Page 20 of Good Boy

Forsberg doesn’t look ready either, poor fucker. He’s been walking around all sour-faced ever since the GM told him he was being booted to Florida. It’s goddamn sacrilege almost. Forsberg is one of those players who gets traded every few seasons, and he’s really fucking sick of it.

It’s going to be weird not to have him on my line this season. Toronto traded Will Forsberg, a solid veteran, for Will O’Connor, a hotshot with a chip on his shoulder. A Will giveth and a Will taketh away. Life always evens itself out, I guess.

Except O’Connor’s played for three teams in two years. Grapevine says he can’t keep his mouth shut or his pants zipped. Apparently someone in the head office thought it’d be a good idea to welcome a media nightmare into our town.

“I got a life here,” Forsberg mutters.

Shitballs. He looks close to tears. I’m not good with tears. Especially man tears.

Luckily, Eriksson stumbles over, saving me from having to bust out a stand-up routine in order to cheer up Forsberg.

“What’d ya think?” Eriksson asks, nodding toward the stage. “I kicked ass up there, huh?”

I nod fervently. “You should quit your day job, dude. Like, right now.”

He nods too. “And Kara always said I couldn’t sing! Told her she was crazy! The twins love my songs!”

Oh no. He’s bringing up Kara and his kids? Already? I wasn’t expecting ex-wife and twin daughters talk to start until Eriksson had downed at least five more beers.

“A good wife would’ve encouraged you to audition for American Idol,” I say solemnly.

“I know, right? Good fuckin’ riddance! She was holding me back.” But he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and now I’m sandwiched between two guys on the verge of man tears.

Abort! a voice in my head shouts.

I’m all about being there for my buds, but this is a celebration, dammit. I’m having fun, and I’m a wee bit buzzed. Too buzzed to think of any inspirational speeches right now. I already used up my epic speech quota last night and then again tonight at the reception dinner.

“’Scuse me,” I say, taking a hasty step. “J-Bomb’s waving me over.”

And holy shit, I’m not lying. Jamie is waving me over. I spare a brief look up at the heavens. Did you do this? I ask the Big Man. He must’ve. The timing can’t be a coincidence.

I lumber over to Jamie, who immediately claps a hand on my arm and murmurs, “Look.”

I follow his gaze to the self-serve dessert station. Wesley is there with his mom. No, Wesley is there hugging his mom.

“How on earth did you make this happen?” Jamie sounds astonished.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d you get Angela Wesley to come to the wedding? My mom and sister have been calling her for months. Hell, I even called her.” His guilty expression darts toward his new husband, as if he’s scared Wes might overhear us all the way across the lawn. “I called her three times,” he admits. “Called his dad’s office too. They hung up on me every time.”

“Samesies. I was starting to get a complex. I mean, not even my high school girlfriend Katty hung up on me that much, and bro, she did that a lot.”

“Katie?”

“No, Katty. Like cat but with a K. Katty. She had huge tits.”

Jamie snickers. “Of course she did.” He pauses, his voice thickening. “So you just kept calling?”

“Every day since you got engaged.” I wrinkle my forehead at his wide eyes. “I knew it’d make him happy to have at least one of his folks here. What? That’s not normal?”

“Um, no. It’s not.”

The next thing I know, I’m swallowed up in a bear hug.

“You’re a good friend, Blake. Like…the best.”

I reach around and smack him on the ass. “Right back atcha, J-Bomb.”

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