Then comes the really good stuff. A video clip plays of Wesley at eight, kitted out in a full uniform, a determined look in his eyes. He sends a slapshot toward the goal and…misses! And because I’m just that funny, the clip is followed by Wesley missing shots on goal three more times at various ages. There’s one where he’s kind of tiny and skating face-first into a snow bank.
Finally, I get a laugh. Tough crowd here tonight.
More pictures flash on the screen—Wesley at twelve, accepting a trophy. Wesley with a mouth full of braces and a serious case of bedhead. The music swells because my video is coming to an end.
“Brace yourselves,” I tell my audience.
Next we get Wesley at fourteen, grinning, a big pimple right on his nose.
The final shot is my pièce de résistance. It’s the only photo I had to steal. I took it out of Wesley’s wallet one night in D.C. during the playoffs. We were all so exhausted after the overtime period of our game that a single glass of whiskey made us drunk and silly. I’d swiped the photo and had it scanned by the hotel concierge. (Tipped the guy twenty bucks.) It was safely back in Wesley’s wallet a half-hour later.
There’s a chorus of awwwws and sighs as the photo of sixteen-year-old Jamie and Wes together fills the screen. They’re standing on top of a hiking trail somewhere near Lake Placid. Jamie is making a goofy face, but Wes is looking at him with such love that it gives me a big ol’ ache in my chest just to see it.
I check my teammate’s face and find red spots on his cheekbones. Maybe he thinks I’ve embarrassed him with this picture, because it reveals so much. But I haven’t. It’s only embarrassing to declare your love for someone who then betrays you with it.
That kind of shit only happens to me, though. My two friends here are solid.
The show is over, so I click the tablet off and hand it back to the waiter who’s keeping it for me. (Tipped him twenty bucks.) My chocolate mousse is still waiting for me, thank you, baby Jesus. As I tuck in, my phone buzzes with a text. Hoping it’s from my date to the wedding tomorrow, I eagerly glance at the screen.
But it’s from Jess. Where on earth did you get the pictures and video?????
Stop texting me, I reply. Don’t want to have to block you.
From the other end of the table, she gives me an evil look.
Yeah, it’s on.
2 WTF Does Everyone Have Against Glitter?
Blake
I’ve been to a shit ton of bachelor parties. Most of them were rated tripleX. I’m talking strippers who get naked top and bottom. Lap dances. One ended in an orgy. Another involved lots of whipped cream.
Now, I wasn’t expecting all three X’s for this shindig, but would it have killed the grooms to let me plan something with at least one X? Or maybe an Rrating?
I don’t do PG. Makes me antsy.
But Wesley and Jamie hamstrung me, threw a bunch of rules on me and demanded I fall in line. Which means no life-sized cake with a male stripper popping out of it. No tequila shots off each other’s butts. And no glitter.
What the fuck does everyone have against glitter?
“This place is rad,” my teammate Eriksson remarks.
“I’m diggin’ it,” Wes’s college friend Cassell agrees as he brings his cigar to his lips and takes a quick puff. The smoke billows out and paints the air gray, making Jamie cough.
“Whose idea was it to do this at a cigar bar?” Jamie grumbles, but I don’t know why he bothered asking, because those brown eyes are focused on yours truly.
I glare at Groom Number Two. I’ve designated Wesley as Groom Number One. ’Cause I met him first. “Mine, asshat. Because someone vetoed all my other venue suggestions.”
Wesley leans over to smack a kiss on Groom Number Two’s clean-shaven cheek. The nine of us have commandeered the back corner of the dark, paneled room, and the music is low enough that nobody’s gotta shout to be heard. Jamie’s dad and Coach Pat both look as though they’ve died and gone to heaven, sitting side by side in overstuffed leather chairs, sipping on glasses of bourbon.
“This was the lesser of a million evils, babe,” Wes tells his man. “Just be happy there’s nobody waving around a limbo stick.”
“The night’s still young,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. But truth is, I’m kinda starting to enjoy the low-key vibe in this room.
Only thing that’d make it better would be if my girl J-Babe was sitting on my lap right now, puffing on her own stogie. But the women all begged off, which was probably wise.
“Do not have hangovers tomorrow,” Jess had threatened in the restaurant parking lot before she took off. “I don’t want you two looking green in the photographs.”
“Stop worrying so much,” I told her. “They’re responsible adults, just like me.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” she grumbled.
She’s always ribbing me, that sweet blonde angel of mine. I know she loves our verbal foreplay as much as I do. She’s just too stubborn to admit it.