ERIC

Tony, Mott, and I roll into a brunch hotspot just before eleven on this bright Autumn Thursday, wearing our ‘Sunday best,’ as the church-going folk call it. Heads turn to watch as we sit ourselves down without thinking to wait for a hostess to help us out. Only problem is now we don’t have menus, but that’s quickly remedied by a busboy who recognizes us, giddy with excitement as he rushes them over, hands shaking.

Coach picked this place as a congratulations brunch for just the four of us, celebrating Monday night’s game in Chicago.

“Guess we’re early,” Tony proudly says, slapping his napkin on his lap.

Mott looks at him, vibrato rumbling his deep voice, “You haven’t ordered yet.”

“So?”

“So leave it on the table.”

“That’s not the rule.”

“Since when.”

“Never.”

“Wanna bet?”

I’m reading the menu, ignoring them because this is how they always are. All I care about is, “Oh man, I’m going to get scrambled eggs, French toast, double side of bacon, sliced avocado, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

Tony snickers, “Avocado?”

Eyeing him I ask, “You know how good that fruit is?”

Mott mutters while reading the menu, “It’s a vegetable.”

“It’s a fruit,” both Tony and I correct him, in unison.

Mott glances between us from under thick eyebrows. “No shit?” He goes back to making his choice.

“Tony, let me explain the wonders of the best fruit ever invented by God. Avocados are not only delicious additions to pretty much anything except dessert, they have the good kinds of fat that help the machine you call a body absorb nutrients. They’re great for the eyes, loaded with antioxidants. They can lower cholesterol.”

“You don’t have high cholesterol.”

“I’m talkin’ here! They’re also packed with fiber which helps digestion, have twenty different vitamins and minerals, and they carry more potassium than bananas.” I pick up and drop my napkin like I’ve spiked a microphone.

Tony eyes me. “You’re a nerd.”

“Because I read?”

“Yes.”

“Rather be a nerd than a Tony.”

He chuckles, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

A male server approaches our table with no sign of knowing who we are. Good, because we partied pretty hard Monday, checked out the Windy City Tuesday and flew in yesterday. We’re longing for a little quiet today.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

We order a round of coffee and juice, and tell him we’re expecting one more guy. He nods and vanishes.

Mott puts his menu down with all the gentleness of a rhino. “Coach is never late.” His big mug spreads into a grin, voice louder than most. “Look at the lovebirds suckin’ face before noon.”

Tony and I glance over and see a couple in a booth, the guy with his back to us, kissing a girl with long brown hair, her face blocked by his streaked black mop.

“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my stomach turn over as I realize who it is.

I’ve stayed away from the bar after that day in Piedmont Park. Even on the weekends when the team goes, I’ve avoided it, made excuses. Yet I still haven’t been able to get Wren out of my head.

I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

And I keep expecting it to fade.

But from the emptiness in my gut right now at knowing she’s in his arms, it hasn’t. I really don’t need to see her kissing that guy when I want her kissing me.

Shifting to face front again, I grumble, “Is the waiter comin’ with those waters anytime soon?”

“We didn’t order water, Cocker.”

“Oh…right.”

Mott grins, “They finally came up for air. Hey, he’s looking over here atcha.”

“Eric?” Peter calls to our table, adding, “Wow, Tony Sanchez and Mott LaRock!” as he recognizes who I’m with.

Oh fuck, here we go.

Last thing I want is to act friendly.

But I’m no coward either.

Turning in my chair toward the booth I lock eyes with a girl who isn’t Wren. Confused, my eyelids narrow like she might change form if I stare hard enough. Then they flicker to Peter, and by the look on his face he just realized he’s not with the girl he’s supposed to be with, and I know it. But spotting me made him lose his cool, since he’s such a fan. Now it’s too late for him to hide his infidelity.

I rise up from the chair and he retreats like the plastic booth will suck him into a world where he’s safe. Anger boils in my veins turning my vision blood red. That guilt in his fearful eyes tells me he’s cheating—they haven’t broken up since I saw her last. Every instinct is telling me, kick his ass for Wren.

As I head over I realize…wait.

This isn’t my business.

But then I go ahead and kick the shit out of him any way.

The jerk actually squeaks as I lift him by his collar out of the booth. As the quarterback I’m not the biggest, strongest guy on the field. But I’m a Cocker, and we know how to fight. Especially when you hurt someone we care about.

I growl in his face, tossing him onto the floor.

He scrambles up as the girl cries out, “Peter!”

Pointing at her I snarl, “Shut up!” and grab the back of his shirt as he tries to escape.

Mott and Tony don’t know why I’m doing this. They don’t need the reason. They just know there’s a good one for me to blow up like this. They’ve formed a circle with cheater Peter in the eat-shit sandwich.

Nowhere to go, he cowers in front of me as I snarl, “You didn’t have to work that day I ran into you guys, did you?”

“Yeah, I did!”

I punch him. “Wanna try again?”

“Alright, no! I didn’t have to work!”

“Were you with her?” I jam a finger at the booth. He nods, and I shake my head in disgust. “You scumbag.” I hit him with my other fist, breaking his nose.

He grabs it, blood spurting. “My nose! Fuck! Stop it! I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry you got caught!” I hit his jaw, then give him one powerful punch to the dick and ball sack. He doubles over. A whisper would knock him to the ground. With my foot I give him a good shove. He drops, groaning and clutching his jewels.

Coach walks in, freezes, sees the damage, my knuckles, the quiet of the restaurant. “Cocker, What the fuck is goin’ on here?!”

Throwing one last look at the mistress of the hour—or months, however long it’s been hot and heavy between these two—and I shake my head at myself almost as much as at her.

I’ve been there.

I told Wren that.

I’ve been with girls who were taken and never once thought about the person on the other side of the infidelity. Now that I know it’s Wren, and how much this will hurt her, I feel sick for having ever been a part of something this vile.

Stepping over the writhing piece of shit, I leave him in my wake. Mott and Tony walk up with me. Coach and I have had it out before. He wouldn’t let me skip a game when my Grandfather had a heart attack. I played. Won it, too. Then I punched his selfish ass before I raced to the hospital.

“I lost my appetite.”

He sees the look on my face. “Go.” As I walk out I hear him ask my buddies, “Who’s the weenie?”

“Don’t know. Cocker didn’t explain but I think he’s cheating on a friend of Eric’s. Punk was mackin’ on that girl…”

I explode out the door.

Need some air.

My chest is in knots.

I don’t know if I can tell Wren.

It’s not my place.

We’re not friends or anything.

Are we?

Does it matter?

As a human being, should I tell her?

Does she deserve to know?

Fuck yes she does.

And I can’t trust Peter to do it.

Nobody can trust him to do anything but lie.