Page 8 of King

“He’s a brash one, our young King,” Rafferty drawls, clapping his hand on my shoulder.

Atlas materializes, fully dressed and gear bag in hand. “Where are we going tonight? And most importantly, who’s DD since I was last time?”

“That would be me,” I reply, patting my pocket for the keys to my Macan. “And I just assumed we’d head over to Mario’s.”

As if on cue, a shrill whistle cuts through the locker room and I turn to see Hendrix standing on a bench. The chatter dies and everyone looks over to him. “I wanted to invite everyone to come out to Jerry’s tonight to celebrate. It’s Bear’s birthday and we’re going to hoist a few with him. First round’s on me.”

A cheer goes up and I turn to Atlas. “Looks like we’re going to Jerry’s.”

Jerry’s Lounge is the bar owned by Hendrix’s girlfriend, Stevie. It’s named after her grandfather who opened the place in the nineties. While it’s not as convenient as Mario’s, I have to admit, I like hanging out there more. It’s got a good neighborhood vibe, although it’s mostly filled with bikers. Still, the Titans who hang out there are treated more like normal Joes than famous athletes, and that’s more my speed.

North thumbs over his shoulder and I look to see Foster walking out of the locker room. “I guess he’s not coming.”

I shake my head. I’d asked him earlier if he was going out with us but he declined. “I think it’s still too soon after all that shit went down with Sandra. I think he wants to stick close to home.”

“Who could blame him with a hottie like Mazzy there waiting for him?” Rafferty guffaws.

“Always thinking with your dick,” North says with a shake of his head.

“Like all of you don’t think Mazzy is super hot.”

Not one of us deny it, because yeah… she’s gorgeous. But she’s also smart, funny and genuine. A triple threat. There was a time before I knew Foster was into her that I’d even considered asking her out. Probably half the team had thought to do the same.

Van walks by us wearing a dopey grin. He’s had that look ever since Simone gave birth to their daughter, Beatrice. He offers fist bumps. “Great game.”

Van is Max Fournier’s brother-in-law and I’ve always wondered what it feels like for him to play against family. Is it hard or is there some satisfaction in beating his wife’s brother? I don’t ask though. Instead, I poke a little at him. “Any new photos?”

North snickers and Rafferty elbows him. It’s been the joke all day today because Van has relentlessly bombarded the team chat thread with pictures of little Bea every fifteen minutes.

“Yeah, man,” Van says, whipping out his phone. We all gather round to see the latest photos, clearly taken by Simone and sent to him while the game was underway. We can poke fun all we want, but admittedly, she’s the cutest baby and more important, she’s the first one born to this rebuilt team. That makes her a little bit all of ours and extra special.

“How’s Simone doing?” I ask.

Van’s smile softens, his voice filled with such tenderness, it almost makes my chest ache. “She’s doing great. So proud of my girl.”

“Bea’s adorable,” Atlas says, leaning over Van’s shoulder to look at his phone. “Congrats again, man. You’re a lucky guy.”

“Thanks.” Van radiates pride and an almost palpable happiness. “It’s been amazing. This little girl has me wrapped around her pinky finger already.”

After we run through the gamut of photos on Van’s phone, we all pick up our bags and head out of the locker room with him. When we reach the door, I look back one more time to the cubbies and the handful of players still here. Penn is buttoning up his dress shirt, his gear bag still empty on the floor.

“You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up,” I say as I turn away from them.

When I approach Penn, he has that wary look on his face that I’ve come to recognize when someone dares try to have a normal conversation with the dude.

I ignore it and ask, “Want to come to Jerry’s with us? I’ve got room in my car.”

“Appreciate it, but I’ll pass,” he replies, gaze dropping to the buttons on his chest.

“Come on, Penn. Come hang out with us tonight. You should celebrate with a few beers.”

“Not a partier,” he mutters, tucking his shirt into his pants.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m the designated driver. You can drink water with me.”

“Not much into socializing.” His eyes cut to mine for a moment as if to punctuate that statement and he turns to grab his belt.

“Yeah, we’ve noticed. Maybe you should give it a try.”

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