Page 110 of Through the Water

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Killian

“Ninety percent of this game is half mental.”

-Yogi Berra

Outside, the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. Knowing I needed to get used to doing more without it, I’d left the crutch in the truck. Any doubts I might have had about the decision disappeared when Ari burrowed into my side, linking our hands together.

We made our way down to the Anchor Lounge, where a bouncer stood blocking the door. Ari’s fingers tightened against mine, but I just tipped my chin up at the guy, and he waved us through without another word.

Once inside, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Killian Reed. I’m a super famous baseball player.”

Ari barked out a relieved laugh as she followed me over to the bar. “Gosh, how could I forget that? I feel so much safer now with Killian Reed to protect me.”

“Don’t worry, slugger. That’s what I’m here for.” I ordered a beer before looking down at her. “What’s your poison?”

“Just a water, please!” she yelled over the noise, waiting until the bartender had walked away before admitting, “I’m not supposed to drink with my medicine—oh, and also because I’m not old enough.”

Wait—what?

I glanced around to make sure no one had heard her confession before calmly asking, “And you are… how old exactly?”

Please don’t make me a predator…

“I’m nineteen—” Ari’s eyes went wide. “Your face looks really pale. Did you think I was under eighteen?”

“No.” Yes, and I was just imagining how prison was going to work out for me. “It’s probably just the lighting in here.”

At the sound of a woman screeching her way through the bridge of Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together,” we both turned toward the stage. She’d even added her own choreography. It consisted of tossing her head back and groping her tits at the end of every line, which was impressive as she was almost too drunk to stand.

I leaned in when the old bartender slid our drinks across, raising my voice to be heard over the yowling cat on-stage. “When does Paul Eats the Hurricane go on?”

He shook his head and barked, “Don’t you check the social media? Scheduling conflict, so they moved to next week. Tonight’s karaoke, otherwise, it’d be standing room only in here.”

Goddammit.

“Did you say Paul Eats the Hurricane?” Ari asked. “Is that really the name of the band?”

I nodded, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yeah, the name’s out there, but you would have liked them. They’re a good mix of folk and alternative rock.”

“But karaoke sounds fun too.”

Holding Ari in my arms while the band played “Storms for Kings” sounded fun. Being forced to spend the evening listening to drunk and off-key renditions of every single one of Mariah Carey’s greatest hits sounded like my own personal hell.

“Do you have a list of songs somewhere?” Ari asked the bartender before smiling up at me. “Isn’t this great?”

I shook my head. “Ari, admit it. This is fucking awful, and we don’t have to stay. Trust me, these are not the people you want to hear singing. They couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

Her mouth fell open. “But I can sing!”

Shit.

A jolt of something strange passed through my chest, similar to the feeling I got when we lost a game. It wasn’t just about the song. Music was her passion, and I’d just crapped all over it.

“Anyone ever told you that you look like an uglier version of that baseball player?” The bartender accused with a scowl. “What’s his name—Reeves?”

“Oh, my goodness. He really does,” Ari agreed with a laugh, not meeting my gaze. “What a funny coincidence!”

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