Page 7 of Snap Shot

After four—or was it six?—rounds, Bea and I pretend to make out on the kiss cam. Sheena sticks her tongue out and twerks in the direction of the unsuspecting bushy-mustachioed grandpa next to us when she's put on the Jumbotron as Cardi B's look-alike. Gabe captures everything on her phone.

The Chicago Fire absolutely crush the L.A. Suns in the background of our shenanigans. It's been a minute since I've seen a game in-person.Years. Not since university. And I blocked out most of university.

“So, they'll play Ottawa for the Cup?” Bea asks, swaying towards the exit, her arm looped into Sheena’s.

Gabe nods and swallows a belch. “If the Regents beat New York. I'll see if I can snag seats there, too. Maybe club-level.”

We stop in our uneven tracks at the outrageous, trafficky, honking clusterfuck, jumping into the first taxi that accepts all four of our drunk asses in the back. It's a feat, considering Gabe has legs for days, beer bloat is real, and Bea's giant knockers need their own seat.

My eyes drift closed as I get comfortable. “I might be able to get tickets, too.”

“What she say? You're thunker than I drought,” Bea drawls behind me.

“I'm serious. Theresa asked me to take a case for one of the players.”

“What case?” Gabe leans over Sheena.

“You know that whole business about Landon Radek and the leaked photo of him putting his dick somewhere he wasn't supposed to.”

“The juicy ass on TV?” Gabe asks further.

No need to remind me. I've been replacing that blonde's face with mine in special-edition nighttime fantasies for a whole week. The girls shriek simultaneously, and I'm thrown off the boob pillows.

“I didn't know they were doing something about it!”

“Don't go all reporter on me, Finch. I don't know the details yet, butapparently, it's all lies. Which is slander. Which isillegal.” See? I don't think about orgasms all the time.

“Wait, wait, wait.Landon Radek?” Sheena pokes me in the side. “Landon Radek plays for Ottawa?”

I hum in response, resting my eyes again and dropping my head back. “Yes, Sheen. He's a forward for the Regents.” She's not Sporty Spice. She wouldn't know.

“Landon Radek, the same guy you had a crush on in middle school?”

My eyes fly open. A collective gasp echoes in the cab. Even the driver, who, up until now, was mumbling into his Bluetooth earpiece, stops and gives us a look.

Bea rasps out, “Whaaaaaaat?”

“No. Fucking. Way. You went to school with Radek?” Gabe slaps my thigh so hard it stings through the denim.

“Owwww!” I push her away. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, right.Sorry,” Sheena continues. “They played hockey together.”

Bea and Gabe's heads swing from Sheena to me. “Youplayedhockey?”

“I wastwelve. It wasoneyear—”

“How did wenotknow about this?”

“'Cause it's not a big deal.” Middle school sucked old saggy balls. One of the worst times of my life. It's right up there with sophomore year of high school. Sophomore year of university is up there, too.

“I don't blame you for that crush one bit. Radek is a hottie boombalottie.” Bea shrugs and hiccups. “Have you seen his playoff beard? And those blue eyes.” She makes a gurgly drooling noise.

“I don't have a crush on him!” My high-pitched denial makes it sound like one word.

They respond with disbelieving hums.

I untangle my arms and cross them. “I hate you guys.”

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