I snort. “Oh, it’s real. Real big.”
Her cheeks turn the color of a Taki, and she turns to glare at her teammates. “It didn’t say anything on the wheel about a giant phallus!”
Her friends burst into hysterical giggles. I swear to God there are tears—actual tears—streaming down the blond one’s face. “You did say you were looking forward to a night you’d never forget. I’d say this qualifies.”
“Be serious.” Her gaze slides to the plastic appendage. “I cannot put that thing in my mouth. Who knows where it’s been?”
“That’s what she said!” the brunette quips, setting off another round of laughter.
“Your support is duly noted.” Tink turns back to the bartender. “Do you have one without the, uh—” She points, clearly unable to say the wordsgiant pink dick.
I’ve seen a lot of shit at Waverly, but never in my life have I seen a bong with a cock-shaped mouthpiece. It’s actually kind of genius, and if it helps me win, all the better.
“No way, Tink. You can’t ask for modifications.” I smirk. “The wheel has spoken.”
She rounds on me, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Let’s see if you feel the same way after you spin, shall we?”
Guilt niggles at my conscience, but I shut the little fucker down. Tink is an adult. She has the agency to decide if she wants to proceed or tap out, just like me.
I step up to the wheel, and the hockey team goes nuts. The assholes are probably hoping I spin the bong too.
Fuck. That can’t happen. I literally cannot chug a beer from a penis bong.
I’m no longer a college player. I’m a member of the National Hockey League. Coach will have my ass if pictures of me partying like a dirtbag end up online. And they’ll definitely end up online. Hell, they’d probably go viral.
It would just be a matter of time…
Tink smiles sweetly up at me. “Having second thoughts?”
“Not a chance.” I can’t back down. My team is counting on me. Besides, the odds of spinning the bong twice in a row have to be astronomical, right? Math isn’t my strong suit, but there’sgot to be a theorem that says I’m in the clear. I meet Tink’s stare, offering a smile of my own. “I’m playing to win.”
I grip the edge of the wheel and let it rip. Nervous energy coils in my gut, but I’m used to the feeling. You don’t play D1 hockey without figuring out how to manage stress and uncertainty.
The wheel clacks along, and my chest tightens every time the wordbongpasses under the flapper.
It’ll be fine.
Worst-case scenario, I’ll ask Jones to take my place.
Keep dreaming. No way Tink will let you make a substitution after you gave her shit about the bong.
Whatever. That’s a problem for future me. Current me needs to focus on the wheel.
Despite the noise of the bar, theclack clack clackof the flapper echoes in my brain, each peg a loaded threat. The wheel slows, and I flex my fingers at my sides.
How the hell did a fun beach game become so fraught with tension? Not even an hour ago I was chilling with my boys. Now I’m staring at this wheel like it holds my future in its grasp.
My eyes track the words as they roll past at a crawl. The wheel finally stops on the picture of a pepper and…I’ve got nothing.
The bartender whoops, and the crowd follows his lead, the volume jumping several decibels in an instant.
“Looks like the Wheel of Ill Fortune strikes again.”
I turn to Tink. “What do you think it means?”
She eyes the bartender. “There's no point speculating when we’re about to find out.”
The bartender holds up a large red chili pepper, and my confidence wavers. “Our second contestant must eat an entire habanero chili, grown right here on the Yucatán Peninsula.”
