Page 8 of From Wink to Kink

My phone rings.

“Ty.”

“Rubes.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you idiot,” I say.

“I know that, you idiot,” he answers. “Oh, and you’re flying first class, you’ll be getting vacation pay, and I’ve even already called your boss to get you the week off. Of course I had to give him a bunch of tickets to some Aftershocks games, but it’s all good.”

“You did wha—? How?—?”

He laughs. “I have Matthew in my phone from the time you brought him to the game. He gave me your boss’s info, so I texted her. You’re good to go.”

“Oh my God…”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Rubes. Big brother has taken care of everything.”

I’m speechless. Tyler can be a pain in the ass. No, correction, heisa pain in the ass. But he’s also the sweetest guy I’ve ever known.

“I love you, Tyler. Thank you.”

“I love you too, Rubes. Just tell me, though. Are you moping over that Tod dude? Did you sleep with him?”

My cheeks flame as my mouth drops open. I reply fast. It’s way too early for this kind of interrogation, especially from my big brother.

“Why do you need to know that?”

He laughs. “So I know how bad to beat him up.”

I shake my head even as a laugh squeaks out of my throat.

If Tod knew there’d be three men talking about hurting him, he’d for sure never have broken up with me the way he did.

He’d never have dated me in the first place, for that matter.

4

CHUCK

I stretchout on the concrete bench, my legs dangling off the end of it because, apparently, the San Francisco Police Department didn't account for six-foot-four hockey players when they designed their drunk tanks. I wince at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps, and the air smells like a delightful cocktail of disinfectant, piss, and regret.

Just another Tuesday night for Chuck Newcomb, NHL star.

And occasional jailbird.

"Newcomb!" a gruff voice hollers. "Your fairy godmother's here to bail you out."

I sit up, wincing as my head throbs in protest. Note to self—next time you decide to play real-life Mortal Kombat in a bar, maybe dodge a few more punches.

I stumble to my feet, catching sight of said ‘fairy godmother’ as I’m led out of lockup. Vince Vincent, Aftershocks’ PR wizard and professional pain in my ass, stands there looking like he's sucking on a lemon that's been marinated in pure disappointment.

"Chuck," he says, his voice flatter than week-old beer. "Fancy meeting you here.Again."

I flash him my best shit-eating grin. "Vince! Buddy! You didn't have to get all dressed up for little old me."

He doesn't crack a smile. I didn’t think he would.

The officer returns my belongings, and I saunter out ahead of Vince just to piss him off, and I try to ignore my dry mouth and the way the room is tilting under my feet. As we walk through the station, I can't help but notice the starstruck looks from some of the officers and other perps. One guy even asks for my autograph as I pass.

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