Page 6 of Snap Shot

“Oooh! Food!” Bea claps then flattens a napkin in her lap. “I'm ready for my heart attack.”

We ditch the shells onto the floor once more to make room for the appetizers and fresh beers, exhaling in unison after taking in the mouth-watering aroma of greasy bar food.

“A toast!” I lift a glass. “To the last night of our girls' weekend.” They raise theirs, too. “We have so much to celebrate. To Sheena, on her fifth wedding anniversary.”

“Aw. Thanks, babe.”

I blow her a kiss and keep going. “To the lovely Behraz, for taking the plunge and deciding to apply to law school.”

Bea takes a seated bow with a flourish of her free hand.

“To Gabe and her new assignment covering hockey next season, and to Kurt for putting a ring on it!” I grab her left ring finger and show it off to the others. They've already cooed over it several times the past couple of days.

My one sober brain cell works overtime thinking of these mini toasts. I deserve some sort of award for this performance. And the Oscar goes to…Indi Davé's last firing neuron!

“And to you for winning the Pearson case!” Sheena adds.

I've got enough alcohol in me to be braggy about my accomplishment. It's been a tough, busy few months. I brush a shoulder off.

“A-thank you. Cheers!”

She mouths alove youwhile our glasses clink and cheers echo. We all take large gulps of our IPAs. Stuffing our faces with those delicious carbs soaks up some of the alcohol.

“So, Gabe is covering hockey instead of golf and Bea's studying for the LSATs. Is Theresa sending any more high-profile cases your way?” Sheena wipes crumbs from the corners of her bright, red-orange-tinted lips.

“And where is Theresa? I thought for sure you'd invite her.” Gabe bites into a pickle fry and squints at the tartness.

“I mean, we're cool,” I say, picking at some cheese curds. “I like her. But imagine getting sloshed and talking about orgasms with your boss.”

“Yeah,imaginethat.” Bea rolls her eyes.

“Oh,comeon. I'm nottechnicallyyour boss. And even if I was, I'm not, like, a regular boss. I'm acoolboss.”

“Uh-huh.”

I may have been pushing it with the cool part. But I'm not her boss. “I'm serious! You're myfriend. I couldn't ask for anyone better by my side at work.”

Bea's lower lip juts out and she wipes invisible tears with the back of her hand before placing her palm on her chest. “I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“I hate to break up this lovefest, but…” Sheena flips her wrist to look at her watch. “Don't we have a game to catch?”

The four of us turn intowhoogirls for a minute, then call Lori over to wrap up the check. Hailing a cab is surprisingly fast, or maybe beer-time moves at warp speed. I don't drink the stuff often enough to know for sure.

Grey and domed, United Center appears as we pull up about a block away. There's bumper-to-bumper traffic in every direction. Crowds waddle toward the entrance. Red spotlights dance into hovering clouds. Weoohandaahfrom the sidewalk before heading in.

“Look, it's the Jordan statue!” Gabe extends her arm. “Quick! Take a video!” She manages to climb over the barrier and up, doing a slow squat against the metal-likeness of the legendary basketball player while we laugh and record.

“Hey!” Some bald beefcake in a black and yellow security jacket barks at us. “Get down!”

Bea whisper-screams. “Hurry up!”

Gabe escapes from the other side of the square base. We hide within the moving masses, wheezing through laughter and catching our breaths.

Through the doors, thousands of voices clamor over Jock Jams remixes. Red and black jerseys, blown-up vintage photos and other paraphernalia hang from the walls and sky-high ceilings.

“Ladies,” Gabe intones. “Welcome to the Madhouse.”

The arena is electrifying, and we get carried away, drinking far too much beer. They're fancy in Chicago. Budweiser? Have an eleven-dollar cup of Goose Island instead! And why is it so expensive? Probably because Mr. Goose Island puts crack in it.

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