Soaking wet, we erupted with stunned laughter and surveyed the aftermath.
“Close one.” Rust, team captain and host of our party, eyed the wet pavement—the splash nearly reached all the way to his sizzling grill, which he stood behind. “We would’ve had problems if you’d gotten the burgers wet, Tank.”
Clinging to the edge of the pool, Tank chuckled, water streaming down his grinning face. “Man, if I got the burgers wet, I would’ve kicked myownass.”
“Ugh. Great.” My best friend, Brett, AKA Showtime, flicked water off the screen of his phone. “Your fat-ass cannonball got my phone wet, Tank.”
“Hey, I’m not fat. I’mchubby.” Tank proudly lifted his chin. “Chubby but effective.”
“Well, youeffectivelyowe me a new iPhone if I can’t get this thing to turn on again.”
I laughed. “It’s a pool party, Showtime. You might get a little wet, bud.” I reached for my coke can and took a sip. And y’know, Ithoughtthe can felt a little heavier when I raised to my lips, but I didn’t think anything of it—until a warm, salty taste hit my tongue, and I immediately spat it out.
“UGH!” Grimacing, I wiped my mouth and tongue against the crook of my elbow. “You gotpool waterin my drink, Tank!”
The guys exploded with laughter and the girls squealed,ewwww!!!
Brett smirked. “It’s a pool party, bud. What’d you expect? You might get a little pool water in your sodie-pop.”
“Dude, that’s so fucking nasty.” I groaned and made a quick trip over to the refreshment table to get a new soda. Back on mylounger, I cracked the can open and took a quick swig to make a little room. With shifty eyes, I discreetly pulled a flask from the pocket of my swim trunks.
Now I already know what you’re thinking, so let’s get this out of the way real quick: I don’t have a drinking problem. And I’m not saying that because that’s what literally everyone who’s in denial about their drinking problem says. No, seriously—IknowI look bad right now, given what you know about me. But the truth is, I only drink a couple times a week during the season. Now, do I love to party? Oh, absolutely! I’m a pro hockey player. Wealllove to party and get girls. Hell, that’s why a lot of us wanted to be pros in the first place.
And yes, I know, I made a few certain promises. And Iintendto fulfill every single one of those promises assoonas the off-season officially starts. Which is tomorrow, if you ask me. Because you’d be crazy if you thought I was going to miss out on our year-end bender*. After all—and I don’t expect this to happen, but humor me for a sec—if Killer and Capuano actuallydotrade me? Then this might very well be my last time hanging with these guys. And I intend to enjoy my time with my friends,not sit around moping, stone-sober, like some kind of pathetic loser.
*Year-end bender:an annual hockey tradition. After the season ends, but before everyone has gone their separate ways for the summer, the team gets together for one last party to get banged up, maybe air out any grievances, andofficiallyput the season to rest.
I screwed the cap back onto my flask and grinned, thinking I’d gotten away with it again. But as I tried to sneak the flask back into my pocket, Brett’s girlfriend, McKayla, spotted the metal container.
“Hey! Is that a flask? Did you really just pour alcohol straight into your soda can?!” she asked. “Whodoesthat?!”
“Yeah, what the hell?” Brett joined in, grinning. “Why are you drinking like a hobo? And what’s in that flask? Moonshine?”
“Har har. It’s just vodka.”
“Okay, but why aren’t you drinking it out of one of these?” Brett held up his plastic red cup, the same as everyone else was using.
“So it doesn’t look like I’m drinking. Duh.”
Everyone around blinked at me, their expressions blank.
“Dak, bro, who cares? We’realldrinking,” Connor said.
“That’s the whole point of the year-end bender,” Brock added.
“Shh.” I pointed past the mesquite trees and the privacy fence. “You never know who might be out there, watching.”
“Dude gets filmed partying one time, now he’s paranoid for life,” Tank joked, earning a ripple of chuckles.
“Season’s over, Dak.” Rust grumbled, a plume of grill smoke rising all around him. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”
Isabelle, Rust’s wife, knelt next to me and viewed things from my perspective. “Whomight be watching us, Dak?”
“The Godfather,” I whispered, playing up my paranoia.
“Oh my! Scary,” she said, playing along. “But he can’t hurt you, Dak. He’s just a character from a movie.”
“I’m not talking aboutthatGodfather. I’m talking about the real one. Sal Capuano.”
