Page 5 of Playoff

TWO

Blake

The Lucky Tango Bar& Grill is hopping tonight.

Ten-cent wings, five-dollar pitchers of beer, and a jukebox playing good music.

That’s why we hang out here.

“Blakey, come dance with me!” Lori’s a waitress at the bar, and I’ve known her for a couple of years. She’s married, with a couple of kids, so we’re just friends, and I know this is about as close as she gets to having any fun.

“You know I don’t like this country crap,” I mutter, shaking my head as Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart” comes on.

“But I like it.” She starts doing some complicated line dance I can’t even pretend to follow, but I bop around the dance floor with her. I’ve had enough beer to be feeling no pain and I’m grateful I can walk home from here.

I twirl her around a few times, and we laugh.

“Guess what?” she asks.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Again?” The word slips out before I can stop it, but she just laughs.

“Yup. Baby number three. Jed’s over the moon.”

“What about you?”

She shrugs. “It’s all right, I guess. Not sure how we’re going to afford another mouth to feed, especially when I have to stop working, but we’ll figure it out.”

I open my mouth and then close it again.

None of my business.

“Hey, Blake!” One of the regulars here steps between Lori and me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Hey, Sue Ann.” I twirl her around a few times, giving Lori an apologetic smile, but she waves me off as she starts dancing with my friend and roommate, Bodi Michener.

I spend a lot of time here, probably more than I should, but what else is a single guy going to do on his nights off?

We dance for a couple of songs, and I finally make my way back to the high-top table where a fresh pitcher of beer is waiting. I pour a glass and guzzle it down. Not the smartest thing to do as a professional athlete, but what the hell? You only live once. The team I play for, the Phoenix Rebels, is the minor league affiliate for the L.A. Phantoms, but it’s not like I’m getting called up in the middle of the playoffs.

“Hey, did you see this?” Bodi joins me a few minutes later.

“What’s up?” I glance at his phone without much interest.

“The Phantoms. The team bus was in an accident in Alaska.”

“What?” I frown.

“Reports are still coming in, and no news on whether or not they’re okay.”

“Shit.” I pull out my own phone and start looking for information. It’s sketchy, since it only happened a couple of hours ago, but there’s no mention of fatalities.

Thank fuck.

I’ve only been called up to play for the Phantoms a few times in my three years here in Phoenix, but I played in college with one of the guys—Jensen Bang—and we’ve kept in touch over the years. I want to send him a text, see if I can get any news, but I hate to bother him. What if he’s hurt? Or worse?

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