Page 76 of From Fling to Ring

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TYLER

Minutes ago I couldn’t get out of the locker room fast enough because all I wanted to do was get home. But now that I’m in front of my building, it’s the last place I want to be.

Fuck this.

I detour to the neighborhood bar where I’m a regular in the off-season. The bartenders and regulars are surprised to see me since this is the time of year I usually lie low—during the season I’m not only crazy busy, but also typically try to drink less beer.

“Tyler,” the bartender booms, “welcome in, my man.”

“Good to see you, Benji. It’s been a while.” I take my usual seat, even though I haven’t been there in weeks.

Benji wipes the bar in front of me and throws down a cocktail napkin. “Hey, you don’t look so good.” He points at my hair.

“Oh. Shit,” I say, running my fingers through it. “Yeah, forgot to comb it after practice.”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s better. Anyway, what’s your pleasure? The usual?” he asks, pulling the beer tap without waiting for an answer.

Good move coming in today. The place feels like home, something I’m in desperate need of. Right now, the very skin on my body feels like it doesn’t fit right.

Benji clicks the large screen TV over to basketball. “I’ve been watching your games, man. You’re having a good season.”

“You’re just being nice. I ate shit at our last away game.”

He wipes his hands on a bar towel and looks at me kindly, a lot like my father would. “You know that’s part of it, my man. Even the douchebag reporter who’s talking about your expiration date coming due. I can’t believe some of those guys. They’ll say anything to get ratings or clicks or whatever, whether it’s true or not. He’s probably one of those people who spend all kinds of time on the Tok.”

“It’s TikTok.”

“Oh, so you’re up on that stuff?” he teases.

“Some of the guys on the team are. I’m not. I have little enough privacy as it is.”

“I hear that. So what brings you in today?” he asks.

I avoid his gaze and shrug. “I’ll take another,” I say, passing him my empty glass.

He returns to the tap but continues to stare at me like he knows something.

Yeah, there’s a reason people use bartenders as shrinks. They have a special sense about people.

He sets my beer down on a fresh coaster. “So what’s up? You’re not usually in here this time of year. Is it something with the team? Your dad or your sister? Or is it a girl, maybe?”

I don’t know what I did when Benji mentioned ‘a girl,’ but I must have given myself away because in the next breath, he totally glommed onto that.

“I see. Someone fuck you over? Or did you do the fucking over?”

I take a deep breath. “It’s a little of both.”

Benji’s eyebrows shoot up and he nods, “Interesting. Wonder how the hell that played out.”

I look around the bar. At this time of day, there are a couple old guys in a corner booth, and some drunk guy at the end of the bar, nodding off. There’s no one close enough to overhear the lame-ass story of my life.

So I share it with Benji, the short version anyway. He nods, listening sympathetically, waiting until I finish the whole sordid tale.

Then, he slams his hand on the bar and lets out a roar that grabs the attention of everyone there.

“Damn, Tyler,” he says laughing, “you got beat at your own game.” He hangs his head in disbelief, his chuckling finally dying out.

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