Holy hell.
“Oh, and Michelle’s down too…” Kelly winks at me. “Everyone always says three is the magic number, but I’m thinking four is even better.”
I wait for my dick to respond. Fuck, I order it to respond. A semi, a ball tingle, a twitch. Anything, damn it. But there’s nothing stirring south of the equator. It’s like my equipment just stopped working.
Come on, Little Dean, help me out, I plead silently. We’re talking fourgy here.
Still flaccid. Apparently Little Dean isn’t going to cooperate unless I give him what he wants. And what he wants, unfortunately, is not Kelly, Michelle and Kelly’s twin sister.
It’s Allie Hayes.
“That sounds…amazing. Really. But I have to pass. I’m having drinks with a buddy tonight,” I say ruefully.
“Anyone I know?”
“Uh, maybe. Beau Maxwell. He’s—”
“The quarterback of our football team,” she finishes. A seductive glint lights her eyes. “Invite him along. Five can be just as fun as four…”
Oh sweet baby Jesus.
I want to be turned on. I pray for it to happen. But Little Dean ain’t having it.
As frustration forms a knot in my gut, I mumble another excuse, ask for a rain check, and then stomp toward my car, cursing my dick the entire time.
*
Twenty minutes later, I slide into the back booth at Malone’s. “Sorry I’m late,” I tell Beau. “Practice lasted an extra hour.”
Briar’s starting quarterback shrugs his big shoulders. “No worries. I just got here a couple minutes ago.” To my relief, the glass of dark ale in front of him has barely been sipped.
As I shrug out of my hockey jacket and toss it beside me on the bench seat, a cute brunette waitress wanders over to take my order.
“So whatcha been up to?” Beau asks after she leaves. “I haven’t seen you since midterms ended.”
“I know, man. Our practice schedule has been brutal. We lost every pre-season game and Coach Jensen is shitting a brick.”
“Fuck, I hear ya. Deluca is shitting bricks too,” he admits, referring to his head coach. “We have no chance of making the playoffs. Hell, I’ll be surprised if we even play in a bowl game.” His face is gloomier than I’ve ever seen it, but there’s not much I can offer in terms of reassurance.
The football team already has three losses under their belt. One or two, maybe they could’ve come back from. But three pretty much torpedoes their chances of ranking this season.
Beau’s blue eyes darken as he takes a long swig of beer and chugs nearly half the pint glass. I feel his frustration. I know what it’s like to be an above average player on a below average team. Granted, the hockey season just started and pre-season games don’t count for standings, but our ineffective game play and clumsy practices don’t bode well for the upcoming season.
On the other hand, we’re three-time national champions, so it’s not like I’ll be crying in my pillow every night if we don’t make it to the playoffs this year. Hell, maybe we’re due for a bad season. Could be the hockey gods’ way of keeping us humble.
Beau’s situation is different, though. Briar recruited him out of high school and he blew everyone away during his freshman year. The coaches actually benched their senior quarterback and named Beau as the starter. He led the team to an undefeated season and took them all the way to the championship game. They lost, sure, but Briar going to the playoffs after more than a decade of being shut out had been a major achievement.
The following year, shit fell apart. Nearly all the star players on the team either graduated or declared early for the draft, leaving Beau with a weak offensive line and an even weaker receiving corps. The team has been racking up losses ever since, which is disheartening in general, but even more so because Beau happens to be an incredibly talented quarterback. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have the necessary weapons around him that it takes to win.
“You had the opportunity to transfer in sophomore year,” I remind him. “LSU all but sucked your dick to lure you down there.”
He scowls. “And, what, abandon my team? What kind of asshole does that?”
An asshole who wants to play for the NFL, I want to say, but I bite back the remark. Thanks to the football team’s recent performances, the chances of Beau going high in the draft—or getting drafted at all—are pretty slim. But I suppose his loyalty to Briar is admirable. It definitely speaks to his character, that’s for sure.
“Subject change,” Beau orders. “Now, before I start crying in my Sam Adams.”
As if on cue, the waitress returns to deliver my Coors Light. I’d asked for a bottle instead of a pint glass, and she makes an elaborate show of popping off the cap and passing me the longneck, bending low so I have a perfect view of her cleavage.