murphy provided backup vocals, sounding like a moose in distress. Somehow, it all worked.

"Your turn, Spreadsheet!" Hog's voice boomed across the table. "Time to show these amateurs how it's done!"

"Absolutely not. I don't sing in public."

Juno tried to be helpful. "Everyone sings in public after enough beer. It's a scientifically proven fact."

"That's bad science."

"The best kind. Besides, Pickle already signed you up."

The beers weakened my resistance. "What song?"

Kowalczyk grinned and pulled out his phone, scrolling through a carefully curated playlist of musical disasters. "We had a few options. 'Islands in the Stream' was the front-runner, but then Juno suggested something with more emotional range."

"Please tell me it's not 'My Heart Will Go On.'"

"Better." Juno's smile was pure evil. "'Total Eclipse of the Heart.'"

I stared at her. "You want me to sing Bonnie Tyler? In public? With witnesses?"

"I want you to stop thinking for five goddamn minutes and do something ridiculous." Her voice softened, and she spoke directly into my ear. "When's the last time you let yourself be bad at something?"

The question hit hard. I was good at being good at things. That was my entire identity.

Being bad at something on purpose would be like wearing my underwear on the outside.

The alcohol prevented the rational part of my brain from staging an intervention. "Fine, but if I die of embarrassment, I'm haunting all of you."

The cheer from our table was loud enough to rattle the neon beer signs. Pickle finished his performance with a dramatic bow and immediately started chanting my name. It caught on with disturbing enthusiasm.