The Play

“Cool. Cheers.” I lift my own cup.

Nico strolls back to his friends. I’m mollified to see that he doesn’t stand next to any of the girls, but is immediately engrossed in conversation with a short, balding guy in a black tank top. I don’t care if Nico catches me watching him—I’m just looking out for Demi. She’s a good egg.

“Just like you,” I tell Pablo, patting my pocket.

“I. HAVE. ARRIVED!”

The majestic shout is courtesy of Mike Hollis, who emerges onto the patio from the back door, both arms raised in a victory pose. Rupi scampers at his heels like an annoyed kitten.

Despite being incredibly obnoxious, Hollis was quite popular when he attended Briar. Old teammates and a slew of fans wander over to say hello and he accepts their welcome and their praise as if he’s Meghan Markle greeting the commoners.

Rupi spots me and marches up. She’s clad in traditional Rupi attire: a knee-length, high-waisted skirt and a prim, buttoned tee with a high neckline.

“I really wanted to watch Riverdale tonight, Hunter,” she huffs.

I throw an arm around her tiny shoulders. “Sorry, Rupes. But sometimes we need to make sacrifices for those we love.”

A huge smile practically breaks her face in two. “Oh my gosh, that was the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. I knew you were a secret softie.”

“Don’t tell anyone. You want a drink?”

“I can’t. I drove us here.”

“I thought you didn’t have a license.”

“No, I don’t have a fake license. Ugh, Hunter, you don’t know me at all.”

I suppose I don’t, and I gotta admit—I’m A-OK with that. Rupi is exhausting on a good day.

“Is that Pablo?” Her expression brightens. “I didn’t know we had him this weekend,” she adds, as if discussing the custody arrangement of a human child. “Let me hold him!”

I extract the pink bundle from my pocket and pass it to Rupi. “Go nuts,” I tell her.

We mingle for the next hour or so. Foster passes me a joint and I take a deep drag before handing it back. I feel good. Loose, relaxed. Happy to just chill with my buddies and dance with Rupi to the crappy pop music blasting from the outdoor speakers. For the first time in ages, I’m not thinking about sex. Women try to catch my eye. Several come over to flirt with me. But I’m not feeling it. No libido for me tonight. Weed has that effect on me.

“Pablooooo!” Hollis crows. He’d been chatting with some dudes from the lacrosse team, but now he rejoins us near the deep end of the pool. “Hand ’im over, babe.”

“Leave Pablo alone,” Rupi chastises, protectively holding the egg to her bosom. “You’re too drunk to hold him.”

“I am not! C’mon, pass ’im to me.”

“No.”

“Fine, then I’ll just…TAKE HIM FROM YOU!” Like a ninja, Hollis snatches the egg from his girlfriend. Only, she’s right—he’s too drunk to be holding small objects. His big paw fumbles with Pablo, who flies out of Hollis’s grip and goes sailing.

Directly into the pool.

Bucky cries out in horror. Hell, even I’m momentarily stunned. We all stare at the little bundle bobbing in the water, which appears blue thanks to the lit-up pool tiles. Nobody moves.

“Did we just kill him?” Foster demands.

“Can pigs swim?” Rupi asks anxiously.

“No idea,” I admit. Pablo is still floating in the pool.

“Quick, someone Google if pigs can swim,” Bucky orders.

Rupi’s already on her phone. “Oh my gosh,” she says a moment later, her voice rippling with relief. “They can! It says here that some pigs take naturally to water, like dogs. Others hate getting wet. You can train them to swim.” She examines our aquatic egg. “If it was a real pig I don’t think he’d be able to get out of the pool by himself, though. There’s no steps in the shallow end.”

“Yeah, he ain’t climbing that ladder,” Foster agrees.

All eyes turn to me.

“What?” I say.

“You’re in charge of him tonight. You need to get him out.”

“Pardon me?” I stare at the empty pool, which an hour ago was teeming with people. Now it’s almost two a.m. and there’s no swimming to be had. “I’m not jumping in the pool, you fuckers.”

“We never trained him to swim,” Bucky argues. “Right now he’s treading water. Soon he’ll be dead.”

“This has gone too far,” I say firmly.

Except, to my genuine shock, everyone stands their ground, even Foster. Bucky crosses his arms tightly.

“Fuck’s sake,” I snap. “You’re seriously gonna make me do this?”

I’m cursing up a blue streak as I strip out of my shirt. Shoes and cargo shorts come off too, because I’m not sitting soaking wet in an Uber on the way home.

I step toward the edge of the deck. “You assholes don’t deserve me as a captain,” I mutter, and then I dive into the water in my boxers.

Luckily, the temperature is like bath water, and as I swim for Pablo, I force myself to think good thoughts about my team.

Captain rule number a million: Patience. Always be patient.

With Pablo in hand, I climb up the ladder, dripping water all over the concrete deck. “Here,” I mutter to Foster, shoving the egg in his hand. “I’m going upstairs to dry off and change.”

Rupi’s unhappy gaze fixes on my underwear. “Hunter, I can see the outline of your penis.”

Yup, because the boxers are white, and they’re soaked and sticking to my flesh. I scowl at Rupi before gathering my discarded clothing and stalking into the house.

It’s late and the party is winding down, so there’s no line at the main floor bathroom. But the door is locked and when I knock on it, an agonized voice slurs, “Go ’way, I’m busy in ’ere.”

So I trudge upstairs and try the one in the hall. Door’s shut, but I jiggle the knob and find it’s unlocked. I push the door open in time to hear a husky groan and see Conor Edwards fisting both his hands in a tangle of blonde hair.

“Ahhh fuck, I’m coming,” he rasps, his hips pumping. And on her knees Michelle swallows every drop.

Jesus!!

I quickly slam the door, not caring if they heard it. I’ve witnessed friends hooking up before, but never had the honor of staring into their heavy-lidded eyes fuzzy with bliss as they climax. Goddamn Conor. Hasn’t he ever heard of a lock?

My gaze turns toward a bedroom at the end of the all. I know the guy who lives there—Ben something or other. And he has a private bath. My wet body is dripping water on the carpet. I need a towel and a wastebasket to toss my boxers in. Ben’s bathroom, it is.

But I’ve only taken one step down the hall when Ben’s door swings open and I witness yet another thing I shouldn’t.

Only this time it’s worse than Conor coming in some chick’s mouth.

Much, much worse.

 

 

12

 

 

Hunter

 

 

I’m up at six a.m. on Monday. We have morning skate at seven and I need to eat, because I always have breakfast before practice. And then a second breakfast afterwards in the hockey facility kitchen. Like a hobbit.